On the warm side of a hill, where thyme grew between the stones, an ant climbed the same narrow track again and again. Each time she came up from the field below, she carried something with her: a barley grain, a dry seed, or a crumb of oat. Above her, on a bent stem of clover, a grasshopper rubbed his wings and made a bright little tune that skipped over the grass.
The ant did not hurry wildly, but worked in a steady way. When she found food at the foot of the hill, she carried it to the top and disappeared into a small granary under a flat stone, only to go right back down again. The grasshopper watched her pass so many times that at last he called, "Neighbor, the sun is high and the field is sweet. Why not rest on this clover stem and hear my song?"
The ant set down the grain she was carrying and brushed the dust from her feelers. "Your song is pleasant," she said. "But the heads of barley are dry now, and the seeds are ready. When the cold months come, I will need what I can gather today." The grasshopper gave a small bow, as if the breeze itself had taught him. "Cold months are far away," he said, and he lifted his tune again, light as thistledown.
So the days went on. In the morning, while dew still sat in the cups of the flowers, the ant crossed …
6 chapters
