even stride, deliberately, and as it seemed, thoughtfully, applying correction to the quarrelsome bird.

Walking the grass tips had begun to tire those reaching legs. The cock soon straddled along with a serious eye and an open mouth. But the gobbler gave him no rest. When, at length, he released his hold, the gamecock lay weary and wild-eyed, with no more fight in him than a bunch of rags. Soon he rose and ran away and hid himself in the stable. The culprit fowl was then tried, convicted, and sentenced to the block.

"It's the fate of all the fighters that have only a selfish cause," said the teacher. He was sitting on the grass, Polly, and Tom, and Paul beside him. "Look here," said he, suddenly. "I'll show you another fight.”

All gathered about him. Down among the grass roots an ant stood facing a big, hairy spider. The ant backed away, presently, and made a little detour, the spider turning quickly and edging toward him. The ant stood motionless, the spider on tiptoe, with daggers drawn. The big, hairy spider leaped like a lion to its prey. They could see her striking with the fatal knives, her great body quivering with fierce energy. The little ant was hidden beneath it. Some uttered a cry of pity, and Paul was for taking sides. "Wait a moment," said the teacher, restraining his hand. The spider had begun to tremble in a curious manner. "Look now," said Trove, with some excitement.

Her legs had begun to let go and were straightening stiff on both sides of her. In a moment she tilted sideways and lay still. They saw a twinkle of black legs and the ant making off in the stubble. They picked up the spider's

body; it was now only an empty shell. Her big stomach had been torn away and lay in little strips and chunks, down at the roots of the stubble.

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It's the end of a bit of history," said the teacher, as he tore away the curved blades öf the spider and put them in Polly's palm. "Let's see where the ant goes."

He got down upon his hands and knees and watched the little black tiger, now hurrying for his lair. In a moment he was joined by others, and presently they came into a smooth little avenue under the grass. It took them into the edge of the meadow, around a stalk of mullein, where there were a number of webs.

"There's where she lived, this hairy old woman," said the teacher, "up there in that tower. See her snares in the grass, four of them?"

He rapped on the stalk of mullein with a stick, peering into the dusty little cavern of silk near the top of it. "Sure enough! Here is where she lived; for the house is empty, and there's living prey in the snares," said he.

What a weird old thing!" said Polly. "Can you tell us more about her?"

"Well, every summer," said Trove, "a great city grows up in the field. There are shady streets in it, no wider than a cricket's back, and millions living in nest and tower and cave and cavern. Among its people are toilers and idlers, lawkeepers and lawbreakers, thieves and highwaymen, grand folk and plain folk.

"Here is the home of the greatest criminal in the city of the field. See! it is between two leaves, one serving as roof, the other as floor and portico. Here is a long cable

that comes out of her sitting room and slopes away to the big snare below. Look at her sheets of silk in the grass. It's like a washing that's been hung out to dry. From each a slender cord of silk runs to the main cable.

"Even a fly's kick or a stroke of his tiny wing must have gone up the tower and shaken the floor of the old lady, maybe, with a sort of thunder. Then she ran out and down the cable to rush upon her helpless prey. She was an arrant highwayman, this old lady, a creature of craft and violence. She was no sooner married than she slew her husband - a timid thing smaller than she and ate him at one meal.

"You know the ants are a busy people. This road was probably a thoroughfare for their freight - eggs and cattle and wild rice. I'll warrant she used to lie and wait for them; and woe to the little traveler if she caught him unawares, for she could nip him in two with a single thrust of her knives. Then she would seize the egg he bore and make off with it.

"Now the ants are cunning. They found her down stairs and cut her off from her home and drove her away into the grass jungle. I've no doubt she faced a score of them, but, being a swift climber, with lots of rope in her pocket, was able to get away. The soldier ants began to beat the jungle. They separated, content to meet her singly, knowing she would refuse to fight if confronted by more than one. And you know what happened to her."

All that afternoon they spent in the city of the field. The life of the birds in the great maple interested them most of all.

A big maple sheltered the house of the widow Vaughn. After the noon hour of a summer day its tide of shadow began flowing fathoms deep over house and garden to the near field, where finally it joined the great flood of night. The maple was indeed a robin's inn at some crossing of

the invisible roads of the air. Its green dome towered high above and fell to the gable end of the little house. Its deep and leafy thatch hid every timber of its frame save the rough column. Its trunk was the main beam, each limb a corridor, each tier of limbs a floor, and branch rose above branch like steps in a stairway.

Up and down the high dome of the maple were a thousand balconies overlooking the meadow. From its highest tier, of a summer morning the notes of the bobolink came rushing off his lyre, and farther down the golden robin sounded his piccolo. But, chiefly, it was the home and refuge of the familiar red-breasted robin.

The inn had its ancient customs. Each young bird, leaving his cradle, climbed in his own stairway till he came out upon a balcony and got a first timid look at field and sky. There he might try his wings and keep in the world he knew by using bill and claw on the lower tiers.

At dawn the great hall of the maple rang with music, for every lodger paid his score with song. Therein it was ever cool, and clean, and shady, though the sun were hot. Its every nook and cranny was often swept and dusted by the wind. Its branches leading up and outward to the. green wall were as innumerable stairways. Each separate home was out on rocking beams, with its own flicker of skylight overhead.

For a time at dusk there was a continual flutter of weary wings at the lower entrance, a good-night twitter, and a sound of tiny feet climbing the stairways in that gloomy hall. At last, there was a moment of gossip and then silence on every floor. There seemed to be a night