160 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
sliced bit has had to be deserted because of the 
configuration of the upper edge. On almost any 
trail, an ant can be found with a two-inch stem 
of grass, attempting to pass under a twig an inch 
overhead. After five or ten minutes of pushing, 
backing, and pulling, he may accidentally march 
off to one side, or reach up and climb over; but 
usually he drops his burden. His little works 
have been wound up, and set at the mark 
“home”; and though he has now dropped the 
prize for which he walked a dozen ant-miles, yet 
any idea of cutting another stem, or of picking 
up a slice of leaf from those lying along the trail, 
never occurs to him. He sets off homeward, and 
if any emotion of sorrow, regret, disappointment, 
or secret relief troubles his ganglia, no trace of 
it appears in antenne, carriage, or speed. I can 
very readily conceive of his trudging sturdily all 
the way back to the nest, entering it, and going 
to the place where he would have dumped his 
load, having fulfilled his duty in the spirit at 
least. Then, if there comes a click in his internal 
time-clock, he may set out upon another quest— 
more cabined, cribbed, and confined than any 
member of a Cook’s tourist party. 
I once watched an ant with a piece of leaf 
