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In regard to another species, called the gentoo penguin, he says: "Some of their breeding-places are near the sea, and, generally, near a freshwater pond; others, however, are several miles inland. Why they should select these latter places--so far from salt water--is a mystery. The grass from the sea to the breeding-ground is trodden down and made into a kind of road by detachments of these birds, of from ten to twenty, going to the sea and returning. They make no nest, but lay in a hollow in the earth; they occupy a square piece of ground and deposit their eggs, two in number, as close to one another as they can sit. When the young birds are old enough they all go to sea, and only occasional stragglers are found on the coast at any other time of the year." Elsewhere Captain Abbott tells us that the ground about these "rookeries" is covered with small, round stones, which these birds eject from the bill on coming up from the salt water, in green masses, about the size of a shilling. It was on the Falkland Islands that Darwin, the great naturalist and philosopher, had an experience with a penguin, of which he gives the following interesting account: "Another day, having placed myself between a penguin and the water, I was much amused by watching its habits. It was a brave bird, and, till reaching the sea, it regularly fought and drove me backwards. Nothing less than heavy blows would have stopped him; every inch he gained he firmly kept, standing close before me, erect and determined. When thus opposed he continually rolled his head from side to side in a very odd manner, as if the power of distinct vision lay only in the interior and basal part of each eye." This bird that thus measured its strength with the celebrated philosopher, was of a kind called the jackass penguin, a name which it has received "from its habit, whilst on shore, of throwing its head backwards and making a loud, strange noise, very like the braying of an ass; but while at sea, and undisturbed, its note is very deep and solemn, and is often heard in the night-time."

WONDERFUL BIRDS'-NESTS--A CITY OF GRASS--BIRD WEAVERS AND TAILORS--BIRDS THAT MAKE POTTERY--EVOLUTION IN BIRD-ARCHITECTURE.

Others of the family make separate nests, which they attach to the end of leaves, twigs, small branches, or slender swaying creepers that hang down over water--generally a river--so that they cannot be got at by any monkey, however small, or even by snakes, which are still more redoubtable enemies. These graceful "pendent nests and procreant cradles," swung and danced by the lightest air, are of all sorts of shapes--rounded, or gourd-shaped, or rounded with a sort of stocking hanging down from it--and are all of them beautifully woven with the stems and blades of various grasses.

Besides birds that weave or stitch their nests, thus associating themselves, as it were, with two of the oldest and most respectable guilds of human society--there are others that belong to a third guild, and may be called potters, inasmuch as they make theirs of clay, with only a small admixture of other substances. The Oven-bird is, perhaps, the chief of these, a bird allied to our own little tree-creeper, but about the size of a lark. It lives about the banks of South American rivers, and with the mud, or clay, that it finds there, stiffened with grass, bits of straw, or other vegetable fibres, it builds its very remarkable nest, which, "in shape, precisely resembles an oven or depressed beehive," and is soon baked almost as hard as a brick, by the heat of the tropical sun.

The outer clay wall of this strange nest is nearly an inch in thickness, and, as there are two interior chambers, the size of the whole is very considerable, in proportion to that of the bird. It is, therefore, a conspicuous object in itself, and not the slightest attempt is made by the bird to conceal it. "It is placed," says Darwin, "in the most exposed situations, as on the top of a post, a bare rock, or on a cactus." The entrance is at one side, and in the larger of the two compartments, which is the inner one, the nest, which is a soft bed of feathers, is placed. What the outer compartment is used for, or whether it has any special use, I do not know. Wood says that the male probably sits in it, whilst Darwin thinks it merely forms a passage, or antechamber, to the true nest. As to a very learned work written by several learned people, which I am always looking at, and always to little or no purpose, it says nothing, but merely tells you that so and so has mentioned the bird and somebody else said quite a good deal about it--and it evidently thinks this enough, though I don't.

