which may have had its roots in an _anlage_ of divine discontent. If I
were describing the episode half a century ago, I should entitle it,
"The Battle of the Giants, or Emotion Enthroned." A quadruple line of
leaf-carriers was disappearing down a hole in front of the laboratory,
bumped and pushed by an out-pouring, empty-jawed mass of workers. As I
watched them, I became aware of an area of great excitement beyond the
hole. Getting down as nearly as possible to ant height, I witnessed a
terrible struggle. Two giants--of the largest soldier Maxim
caste--were locked in each other's jaws, and to my horror, I saw that
each had lost his abdomen. The antennæ and the abdomen petiole are the
only vulnerable portions of an Atta, and long after he has lost these
apparently dispensable portions of his anatomy, he is able to walk,
fight, and continue an active but erratic life. These mighty-jawed
fellows seem never to come to the surface unless danger threatens; and
my mind went down into the black, musty depths, where it is the duty
of these soldiers to walk about and wait for trouble. What could have
raised the ire of such stolid neuters against one another? Was it
sheer lack of something to do? or was there a cell or two of the
winged caste lying fallow within their bodies, which, stirring at
last, inspired a will to battle, a passing echo of romance, of the
activities of the male Atta?
Their unnatural combat had stirred scores of smaller workers to the
highest pitch of excitement. Now and then, out of the mêlée, a Medium
would emerge, with a tiny Minim in his jaws. One of these carried his
still living burden many feet away, along an unused trail, and dropped
it. I examined the small ant, and found that it had lost an antenna,
and its body was crushed. When the ball of fighters cleared, twelve
small ants were seen clinging to the legs and heads of the mutilated
giants, and now and then these would loosen their hold on each other,
turn, and crush one of their small tormenters. Several times I saw a
Medium rush up and tear a small ant away, apparently quite insane with
excitement.
Occasionally the least exhausted giant would stagger to his four and
a half remaining legs, hoist his assailant, together with a mass of
the midgets, high in air, and stagger for a few steps, before falling
beneath the onrush of new attackers. It made me wish to help the great
insect, who, for aught I knew, was doomed because he was
different--because he had dared to be an individual.
I left them struggling there, and half an hour later, when I returned,
the episode was just coming to a climax. My Atta hero was exerting his
last strength, flinging off the pile that assaulted him, fighting all
the easier because of the loss of his heavy body. He lurched forward,
dragging the second giant, now dead, not toward the deserted trail or
the world of jungle around him, but headlong into the lines of stupid
leaf-carriers, scattering green leaves and flower-petals in all
directions. Only when dozens of ants threw themselves upon him, many
of them biting each other in their wild confusion, did he rear up for
the last time, and, with the whole mob, rolled down into the yawning
mouth of the Atta nesting-hole, disappearing from view, and carrying
with him all those hurrying up the steep sides. It was a great battle.
I was breathing fast with sympathy, and whatever his cause, I was on
his side.
The next day both giants were lying on the old, disused trail; the
revolt against absolute democracy was over; ten thousand ants passed
to and fro without a dissenting thought, or any thought, and the
Spirit of the Attas was content.
VIII
THE ATTAS AT HOME
Clambering through white, pasty mud which stuck to our boots by the
pound, peering through bitter cold mist which seemed but a thinner
skim of mud, drenched by flurries of icy drops shaken from the
atmosphere by a passing moan and a crash, breathing air heavy with a
sweet, horrible, penetrating odor--such was the world as it existed
for an hour one night, while I and the Commandant of _Douaumont_
wandered about completely lost, on the top of his own fort. We finally
stumbled on the little grated opening through which the lookout peered
unceasingly over the landscape of mud. The mist lifted and we
rediscovered the cave-like entrance, watched for a moment the ominous
golden dumb-bells rising from the premier ligne, scraped our boots on
a German helmet and went down again into the strangest sanctuary in
the world.
