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. 



