192 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



more subtle than the visible Attas and their ma- 

 terial nest. Whether I go to the ant as slug- 

 gard, or myrmocologist, or accidentally, via Pter- 

 odactyl Pups, a day spent with them invariably 

 leaves me with my whole being concentrated on 

 this mysterious Atta Ego. Call it Vibration, 

 Aura, Spirit of the nest, clothe ignorance in 

 whatever term seems appropriate, we cannot 

 deny its existence and power. 



As with the Army ants, the flowing lines of 

 leaf-cutters always brought to mind great arter- 

 ies, filled with pulsating, tumbling corpuscles. 

 When an obstruction appeared, as a fallen leaf, 

 across the great sandy track, a dozen, or twenty 

 or a hundred workers gathered — like leucocytes 

 — and removed the interfering object. If I in- 

 jured a worker who was about to enter the nest, 

 I inoculated the Atta organism with a pernicious, 

 foreign body. Even the victim himself was dimly 

 aware of the law of fitness. Again and again 

 he yielded to the call of the nest, only to turn 

 aside at the last moment. From a normal link 

 in the endless Atta chain, he had become an out- 

 cast — snapped at by every passing ant, self -ban- 

 ished, wandering off at nightfall to die some- 

 where in the wilderness of grass. When well. 



