no notice of passing events, and being apparently absorbed in the one task of depositing their burden in its proper place.
The observer will do well, while watching these insects, not to sit or stand upon or very near one of their roads, for the ants have no idea of being pushed out of the old paths, and are summary and fierce in their revenge on intruders.
As the ants pass and repass on their paths, they hold rapid communications with each other, mostly by means of their antennæ, which pat and stroke those of their gossip with surprising quickness, the whole transaction irresistibly reminding the observer of the Oriental method of conducting sales or barters by means of the hands. The antennæ, whose precise function is still rather obscure, are employed not only for actual communication with other ants, but to ascertain whether a companion has passed over a certain spot. This peculiar instinct is mostly exercised among trees. The ant roads seem even to extend themselves to the summit of trees, being generally confined to one side of the trunk, and ramifying to the very tips of the leaves, as may be seen by the means of a good field-glass. Ants may be seen passing and repassing upon the trees as briskly as upon the ground, and it is notable that when they get among the small branches, an ant will not go where another has preceded it, making itself aware of the circumstance by the tapping of the antennæ upon the bark.
The object of this tree-haunting habit is twofold, firstly that the individual may obtain food for itself, and secondly that it may bring in subsistence for the community. Its own nourishment is chiefly obtained from the aphides which swarm on many trees, and which have the power of exuding a saccharine fluid from a pair of minute tubes near the extremity of the body. When the aphides are very plentiful, the sweet juice falls on the leaves, and is popularly known under the name of honey-dew. Both bees and ants are fond of honey-dew, which the former insect licks from the leaves with its brush-like tongue, the latter taking a more direct course and lapping it as it exudes from the tubes. While on the leaves, the ants are more than usually combative, and if the hand be placed near them, will tuck their tails under them, sit up like dogs begging, and flourish their antennæ in a manner which they doubtlessly think well adapted to frighten the disturbers of their peace. When, however, the angry insect finds that menace is ineffectual, and that it cannot alarm the foe, it settles the matter by dropping to the ground. If an ant-infested tree be suddenly struck with a stick, the ants tumble down in all directions, falling quite unconcernedly from a height of fourteen or fifteen feet, and rattling like hail upon the dried leaves at the foot of' the tree. When they reach the ground, they lie motionless for a moment, and then pick themselves up and run away as if nothing were the matter.
Though they instinctively spare the aphides, (an instinct which every gardener cannot but wish to be suppressed,) they are terrible foes to other insects, seizing them and dragging them into their nests most zealously. I once saw an unfortunate daddy long-legs (Tipula) caught in a gust of wind and blown upon a nest of the wood ant. No sooner had the ill-fated insect touched the nest, than it was surrounded by a host of ants, its legs seized by twenty pairs of jaws, its wings dragged from their joints, and the still struggling body pushed and pulled along until it was finally dragged into the recesses of the nest. I have often tried the experiment of putting a large fly in their path, and always found their mode of procedure to be the same. They cluster round the fallen insect like flies round a lump of sugar, they seize upon its legs, they pull off its wings in a moment and run away with the severed organs, four or five others following the fortunate captor, just like a brood of chickens after the one that has been lucky enough to pick up a piece of bread. They then attack the wingless body with ruthless violence, biting at it like a hungry cat at a slice of meat, or perhaps more like a herd of wolves at their prey: they soon deprive it of life, haul it to the nest, drag it up the side, and literally tumble it into one of the holes.
LIMERICK BELLS.[1]
“Yet one more peal,” the busy Founder said:
“One to out-master every former chime.”
That old Italian has been ages dead,
But then was in his prime.
Now days and nights the dainty moulds are laid,
And now the jolly casting-day is come;
The bells are born with shout of man and maid,
With trumpet and with drum.
At morn the Abbot crowned them, one by one,
With holy drops and benison of power;
At eve their golden melody begun
From the high convent tower.
The monks bethought them of a guerdon rare,
Well to reward who could so well create;
They gave him house and field, and vineyard fair,
Beside the convent gate.
O gentle ghosts of long departed bliss,
That float among us when the night-wind swells;
Say what a life of pleasant calm was his,
Beneath the murmuring bells.
These were the children of his own begetting—
The consecrated priests of his own soul;
The rooted joys of his own gracious setting;
And his delight was whole.
At prime they waked him with a dewy tale
Of heavenly meadows whence their echoes came,—
Of waving woods and seraphs gliding pale:
At vespers ’twas the same.
Their names he knew and every separate voice,
Discern’d in each sweet cheer or solemn signs;
And one would bid him “Weep,” and one “Rejoice,”
And bless his corn and vines.
And so he lived, and so to Eld he grew,
Until an armèd spoiler rack’d the dell,
And burn’d and robb’d, and fiercely overthrew;
And the grey convent fell.
The Founder stood alone—his music fled
For ever, and the holy brethren slain;
Alone upon the ruin, with bowed head,
Spent eye, and wither’d brain.
- ↑ See Bartlett’s “Ireland,” ii., 71, for the germ of the legend.
