and sticks, I thought that they had fallen from a neighbouring tree and been accidentally blown upon the nest, but I have since found that every nest in the wood contains these berries, when a mountain ash is within forty or fifty yards. Their use I cannot imagine, as the ants do not carry them into the nest, but merely mix them with the dried substances of the exterior.
The materials of which the nest is composed are heaped quite loosely and apparently at random on each other. But if the nest be carefully examined, a certain order is to be detected, particularly in the entrances and galleries, which are all made of long sticks widely arranged across each other, so as to form a five-sided aperture. If a twig be brought to the nest, its destination is nearly sure to be at one of the many openings. Being desirous of ascertaining whether the ants would accept extraneous assistance, I broke off a little dried stick to the shape and size of those that were arranged about the aperture, and laid it upon the others so as to match them as nearly as possible. A posse of ants immediately came to look at the new addition, took hold of it with their jaws, and after making a trifling alteration—for form’s sake, I suppose, lest I should be too conceited about my architectural skill—they allowed it to remain.
It is most interesting to watch the ants bringing materials for their home. If an ant finds a little piece of broken fern stem that is suitable for the outer wall, he picks it up by one end, holds it out straight before him as if he were smoking a very large cigar, and sets off briskly homewards. This mode of carrying his burden is evidently adopted for the convenience of steering it through the grass blades, fallen fern, and other impediments, which, trifling as they appear to human eyes, are by no means insignificant to the ants. I have even seen an ant carrying off a grub three times its own size, holding it in the same manner; the strength required for such a feat is truly enormous.
But when a heavier or larger burden, such as a piece of stick, has to be transported, a different plan is adopted. Six or seven ants are detached for the work, and they set about it with a unity of purpose that is really surprising. Grasping it with their jaws, they gradually edge it onward in the right direction, one of their number always seeming to act as foreman, and taking hold of the end, which seems to be the post of honour. As long as the ground is tolerably even, the stick is dragged along without difficulty, and the foreman or “ganger” cannot be distinguished from his fellows, save by his position at the end of the stick. But when they get among broken ground, or if the stick should perchance fall into a crevice, and carry its bearers with it, the ganger seldom touches the stick except to pull it into the proper direction, but runs ahead to reconnoitre, then returns to the gang, and is all life and animation. I have seen the clever little creatures make a mistake, and get the stick into a labyrinth of broken ferns and twigs, through which they could by no means steer it, and then seen them carefully return by the same path until they were clear of the thicket, and choose another and a smoother road.
On one occasion I watched a gang of ants, six in number, that had jammed their burden so tightly under a fern stem that they could proceed no further. They immediately tried to extricate it, but were checked by an angular bend in the stick, which had hitched itself under the fern, and prevented it from being moved in either direction. Being curious to know how the ants would surmount the difficulty, and rather fancying that they would leave the stick and fetch another, I watched them for nearly two hours. They evidently had no intention of relinquishing their task, and after a vast amount of excitement, the ganger getting on the top of the stick and down again about fifty times, they hauled the projecting extremity down by main force of numbers, dragged it from below the impediment, and, I suppose, got it safely home. The stick was a trifle more than two inches in length, about as thick as a stout crowquill, and at one end had a knot and a sharp bend upwards. An idea of the strength exerted in the transportation of this burden may be formed by taking the comparative sizes of men and ants, magnifying the piece of stick into a tree trunk of corresponding dimensions, and setting six men to carry that trunk through a virgin forest, and over ravines and precipices, up mountains and down valleys, and lastly to the top of a building shaped something like the great pyramid, but much more lofty, the sides of which are formed of loose sticks and logs.
Nothing short of taking away the object of their labours, seems to divert these industrious creatures from their work. I have laid large flies, little grubs, and other attractive articles of diet in their way, but they suffer them to remain unheeded, though, if unemployed on serious business, they would carry off such prey as soon as they saw it.
The wood ants seem to be acquainted with the leading principles of civilisation, their nest being the centre of a radiating system of roads, extending for a wonderful distance, and as permanent in their way as Watling Street, or any of the old Roman roads which now traverse our land. Mr. William Hewitt tells me that he has watched one of these roads for more than twenty years, and found that on every fine day it was crowded with ants going off for plunder, or returning laden with spoils for the benefit of the community. Even on wet and cold days, when the ants, who are chilly beings, wisely stay at home, their roads are plainly perceptible, and are marked out by their freedom from bits of stick, leaves, &c., these having been removed by the insects as materials for their nest. It is always easy to find the nest by following up the road, and the right direction can be at once learned by following the course adopted by the laden insects. The difference in the demeanour of those that are setting out in search of prey or materials, and those that are returning home, is most notable; the former bustling along with a quick, eager step, looking this way and that, running first to one side of the path and then to the other, interchanging rapid communications with their comrades, and altogether brisk and busy. But when they have succeeded in their object, they march steadily homeward, with a preoccupied demeanour, taking