This was the vision which flashed through my mind as I began vigil at
an enormous nest of Attas--the leaf-cutting ants of the British
Guiana jungle. In front of me was a glade, about thirty feet across,
devoid of green growth, and filled with a great irregular expanse of
earth and mud. Relative to the height of the Attas, my six feet must
seem a good half mile, and from this height I looked down and saw
again the same inconceivably sticky clay of France. There were the
rain-washed gullies, the half-roofed entrances to the vast underground
fortresses, clean-swept, perfect roads, as efficient as the arteries
of Verdun, flapping dead leaves like the omnipresent, worn-out
scare-crows of camouflage, and over in one corner, to complete the
simile, were a dozen shell-holes, the homes of voracious ant-lions,
which, for passing insects, were unexploded mines, set at hair
trigger.
My Atta city was only two hundred feet away from the laboratory, in
fairly high jungle, within sound of the dinner triangle, and of the
lapping waves on the Mazaruni shore. To sit near by and concentrate
solely upon the doings of these ant people, was as easy as watching a
single circus ring of performing elephants, while two more rings, a
maze of trapezes, a race track and side-shows were in full swing. 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 squeaking 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 difficult to concentrate on the
Attas. Yet they offered problems for years of study. The glade was a
little world in itself, with visitors and tenants, 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 visitors were the most conspicuous,
an occasional trogon swooping across--a glowing, feathered comet of
emerald, azurite and gold; or, slowly drifting in and out among the
vines and coming to rest with waving wings, a yellow and red spotted
Ithomiid,--or was it a Heliconiid or a Danaiid?--with such bewildering
models and marvelous mimics it was impossible to tell without capture
and close examination. Giant, purple tarantula-hawks hummed past,
scanning the leaves for their prey.
Another class of glade haunters were those who came strictly on
business,--plasterers and sculptors, who found wet clay ready to their
needs. Great golden and rufous bees blundered down and gouged out
bucketsful of mud; while slender-bodied, dainty, ebony wasps, after
much fastidious picking of place, would detach a tiny bit of the
whitest clay, place it in their snuff-box holder, clean their feet and
antennæ, run their rapier in and out and delicately take to wing.
Little black trigonid bees had their special quarry, a small deep
valley in the midst of a waste of interlacing Bad Lands, on the side
of a precipitous butte. Here they picked and shoveled to their hearts'
content, plastering their thighs until their wings would hardly lift
them. They braced their feet, whirred, lifted unevenly, and sank back
with a jar. Then turning, they bit off a piece of ballast, and heaving
it over the precipice, swung off on an even keel.
Close examination of some of the craters and volcanic-like cones
revealed many species of ants, beetles and roaches searching for bits
of food--the scavengers of this small world. But the most interesting
were the actual parasites, flies of many colors and sizes, humming
past like little planes and zeppelins over this hidden city, ready to
drop a bomb in the form of an egg deposited on the refuse heaps or on
the ants themselves. The explosion might come slowly, but it would be
none the less deadly. Once I detected a hint of the complexity of the
glade life--beautiful metallic green flies walking swiftly about on
long legs, searching nervously, whose eggs would be deposited near
those of other flies, their larvæ to feed upon the others--parasites
upon parasites.
As I had resolutely put the doings of the treetops away from my
consciousness, so now I forgot visitors and parasites, and armed
myself for the excavation of this buried metropolis. I rubbed
vaseline on my high boots, and about the tops bound a band of
teased-out absorbent cotton. My pick and shovel I treated likewise,
and thus I was comparatively insulated. Without precautions no living
being could withstand the slow, implacable attack of disturbed Attas.
At present I walked unmolested across the glade. The millions beneath
my feet were as unconscious of my presence as they were of the breeze
in the palm fronds overhead.
At the first deep shovel thrust, a slow-moving flood of reddish-brown
began to pour forth from the crumbled earth--the outposts of the Atta
Maxims moving upward to the attack. For a few seconds only workers of
various sizes appeared, then an enormous head heaved upward and there
came into the light of day the first Atta soldier. He was twice as
large as a large worker and heavy in proportion. Instead of being
drawn up into two spines, the top of his head was rounded, bald and
shiny, and only at the back were the two spines visible, shifted
downward. The front of the head was thickly clothed with golden hair,
which hung down bang-like over a round, glistening, single, median
eye. One by one, and then shoulder to shoulder, these Cyclopean
Maxims lumbered forth to battle, and soon my boots were covered in
spite of the grease, all sinking their mandibles deep into the
leather.
