142 A FORAGING ANT 
a home he has, a minute hole somewhere under the 
grass leading into his subterranean galleries, where 
he spends part of his time; and as his sense-organs 
are specialised in two directions, he will then move 
about as freely in the dark, and know just what to 
do and how to do it, as well as out in the brilliant 
sunlight. Night and day, and above ground and 
underground, are all one to him. If, when watching 
him, you try the experiment of putting a finger 
close to him he is overwhelmed with astonishment; 
at first struck motionless, and then, recovering his 
faculties, he rushes wildly away. The near approach 
of your finger to him was like a tremendous tornado 
charged with every violent animal smell in the world 
bursting suddenly upon a horse, let us say. But 
soon he recovers from his panic and goes on with his 
everlasting quest, and you are obliged to go after 
him on your hands and knees to keep him in sight. 
He is probably now leagues away from his home, 
still hurriedly pushing his way through the endless 
forest. For to him the grasses are like trees and their 
stems like trunks, and they stand up and lean and 
lie about in all positions. He goes round this one, 
crawls under the next, and climbs over a third, and 
cannot see a distance of half an inch before him. 
Tired of watching him you get up and go away, and 
he goes on and on and will continue to go on until 
he finds What he is looking for, and then will set out 
on his return, working his way through that inter- 
minable forest, that boundless contiguity of shading 
grasses, straight to his home. 