Then there is the Pied Grallina, an Australian bird that makes a nest which resembles a large clay bowl or pan, and another, called the Fairy Martin, belonging to the same country, whose nest, built wholly of clay and mud, has very much the shape of an oil-flask with a rather short neck, which projects forwards and downwards, and has an aperture at the end, by which the bird enters. Like those of other swallows and martins, these nests are built several together, and are fixed to the face of a cliff or the hollow of a large tree. Our own little martin-nests are not quite so remarkable as these, but they are sufficiently curious, and it is interesting that in the swallow family we at last get to birds which make their nests--I mean, of course, the exterior part--entirely of mud, without any straw or grass being mixed up with it. It is interesting, I think, because my own idea is that mud came first to be used in nest-making, through its adhering to the roots of grasses and water-plants, and that in the bits of straw and fibre, mixed up in the pottery of such accomplished mud-builders as, say, the Oven-bird, we see the last traces of the way in which these structures began. It was watching blackbirds build that first gave me this idea, for the blackbird plasters the cup of its nest with mud, as the thrush does with cow-dung and rotten wood; yet this mud is procured in the way indicated, and the plants to which it adheres form the bulk of the burden, and are of more importance than it is in the architecture of the nest. Gradually, as I believe, the mud got more and more, and the vegetable alloy less and less, till, at last, in the nests of some species mud only came to be used.

But we reach a further stage where mud has been given up, and something else adopted in its place. Thus the thrush, whose nest, up to a certain point, much resembles that of the blackbird, makes a cup to it, not of mud, but of cow-dung and rotten wood mashed together. That it once used mud, however, but that in civilised lands, rich in cows, the other substance gradually took its place, I have myself little doubt.

Finally, in the nest of the Edible Swallow, or rather Swift, of India and the Malay Archipelago, we have, perhaps, in its way, as wonderful an example of bird architecture as any that exists. These nests are attached to the face of precipices, and both in this and their general appearance resemble those made by the house-martin, who, before there were houses, no doubt chose precipices too. They are open, however, not domed, so that the resemblance is to a martin's nest about three-quarters finished, rather than to a completed one. Who can doubt, having regard both to their shape and the site chosen for them, that the bird that makes these nests, or rather its ancestors, used, ages ago, to make them of mud. But this mud was mixed with the salivary secretions--just as in the case of the house-martin now--and these becoming, as the glands developed, more and more viscous and glutinous, as well as more copious, began at last to do duty for the original material, so that now they have entirely taken its place. The substance thus used is, at first, in a semi-liquid state, but dries and hardens till it becomes quite solid. On being steeped in hot water, however, it again softens into a sort of jelly, which is made into soup by the Chinese cooks, and eaten with the greatest possible relish by the Chinese epicures.

BOWER-BIRDS AND GARDENER-BIRDS--HOW BIRDS SHOW OFF--A MALAY TRAP--CRIMSON COMPETITION--LOVE IN A TREE-TOP.

As we have seen in the last chapter, some nests of birds are very wonderful buildings, but there are some birds which make much more wonderful buildings than nests. These are the Bower-birds--a family allied to that of our crows and starlings--whose habitat is Australia and some of the adjacent islands. It includes a good many species, and all of them, besides the nest, make another and quite different structure, which is known as the "bower," but for which "playground" or "garden" is, perhaps, a better name. All three words, however, have something to commend them, for not only do the birds play and sport in and about these rustic buildings, and decorate them sometimes with leaves and flowers; but it is here, also, that the sexes resort, to court and choose one another before the more prosaic duties of matrimony begin. Whilst the nest, therefore, is the nursery, this other structure may be looked upon as the bower of bliss. Generally the birds make it of sticks, grasses, or other materials belonging to the vegetable kingdom, but it differs in each species, so the best way is to describe what it is like in a few of the more salient instances. The Satin Bower-bird makes a sort of platform of sticks, which it weaves together, so that they are firm enough for it to run over. This is the floor of the bower, and now come the walls, which are made of sticks too, but of another kind--long, flexible twigs, which the bird places upright and opposite to one another, on the two longer sides of the platform, which is somewhat oblong in shape. The thicker ends of these twigs rest on the platform, or the ground on each side of it, whilst the thin tips bend inwards till the two walls almost meet at the top, to make a sort of vaulted thatched roof. The whole forms a sort of rustic arbour, open at either end, so that the birds can run through it. This they delight in doing, and in order that the sticks may offer no obstruction as they dart along, they are careful, when minor twigs branch off from them, to place them so that these point outwards. Having made their bower, the next thing the birds do is to decorate it. Anything they can find that is bright, or gaily-coloured, such as feathers, bleached bones, snail-shells, leaves, flowers, etc., they pick up and bring to their bower. The feathers, or flowers, they hang about the rustic walls, whilst they drop the bones and shells in a heap outside each of the entrances.