When I unpacked these boots this year I found the heads and jaws of
two Attas still firmly attached, relics of some forgotten foray of the
preceding year. This mechanical, vise-like grip, wholly independent of
life or death, is utilized by the Guiana Indians. In place of
stitching up extensive wounds, a number of these giant Atta Maxims are
collected, and their jaws applied to the edges of the skin, which are
drawn together. The ants take hold, their bodies are snipped off, and
the row of jaws remains until the wound is healed.
Over and around the out-pouring soldiers, the tiny workers ran and bit
and chewed away at whatever they could reach. Dozens of ants made
their way up to the cotton, but found the utmost difficulty in
clambering over the loose fluff. Now and then, however, a needle-like
nip at the back of my neck, showed that some pioneer of these shock
troops had broken through, when I was thankful that Attas could only
bite and not sting as well. At such a time as this, the greatest
difference is apparent between these and the Eciton army ants. The
Eciton soldier with his long, curved scimitars and his swift, nervous
movements, was to one of these great insects as a fighting d'Artagnan
would be to an armored tank. The results were much the same
however,--perfect efficiency.
I now dug swiftly and crashed with pick down through three feet of
soil. The great entrance arteries of the nest branched and bifurcated,
separated and anastomosed, while here and there were chambers varying
in size from a cocoanut to a football. These were filled with what
looked like soft grayish sponge covered with whitish mold, and these
somber affairs were the _raison d'être_ for all the leaf-cutting, the
trails, the struggles through jungles, the constant battling against
wind and rain and sun.
But the labors of the Attas are only renewed when a worker disappears
down a hole with his hard-earned bit of leaf. He drops it and goes on
his way. We do not know what this way is, but my guess is that he
turns around and goes after another leaf. Whatever the nests of Attas
possess, they are without recreation rooms. These sluggard-instructors
do not know enough to take a vacation; their faces are fashioned for
biting, but not for laughing or yawning. I once dabbed fifteen Mediums
with a touch of white paint as they approached the nest, and within
five minutes thirteen of them had emerged and started on the back
track again.
The leaf is taken in charge by another Medium, hosts of whom are
everywhere. Once after a spadeful, I placed my eye as close as
possible to a small heap of green leaves, and around one oblong bit
were five Mediums, each with a considerable amount of chewed and
mumbled tissue in front of him. This is the only time I have ever
succeeded in finding these ants actually at this work. The leaves are
chewed thoroughly and built up into the sponge gardens, being used
neither for thatch nor for food, but as fertilizer. And not for any
strange subterranean berry or kernel or fruit, but for a fungus or
mushroom. The spores sprout and proliferate rapidly, the gray mycelia
covering the garden, and at the end of each thread is a little knobbed
body filled with liquid. This forms the sole food of the ants in the
nest, but a drop of honey placed by a busy trail will draw a circle of
workers at any time--both Mediums and Minims, who surround it and
drink their fill.
When the fungus garden is in full growth, the nest labors of the
Minims begin, and until the knobbed bodies are actually ripe, they
never cease to weed and to prune, thus killing off the multitude of
other fungi and foreign organisms, and by pruning they keep their
particular fungus growing, and prevent it from fructifying. The fungus
of the Attas is a particular species with the resonant, Dunsanyesque
name of _Rozites gongylophora_. It is quite unknown outside of the
nests of these ants, and is as artificial as a banana.
Only in Calcutta bazaars at night, and in underground streets of
Pekin, have I seen stranger beings than I unearthed in my Atta nest.
Now and then there rolled out of a shovelful of earth, an unbelievably
big and rotund Cicada larva--which in the course of time, whether in
one or in seventeen years, would emerge as the great marbled winged
_Cicada gigas_, spreading five inches from tip to tip. Small
tarantulas, with beautiful wine-colored cephalothorax, made their home
deep in the nest, guarded, perhaps, by their dense covering of hair;
slender scorpions sidled out from the ruins. They were bare, with
vulnerable joints, but they had the advantage of a pair of hands, and
long, mobile arms, which could quickly and skilfully pluck an
attacking ant from any part of their anatomy.
