96 The Black Bear 



suits in another sortie of defenders, and when these 

 have stormed the hairy heights and been eaten for their 

 pains, he repeats the operation. I believe a bear 

 would eat a solid bushel of these insects at a sitting. 

 On the other hand, a bear will by no means despise a 

 single ant, and one of the best ways of making friends 

 with a young cub is to catch a stray ant and offer it to 

 him. He will lean forward, sniff at your fingers, and 

 then grab the dainty as eagerly as though it weighed a 

 pound. 



There is another variety of ants, larger than the so- 

 called Vinegar Ants, which are black and live, for the 

 most part, under flat rocks. These the bear will lap 

 up with his tongue after uncovering their retreat. And 

 there is still another variety of huge black ants that 

 nest about the roots of trees and spend their time ex- 

 ploring the bark and branches. I have seen them 

 sixty feet above ground busily pursuing their affairs. 

 Of these, too, the Black Bear is fond, and one sees him 

 snuffing and smelling around the cracks in old trees in 

 hopes of locating a colony of them. I have seen where 

 bears have scratched and gnawed at the edges of a 

 narrow opening in the lower trunk of a decaying tree, 

 in a vain endeavor to get into the open heart of it; 

 and again, where they had ripped off a rotting slab and 

 gained a feast. For in cold weather these ants gather 

 in sluggish masses and later even freeze solid — I have 

 seen what would make a quart of them so frozen — and 