As the birds are always adding to these collections, and keep up and repair their bowers from year to year, these curious, white, glistening heaps grow and grow, until sometimes they are large enough to fill a cart. Quite a number of birds--perhaps a dozen or more--come to play and sport at these bowers, or summer-houses. They run through and in and out and round about them, chasing one another, and having all manner of fun. The cock of this species is a most beautiful bird, and it is here that he shows off his glossy, blue-black body and velvety wings to the female, who is of a sober green, and not nearly so handsome. It is because the cock's feathers are so smooth and shining, that he is called the Satin Bower-bird. The female has not this satiny appearance, but, like other ladies, she has to take her husband's name. The size of the birds is about that of a jackdaw--at least I have seen them in the gardens, and they looked to me almost as large. Mr. Gould, speaking of the bower of this bird, says: "It has now been clearly ascertained that these curious structures are merely sporting-places in which the sexes meet, and the males display their finery and exhibit many remarkable actions, and so inherent is this habit, that the living examples which have, from time to time, been sent to this country, continue it even in captivity. Those belonging to the Zoological Society have constructed their bowers, decorated and kept them in repair, for several successive years." A gentleman who kept these Bower-birds in captivity, writing to Mr. Gould, says: "My aviary is now tenanted by a pair of satin-birds, which for the last two months have been constantly engaged in constructing bowers. Both sexes assist in their erection, but the male is the principal workman. At times the male will chase the female all over the aviary, then go to the bower, pick up a gay feather or a large leaf, utter a curious kind of note, set all his feathers erect, run round the bower, and become so excited that his eyes appear ready to start from his head, and he continues opening first one wing and then the other, uttering a low whistling-note, and seeming to pick up something from the ground, until at last the female goes gently towards him, when, after two turns round her, he suddenly makes a dash, and the scene ends."

I forgot to say that Mr. Gould once found a stone native tomahawk, amongst the heap of things that this bird had collected at its bower, and when, in Australia, either a native or a white man loses anything in the least ornamental--anything, in fact, that is not too heavy for a Bower-bird to carry--the first thing he does is to go to all the bowers in the neighbourhood, and see if it has been taken to any of them.

The Spotted Bower-bird is as beautiful, perhaps, as the last, and its bower or sporting-place is a still more wonderful structure. Mr. Gould describes it as considerably longer than that of the Satin Bower-bird--three feet long sometimes--so that it is more like an avenue than a bower. "Outwardly," he says, "they are built of twigs, and beautifully lined with tall grasses, so disposed that their heads nearly meet" ; "the decorations are very profuse, and consist of bivalve shells, crania of small mammalia, and other bones, bleached by exposure to the rays of the sun, or from the camp-fires of the natives. Evident indications of high instinct are manifest throughout the whole of the bower decorations formed by this species, particularly in the manner in which the stones are placed within the bower, apparently to keep the grasses with which it is lined fixed firmly in their places; these stones diverge from the mouth of the run, on each side, so as to form little paths, while the immense collection of decorative materials are placed, in a heap, before the entrance of the avenue, the arrangement being the same at both ends. In some of the larger bowers, which had evidently been resorted to for many years, I have seen half a bushel of bones, shells, etc., at each of the entrances." Mr. Gould goes on to say that he "frequently found these structures at a considerable distance from the rivers, from the borders of which the birds could alone have procured the shells, and small, round, pebbly stones," and that "their collection and transportation must, therefore, be a task of great labour."

