In the heart of a vibrant garden, under the shade of a sprawling oak tree, lived a little girl named Annie. Unlike other children her age, Annie felt a deep connection to nature and spent her days exploring gardens and parks, befriending all creatures she encountered. However, what brought Annie the most joy was her secret: she could understand and communicate with ants. One day, as she observed the bustling ant colony, an idea struck her.
“Dear little ants,” she chirped in her light voice, “will you help me create a grand painting on your hill? I have treasures that will make your home beautiful!”
The ants paused for a moment before one brave little fellow scurried forward. “What kind of treasures do you speak of, dear friend?”
“My collection of the loveliest stones!” Annie responded, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “They can serve as paints, and together we can make something truly marvelous that all nature can admire!”
The hyperactive little bee buzzed over, equally intrigued, and added, “Oh, do say you will! It will be so delightful to see our home in such glory.”
But at that moment, a deep voice rumbled from the entrance of the anthill, startling the group. “Hush, bees and ants! What foolishness is this? Daring to put your modest hill on show! What will the world think of us?”
It’s a grave-looking old beetle who was, of course, the king of all beetles and a very proud one. “Well, you’ll remain all brown with no feathers or gems until I choose to help you, I promise you!”
“Don’t be grumpy, Uncle Black!” said half a dozen young beetles. “Let’s go and see the painting!”
But grumpy Uncle Black flew away, and Annie walked off too, as she feared he would not let her come back. “There are still lots of good creatures to be found,” she murmured. “A pretty light-green nugget in the gravel, full of bright stones, rattled in her apron. In a little while, she was back with a bag of nails, some fish-hooks, and the polish her Uncle had given her last birthday.”
The following morning, Annie thought she’d give a few taps on the hill to see whether they’d forgotten her. But she found a large quantity of black and green pigments already smeared on the sandstone, and some large-sized gold-leaved daisies fastened in most carefully.
A sort of natural varnish being soon discovered, the work went on quickly, but one morning when Annie was at her work, grumpy Uncle Black stopped with a dozen other beetles, lily-white and scarlet, from stem to stern.
“What, madam, painting Queen Mab’s chapel, for sure!” said grumpy Uncle Black, with a sneer. “That’s what you are coming to if you meddle with tipsy things.”
And in truth there was a little rumour of the sufferings of certain beetles who had gotten tipsy by licking a certain honey fungus.
But by this time the hill looked so beautiful that the bee roared again for joy, and the birds came to sit on the branches of their own accord, so that the evening before Annie went away, the mural, the old oak, and the feathers or daisy-buds that sprouted around it were still further decorated by a burst of song and hop!
“When we are lost in the sea, in the throws of exhaustion, just when hope was extinguished, the sailors passed near the coast of Lulpv…”
“Oh what a happy accident!” said Uncle Hyacinthe Bee, addressing Annie. But the ants looked, I should think, as though they might well burst with pride.