174 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
around me teemed with interesting happenings 
and distracting sights and sounds. The very last 
time I visited the nest and became absorbed in 
a line of incoming ants, I heard the shrill squeak- 
ing of an angry hummingbird overhead. I 
looked up, and there, ten feet above, was a furry 
tamandua anteater slowly climbing a straight 
purpleheart trunk, while around and around his 
head buzzed and swore the little fury—a pinch 
of cinnamon feathers, ablaze with rage. The 
curved claws of the unheeding anteater fitted 
around the trunk and the strong prehensile tail 
flattened against the bark, so that the creature’ 
seemed to put forth no more exertion than if 
walking along a fallen log. Now and then it 
stopped and daintily picked at a bit of termite 
nest. 
With such side-shows it was sometimes diffi- 
cult to concentrate on the Attas. Yet they of- 
fered problems for years of study. The glade 
was a little world in itself, with visitors and ten- 
ants, comedy and tragedy, sounds and silences. 
It was an ant-made glade, with all new growths 
either choked by upflung, earthen hillocks, or 
leaves bitten off as soon as they appeared. The 
casual vistors were the most conspicuous, an ac- 