The strangest of all the tenants were the tiny, amber-colored roaches
which clung frantically to the heads of the great soldier ants, or
scurried over the tumultuous mounds, searching for a crevice
sanctuary. They were funny, fat little beings, wholly blind, yet
supremely conscious of the danger that threatened, and with only the
single thought of getting below the surface as quickly as possible.
The Attas had very few insect guests, but this cockroach is one which
had made himself perfectly at home. Through century upon century he
had become more and more specialized and adapted to Atta life, eyes
slipping until they were no more than faint specks, legs and antennæ
changing, gait becoming altered to whatever speed and carriage best
suited little guests in big underground halls and galleries. He and
his race had evolved unseen and unnoticed even by the Maxim policemen.
But when nineteen hundred humanly historical years had passed, a man
with a keen sense of fitness named him Little Friend of the Attas; and
so for a few more years, until scientists give place to the next
caste, _Attaphila_ will, all unconsciously, bear a name.
Attaphilas have staked their whole gamble of existence on the
continued possibility of guest-ship with the Attas. Although they
lived near the fungus gardens they did not feed upon them, but
gathered secretions from the armored skin of the giant soldiers, who
apparently did not object, and showed no hostility to their diminutive
masseurs. A summer boarder may be quite at home on a farm, and safe
from all ordinary dangers, but he must keep out of the way of scythes
and sickles if he chooses to haunt the hay-fields. And so Attaphila,
snug and safe, deep in the heart of the nest, had to keep on the qui
vive when the ant harvesters came to glean in the fungus gardens.
Snip, snip, snip, on all sides in the musty darkness, the keen
mandibles sheared the edible heads, and though the little Attaphilas
dodged and ran, yet most of them, in course of time, lost part of an
antenna or even a whole one.
Thus the Little Friend of the Leaf-cutters lives easily through his
term of weeks or months, or perhaps even a year, and has nothing to
fear for food or mate, or from enemies. But Attaphilas cannot all
live in a single nest, and we realize that there must come a crisis,
when they pass out into a strange world of terrible light and
multitudes of foes. For these pampered, degenerate roaches to find
another Atta nest unaided, would be inconceivable. In the big nest
which I excavated I observed them on the back and heads not only of
the large soldiers, but also of the queens which swarmed in one
portion of the galleries; and indeed, of twelve queens, seven had
roaches clinging to them. This has been noted also of a Brazilian
species, and we suddenly realize what splendid sports these humble
insects are. They resolutely prepare for their gamble--_l'aventure
magnifique_--the slenderest fighting chance, and we are almost
inclined to forget the irresponsible implacability of instinct, and
cheer the little fellows for lining up on this forlorn hope. When the
time comes, the queens leave, and are off up into the unheard-of sky,
as if an earthworm should soar with eagle's feathers; past the
gauntlet of voracious flycatchers and hawks, to the millionth chance
of meeting an acceptable male of the same species. After the mating,
comes the solitary search for a suitable site, and only when the
pitifully unfair gamble has been won by a single fortunate queen,
does the Attaphila climb tremblingly down and accept what fate has
sent. His ninety and nine fellows have met death in almost as many
ways.
With the exception of these strange inmates there are very few tenants
or guests in the nests of the Attas. Unlike the termites and Ecitons,
who harbor a host of weird boarders, the leaf-cutters are able to keep
their nest free from undesirables.
Once, far down in the nest, I came upon three young queens, recently
emerged, slow and stupid, with wings dull and glazed, who crawled with
awkward haste back into darkness. And again twelve winged females were
grouped in one small chamber, restless and confused. This was the only
glimpse I ever had of Atta royalty at home.