The "bower" or, rather, the little rustic village, made by the beautiful Golden Bower-bird--a name which is as good as a description--is still more wonderful than either of the other two; indeed it is like a fairy-tale to read about it. This species chooses out two trees that stand near one another, and round the trunk of each it piles up an enormous quantity of small sticks and twigs, in the shape of a cone or pyramid. One of these stick pyramids may be as much as six feet high, and bulky in proportion, but the other is not nearly so large, standing only about eighteen inches from the ground. Having reared the two pillars, as it were, the birds--for several may join in the labour--proceed to arch over the space between them. For this purpose they search out the long stems of creepers that grow in the woods, and having fixed them, by an end, to the top of one pile, stretch them tight, and trail them over the other, thus making a covered walk between the two. Then they bring white moss, and festoon the pillars with it, and into the leafy roof they weave clusters of green fruit, like grapes, that hang down from it, so that it looks as if they had trained a vine over a trellis. Yet still the birds are not satisfied. All around the great central arbour they make little dwarf huts, or wigwams, of the growing grass, bending the stems together till the ends meet, and then thatching them over with a horizontal layer of twigs. When all is finished, they chase each other through their trellised arbour and round and round their little grassy wigwams--or "gunyahs" as they are called by the natives--the males, all resplendent in their beautiful golden plumage, glancing in and out amongst them, like so many little suns.

Many of these Bower-birds are wonderful mimickers, and can reproduce all sorts of sounds so exactly that people in Australia are often taken in by them. Mr. Morton, of Benjeroop, relates how a neighbour of his had been driving cattle to a certain spot, and on his way back discovered a nest in a prickly needle-bush, or hakea tree. While "threading the needle branches after the nest , he thought he heard cattle breaking through the scrub, and the barking of dogs in the distance, and at once fancied his cattle had broken away, but could see no signs of anything wrong. He heard other peculiar noises, and glancing at his dog, as much as to say, 'What does it mean?' he saw the sagacious animal, with head partly upturned, eyeing a spotted Bower-bird, perched in the next tree."

The structures which we have been here considering are of so extraordinary a nature, that they more arrest our attention than do those special activities relating to courtship and matrimony, for the due performance of which the birds have erected them. With all other species, however, in which these rites are a special feature, the exact converse is the case; or, rather, whilst a special place is sought out for their indulgence, no structure in connection with them is made. In some few cases, however, we perhaps see the beginnings of this. The male argus pheasant, for instance, displays before the hen in a little open space in the jungle, to which, in the breeding season, he day after day repairs, and though he builds nothing, he is most assiduous in keeping this space clear and clean, so that if a leaf or a twig, or anything else, gets into it, he takes it up and drops it outside. So pronounced, indeed, is this habit, that the Malays have learnt to take advantage of it to the birds' destruction. They cut off a long shaving from the stem of a bamboo, and tie one end of it to a peg, which they drive into the ground in the centre of the clearing. Finding that an ordinary pull will not remove the untidy-looking thing, the irritated bird at length seizes it with his bill by the free end, and twisting his neck two or three times about it, makes a violent spring backwards, with the result that he cuts his throat, for the thin edges of the bamboo are almost as sharp as a razor.

