My Ant lives in the country and keeps a cow. I am ashamed to say that, although I have always known she was a most interesting person, I never went to see her until last week.

I am afraid I should not have gone then, if I had not found an account of her, and her house, and her cow, in a book which I was reading.

“Dear me,” said I, “and there she has been living so near me all this time, and I never have been to call on her.”

To tell the truth, it was much worse than that; I had often met her in the street, and had taken such a dislike to her looks that I always brushed by as quickly as possible without speaking to her.

I had great difficulty in finding her house, though it is quite large. She belongs to a very peculiar family; they prefer to live in the dark; so they have no windows in their houses, only doors; and the doors are nothing but holes in the roof.

The houses are built in the shape of a mound, and are not more than ten inches high. They are built out of old bits of wood, dead leaves, straw, old bones; in short, every sort of old thing that they find, they stick in the walls of their houses. Their best rooms are all down cellar; and dark enough they must be on a rainy day, when the doors are always kept shut tight.

But I ought to have told you about my Ant herself before I told you about her house. When you hear what an odd person she is, you will not be surprised that she lives in such an outlandish house.

To begin with, I must tell you that she belongs to a family that never does any work.

You’d never suppose so, to see her. I really think she is the queerest-looking creature I ever met.

In the first place, her skin is of a dark brown color, darker than an Indian’s, and she has six legs. Of course she can walk three times as fast as if she had only two,—but I would rather go slower and be more like other people.

She has frightful jaws, with which she does all sorts of things besides eating. She uses them for scissors, tweezers, pickaxes, knife and fork, and in case of a battle, for swords.

Then she has growing out of the front part of her head two long slender horns, which she keeps moving about all the time, and with which she touches everything she wishes to understand.

The first thing she does, when she meets you, is to bend both these horns straight towards you, and feel of you. It is quite disagreeable,—almost as bad as shaking hands with strangers.

My Ant’s name is Fornica Rufa. If I knew her better I should call her Ant Ru, for short. But I do not expect ever to know her very well. She evidently does not like to be intimate with anybody but her own family; and I am not surprised, for I was never in any house so overrun with people as hers is. I wondered how they knew themselves apart.

When I went to see her last week I found her just going out, and I thought perhaps that was one reason that she didn’t take any more notice of me.

“How do you do, Ant?” said I. “I am spending the summer near by, and thought I would like to become acquainted with you. I hear you have a very curious cow, and I have a great desire to see it.”

“Humph!” said she, and snapped her horns up and down, as she always does when she is displeased, I find.

“I hope it will not give you any trouble to show her to me. You must be very proud of having such a fine cow. Perhaps you are on the way to milking now, and if so I should be most happy to go with you.”

“Humph!” said my Ant again. At least I think that was what she said. It looked like it, but I can’t say that I heard any sound.

But she turned short on her heels (I suppose she has heels), and plunged into the woods at the right, stopping and looking back at me as if she expected me to follow. So I stepped along after her as fast as I could, and said, “Thank you; I suppose this is the way to the pasture.”

My Ant said nothing, but went ahead, snapping her horns furiously.

“Oh, well,” thought I to myself, “you are an uncivil Ant. Even if I have come simply out of curiosity, you might be a little more polite in your own house, or at least on your own grounds, which is the same thing. I sha’n’t speak to you again.”

That’s about all the conversation I have ever had with my Ant. But she took me to the pasture, and I saw her cow.

I am almost afraid to tell you where the pasture was, and what the cow was; but if you don’t believe me, you can look in books written about such things, and they will prove to you that every word I say is true.

The pasture was the stalk of a green brier; and there stood, not only my Ant’s cow, but as many as five hundred others, all feeding away upon it. You have seen millions of them in your lives, for you must know that they are nothing but little green plant-lice, like those that we find on our rosebushes, and that we try in every possible way to get rid of.

Who would ever suppose there could be anything for which these little green plant-lice could serve as cows! I assure you it is true, and if you live in the country you can see it for yourself; but you will have to look through a magnifying glass to see them milked.

Think of looking through a magnifying glass at anybody’s cow! I looked at my Ant’s for an hour, and it seemed to me I hardly winked, I was so much interested in the curious sight.

Its skin was smooth as satin and of a most beautiful light green color. It had six legs, and little hooks at the end, instead of hoofs. The oddest thing of all was that the horns were not on its head, but at the other end of its body, where the tail would have been if it had had a tail like any other cow.

The horns were hollow tubes, and it is out of them that the milk comes, a drop at a time. The milk is meant for the little plant-lice to drink before they are old enough to hook their six legs on to stalks and leaves, and feed on sap.

But I think that in any place where there are many of my Ant’s race, the little plant-lice must fare badly, for the Ants are so fond of this milk that sometimes they carry off whole herds of the plant-lice and shut them up in chambers in their houses. There they feed them as we do cows in barns, and go and milk them whenever they please.

“Oh, dear Ant,” said I to my Ant, “do pray milk your cow! I have such a desire to see how you do it.”

She did not appear to understand me, and I dare say if she had she would not have done it any sooner. But presently I saw her go up behind her cow, and begin to tap her gently on her back, just at the place where the horns grew out.

The cow did not look round nor stop eating, but in a moment out came a tiny drop of liquid from the tip of each tube. My Ant picked it up with her wonderful horns and whisked it into her mouth as quickly as you would a sugarplum.

Then she went on to the next cow and milked that in the same manner, and then to a third one. She took only two drops from each one. Perhaps that is all that this kind of a cow can give at a time.

There were several of her friends there at the same time doing their milking; and I could not help thinking how easy it would be for the great herd of cows to kill my Ant and all her race, if they chose. But it is thought by wise people who have studied these wonderful things that the cows are fond of being milked in this way, and would be sorry to be left alone by themselves.

After my Ant had finished her supper, she stood still watching the cows for some time. I thought perhaps she would be in a better humor after having had so much to eat, and might possibly feel like talking with me. But she never once opened her mouth, though I sat there an hour and a half.

At last it began to grow dark, and as I had quite a long walk to take, I knew I must go, or I should not get home in time for my own supper of milk.

“Good-night, Ant,” said I. “I have had a charming visit. I am very much obliged to you for showing me your cow. I think she is the most wonderful creature I ever saw. I should be very happy to see you at my house.”

“Humph!” said my Ant.

—Helen Hunt Jackson.