Good fortune was with me, however, on a memorable fifth of May, when
returning from a monkey hunt in high jungle. As I came out into the
edge of a clearing, a low humming attracted my attention. It was
ventriloquial, and my ear refused to trace it. It sounded exactly like
a great aerodrome far in the distance, with a score or more of planes
tuning up. I chanced to see a large bee-like insect rising through
the branches, and following back along its path, I suddenly perceived
the rarest of sights--an Atta nest entrance boiling with the
excitement of a flight of winged kings and queens. So engrossed were
the ants that they paid no attention to me, and I was able to creep up
close and kneel within two feet of the hole. The main nest was twenty
feet away, and this was a special exit made for the occasion--a
triumphal gateway erected far away from the humdrum leaf traffic.
The two-inch, arched hole led obliquely down into darkness, while
brilliant sunshine illumined the earthen take-off and the surrounding
mass of pink Mazaruni primroses. Up this corridor was coming, slowly,
with dignity, as befitted the occasion, a pageant of royalty. The king
males were more active, as they were smaller in size than the females,
but they were veritable giants in comparison with the workers. The
queens seemed like beings of another race, with their great bowed
thorax supporting the folded wings, heads correspondingly large, with
less jaw development, but greatly increased keenness of vision. In
comparison with the Minims, these queens were as a human being one
hundred feet in height.
I selected one large queen as she appeared and watched her closely.
Slowly and with great effort she climbed the steep ascent into the
blazing sunlight. Five tiny Minims were clinging to her body and
wings, all scrubbing and cleaning as hard as they could. She chose a
clear space, spread her wings, wide and flat, stood high upon her six
legs and waited. I fairly shouted at this change, for slight though it
was, it worked magic, and the queen Atta was a queen no more, but a
miniature, straddle-legged aeroplane, pushed into position, and
overrun by a crowd of mechanics, putting the finishing touches,
tightening the wires, oiling every pliable crevice. A Medium came
along, tugged at a leg and the obliging little plane lifted it for
inspection. For three minutes this kept up, and then the plane became
a queen and moved restlessly. Without warning, as if some
irresponsible mechanic had turned the primed propellers, the four
mighty wings whirred--and four Minims were hurled head over heels a
foot away, snapped from their positions. The sound of the wings was
almost too exact an imitation of the snarl of a starting plane--the
comparison was absurd in its exactness of timbre and resonance. It was
only a test, however, and the moment the queen became quiet the upset
mechanics clambered back. They crawled beneath her, scraped her feet
and antennæ, licked her eyes and jaws, and went over every shred of
wing tissue. Then again she buzzed, this time sending only a single
Minim sprawling. Again she stopped after lifting herself an inch, but
immediately started up, and now rose rather unsteadily, but without
pause, and slowly ascended above the nest and the primroses. Circling
once, she passed through green leaves and glowing balls of fruit, into
the blue sky.
Thus I followed the passing of one queen Atta into the jungle world,
as far as human eyes would permit, and my mind returned to the mote
which I had detected at an equally great height--the queen descending
after her marriage--as isolated as she had started.
We have seen how the little blind roaches occasionally cling to an
emerging queen and so are transplanted to a new nest. But the queen
bears something far more valuable. More faithfully than ever virgin
tended temple fires, each departing queen fills a little pouch in the
lower part of her mouth with a pellet of the precious fungus, and
here it is carefully guarded until the time comes for its propagation
in the new nest.
When she has descended to earth and excavated a little chamber, she
closes the entrance, and for forty days and nights labors at the
founding of a new colony. She plants the little fungus cutting and
tends it with the utmost solicitude. The care and feeding in her past
life have stored within her the substance for vast numbers of eggs.
Nine out of ten which she lays she eats to give her the strength to go
on with her labors, and when the first larvæ emerge, they, too, are
fed with surplus eggs. In time they pupate and at the end of six weeks
the first workers--all tiny Minims--hatch. Small as they are, born in
darkness, yet no education is needed. The Spirit of the Attas infuses
them. Play and rest are the only things incomprehensible to them, and
they take charge at once, of fungus, of excavation, of the care of the
queen and eggs, the feeding of the larvæ, and as soon as the huskier
Mediums appear, they break through into the upper world and one day
the first bit of green leaf is carried down into the nest.