This is the theory of sexual selection by which Darwin accounts for most of the very beautiful colours and markings throughout nature. But though his arguments have never been shaken, whilst the evidence on which they are based has been most effectively supplemented, yet naturalists, as a body, seem determined to ignore both the one and the other, and to see in the most striking patterns and conspicuous hues, a "protective resemblance" to the surrounding landscape, which, if it really exist for any man, must be due rather to some personal cause, such as strong imagination or weak eyesight--or a combination of the two--than to any objective reality. There is no animal now, in fact, however conspicuous it may be to the eye of the savage, that is not pronounced almost invisible by some spectacled old gentleman or another, and I feel confident myself that, were a red or blue lion to step off a public-house and walk in full view down the street, it would be thought to "blend wonderfully" with the houses on either side, by these thorough going advocates of the protective theory. Darwin, however, who has pointed out so many cases of assimilative colouring, all of which are accounted for on his theory of natural selection, did not believe that the tiger or zebra were protected in this way, nor would he, probably, have endorsed the red lion.

It is amongst the birds of paradise, however--and especially in the case of the great bird of paradise, the loveliest, perhaps, of all--that we see the courting antics of birds exhibited, if not in their greatest perfection, at least in their most overpowering beauty. Here the gathering-place, instead of being on the ground, is amongst the tree-tops, and a tree of a specially lofty kind is chosen, which, by virtue of its spreading head and scantiness of foliage, is well adapted for the purpose. Here, in the early morning, the birds assemble, and the males, which alone possess those magnificent plumes, or, rather, fountains of feathers, that spring from beneath the wings on either side, display them now to the best advantage, elevating them, spreading and shaking them out, and keeping them all the while in a state of quivering, tremulous vibration. Amidst this soft and spray-like shower, tinted of a soft mauve and a deep golden orange, the emerald feathers of the neck and the pale, straw-coloured ones of the head, as the bird turns it excitedly from side to side, gleam and sparkle, whilst the wings are raised and opened, making, as it were, a basket out of which the plume-jets spring. In the intervals between these exhibitions, the birds fly from branch to branch of the wide-spreading tree-top, their plumes now trailing behind them, and looking as beautiful, almost, in another way, as they did just before when specially exhibited. Not that there is much order in the birds' performances, or, rather, it is order in disorder. Though rivals, emulous of one another's actions, yet each of them plays its own independent part. No two, it is probable, out of, perhaps, a score composing the assembly, acts in just the same way at just the same time, and thus the whole space is filled, each moment, with a varied scene of exquisite, ethereal loveliness.

There is not, it must be confessed, much power of description shown here, but it is from life, and at any rate the birds are not killed--a very redeeming point indeed.

BIZCACHAS AND BIZCACHERAS--INTERESTED NEIGHBOURS--A PROVIDENT MOTHER--PRAIRIE-DOGS AND RATTLESNAKES--OWLS THAT LIVE IN BURROWS.

Thus, if a Spanish gentleman should happen to drop his watch whilst riding, or a herdsman his whip, he is not much put out about it, even if it happened on a dark night. Next morning he rides again along the track of his horse's hoofs, and comes back with the watch in his pocket or the whip in his hand.

Nobody knows why the bizcacha does this, or, to talk in a more scientific way, what is the origin of the habit. There can be no doubt whatever that the flowers or shells brought to the gardens or play-houses of the bower-birds answer the purpose of decoration, and are thought pretty by the birds. The bizcacha may have the same idea, but if so it seems funny that no other member of his family, and, indeed, as far as I am aware, no other mammal at all, should act similarly, or seem attracted by objects in themselves, independently of any use they can be put to. Nor does the bizcacha play with these things--at least I have not heard of his being seen to do so. He just pulls them to his mound and then seems to pay no further attention to them. Another explanation has been suggested which I think is more likely to be the real one. The bizcacha is extremely careful in clearing the ground, not only round its own burrow, but all about the village, as a collection of bizcacha burrows may be called. This he can only do by removing all objects, whether growing or merely lying about, but it is his instinct instead of dragging them away from the village into the country at large, to drag them to his mound and get rid of them there. Perhaps if he were to carry them off he would not know when to stop. The mound gives him a definite place to bring them to, and, moreover, he feels safer going towards his burrow than away from it. However, whatever may be his reason, this is what the bizcacha does. He is an animal that makes a mound or hill of earth, and then brings everything he can find to that mound, and lays it on the top of it.

