SLADANG. 99 



wait. An ant or two runs up your wrist, while others 

 bide their time, waiting until you are under the bough 

 to drop on to you. One bites at your coat, but miss- 

 ing the responsive twinge of sentient flesh, races over 

 you until it finds the nape of your neck. Here it stops, 

 and gives you a bite so full of formic venom that it 

 feels more like a sting than a bite ; and though you 

 have been expecting it, you cannot help wincing. The 

 ant holds on in fury, the mandibles, legs, and fore- 

 part of the body so tightly clenched to your skin that 

 they are almost motionless, while the after part of the 

 body wriggles convulsively to put more force into the 

 bite. Other ants bite your face, or dive into your hair 

 to bite your scalp. Suddenly you find that an ant has 

 found its way down your neck under your vest, and 

 has run on until it has reached the small of your 

 back. There, when retreat is impossible and death 

 certain, it bites and bites and bites until you kill it. 

 And then, when you attempt to pluck it away, often 

 you pull it in two, and leave the head hanging on to 

 the skin in which the mandibles are embedded. 



But the ants are not as bad as the leeches. Walk 

 you never so lightly, the weight of your footsteps gives 

 the news of your approach, and upon the leaves and 

 grass -stalks and the decaying vegetation that lies 

 everywhere underfoot, the brown forest leeches stand 

 up in eager anticipation. They are of all sizes, from 

 the baby that is scarcely thicker than a thread to the 

 full grown one of an inch and a half long. They stand 

 on their tails, swaying their bodies and bowing their 

 heads on every side to discover the direction from 

 which the sound comes. They have a quaintly fantastic, 



