62 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



no eyelids to close, and eyes which were them- 

 selves a mockery, the nerve shriveling and never 

 reaching the brain, what could sleep mean to 

 them? Wrapped ever in an impenetrable cloak 

 of darkness and silence, life was yet one great 

 activity, directed, ordered, commanded by scent 

 and odor alone. Hour after hour, as I sat close 

 to the nest, I was aware of this odor, sometimes 

 subtle, again wafted in strong successive waves. 

 It was musty, like something sweet which had 

 begun to mold ; not unpleasant, but very difficult 

 to describe; and in vain I strove to realize the 

 importance of this faint essence — taking the 

 place of sound, of language, of color, of mo- 

 tion, of form. 



I recovered quickly from my first rapl realiza- 

 tion, for a dozen ants had lost no time in ascend'^ 

 ing my shoes, and, as if at a preconcerted signa;!, 

 all simultaneously sank their jaws into my per- 

 son. Thus strongly recalled to the realities of 

 life, I realized the opportunity that was offered 

 and planned for my observation. No living 

 thing could long remain motionless within the 

 sphere of influence of these six-legged Boches, 

 and yet I intended to spend days in close prox- 

 imity. There was no place to hang a hammock. 