The weasel, probably, behaves in much the same way as the fox, but whether a pretty little burrowing owl that makes the bizcachera his home--though he generally makes his own burrow--does any harm to the young ones, I cannot, for certain, say. I should think, however, that, as he is quite a small bird, such a meal would be beyond his strength, even though it might accord with his inclinations. A pair of these little owls are often to be seen sitting together, just at the entrance of one of the bizcacha burrows, and when the bizcacha comes out he may sit beside them, for a time, looking quite friendly, and as though he had come to have a chat. One might fancy that tea would be brought up soon by a servant. This, however, is mere imagination. In reality the two species are quite indifferent to one another, as is often the case with different animals that yet live together. Besides the owls, a lively, pretty little bird, called by the Spaniards the minera, makes holes in the sides of the pit, which forms the entrance to the bizcacha's burrow, and a little swallow uses these holes for itself, and lays its eggs in them, when the mineras have flown away. It is like a miniature sandpit, with owls and mineras as well as sand-martins living in it, and it would all be very comfortable and harmonious if it were not for the fox and the weasel. The comfort is that it is not every bizcachera that has a fox for its landlord. Absentee landlordism is appreciated on the pampas. Most wonderful of all, as it seems, all sorts of insects live in these bizcacha villages, that are hardly seen anywhere else. Thus quite a little zoetrope of varied life revolves about the habitation that one animal has made for itself.

It is much the same with the little prairie-dog, or marmot, that lives, as its name implies, on the prairies of North America. This little creature is a burrower, too, and, like the bizcacha, it throws up a mound of earth outside the burrow, on which it sits up on its hind legs and surveys the country, just as if it were a man. The mound, however, is a more ordinary one than that made by the bizcacha, and although the burrows are dug pretty close to each other, each one of them seems to have its separate mound. A great number of these--and the prairies are sometimes studded with them as far as the eye can reach--constitutes what is called a "dog-town" or "village"; and a very interesting thing it is to come upon such a town, with its tens or even hundreds of thousands of inhabitants, a large proportion of whom are always to be seen sitting up on their dome-like mounds, like sentinels posted all about, to prevent the city being taken by surprise.

Here, too, the city has an alien population. There are burrowing owls, and probably foxes too, but the most remarkable animal that takes up its abode in the burrows of the prairie-dog, or marmot, is the dreaded and terrible rattlesnake. As in the case of the fox with the bizcacha, the possession, here taken, is forcible, or, at least, we may assume that the poor little marmot would resist it if it could. It would appear, however, that the legitimate owners are not expelled by the rattlesnake, but with their family continue to live in the same burrow--as long, that is to say, as the family lasts, for of the relations subsisting between it and the reptile there is now no doubt. "It was generally thought," says the Rev. J. G. Wood, "on the discovery of owls and rattlesnakes within the burrows of the prairie-dogs, that these incongruous beings associated together in perfect harmony, forming, in fact, a 'Happy Family' below the surface of the ground. The ruthless scalpel of the naturalist, however, effectually dissipated all such romantic notions, and proved that the snake was by no means a welcome guest but an intruder on the premises, self-billeted on the inmates, like soldiers on obnoxious householders, procuring lodging without permission, and eating the inhabitants by way of board. The reason for the presence of the owls is not so evident, though it is not impossible that they may also snap up an occasional prairie-dog in its earliest infancy, while it is still very young, small, and tender." At this period, however, the young would, no doubt, be vigilantly guarded by the mother, and as the owl is quite a little bird, it would not be likely to attack them under these circumstances. Moreover, the existence of countless burrows, all ready-made, is quite sufficient to explain the owl's presence in any of them, since it is not driven out by the owner. In an illustration of the work from which the foregoing passage is quoted, the owl is further represented as itself having young ones, which it is defending from the rattlesnake. Whether it really breeds in the burrows I do not know, but with its habits I can see no reason why it should not. For the rattlesnake, too, the burrows must make splendid places of retirement, so that even if it were a question of lodging only, and not board, I can see nothing strange in its going into them. I believe myself, indeed, that this is the principal good sought, and the other only incidental to it. Wood writes as if it was quite an unheard of thing for two or more animals of different species to live together, without hurting one another; but this--as no one knew better than himself--is not the case, as we may see with the shark and pilot-fish, or in an ants' nest, or in the bizcacheras that we have just been speaking about--for what harm do the swallows or mineras do to each other or the bizcacheras? There was really nothing so very romantic--if by that is meant silly--in the idea of the "Happy Family." Ordinary people were not so much at fault, nor were naturalists so very superior.

