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 rapt realiza- 
tion, for a dozen ants had lost no time in ascends 
ing my shoes, and, as if at a preconcerted signal, 
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, 