THE PUMA AND THE JAGUAR--TWO FIERCE ENEMIES--A STRANGE ATTACHMENT--A NIGHT ON THE PAMPAS--THE STORY OF MALDONADA.

But the greatest enemy that either the prairie-dog or the bizcacha has to contend with, is not the fox or the rattlesnake, but the dreaded puma or cougar, next to the jaguar the largest and most formidable animal of the cat tribe that lives on the American continent. It seems strange that a creature which kills horses and cows, as well as the wild huanaco, the tapir, deer, and American ostrich, should think of anything so small as a bizcacha or prairie-dog, but the puma will kill not only these, but even small birds, and the burrowing armadillo if he happens to come across it. More curious still, the dreaded jaguar, which one might have thought secure from every enemy except man, is attacked and vanquished by the puma. I have not heard of its being killed by him, indeed, nor should I think that possible, since if the two came to a grapple the jaguar would certainly be the stronger. What the puma does is to leap on the jaguar's back, claw him savagely, and then spring off again, before the tormented beast has had time to do anything--for the puma is ever so much quicker and more active, though not so strong as the jaguar.

Why the puma should act thus I cannot tell, but both the Indians and the half-breed Gauchos of the pampas tell the same story, and as jaguars are often killed that have their backs all over claw-marks, I suppose it must be true--unless they have done it to one another. This does, indeed, seem possible, and if it were only the male jaguars that were found with their backs in this state I should look upon it as the explanation. But there is no distinction of this sort, as far as I know, so I think it must be pumas, for a male jaguar would not fight with a female one, nor would the females be likely to fight together. The curious thing is that in that part of America where there are no jaguars, but where the grizzly bear is found, the puma is said to attack this huge and powerful beast--so that we have the same kind of story told by quite different people, separated from each other by an immense tract of country. Just as with the jaguar, the puma is supposed always to come off victorious in his encounters with the grizzly, and it is even said that the latter is sometimes killed by him. I must confess, however, that I find this very difficult to believe. The puma is immensely agile, and, like others of the cat tribe, very muscular in proportion to its size. But a full-grown grizzly bear is twice as large and twice as heavy as itself, and its strength must be in proportion. How, then, does the slight-built puma overpower and kill so ponderous an animal, clad in a shaggy coat of fur? Once seized by the grizzly I think it would have no chance, but it is possible, perhaps, that by springing on its back and wrenching its head suddenly round, it might be able to dislocate the neck, as it does that of a horse. That, indeed, is the puma's usual method of attack, and we must remember that, strength for strength, a horse of any size is almost as much its superior as the grizzly bear itself. So perhaps, after all, the thing is not quite so unlikely as it, at first sight, appears. The wonderful thing is that the puma should attack such animals as bears and jaguars, instead of confining itself to the more timid and peaceable creatures of the browsing kind, as do most beasts of prey.

But if this be wonderful, what are we to say of another trait or quality, in which this strange creature seems to stand alone amongst wild animals. It almost reads like a fable, but it really does seem to be true that the puma, fierce as he is, has yet a strange affection for mankind, and that not only will he not attack a man himself, but will even prevent other animals from doing so. There is a story told by the Gauchos of a man who, whilst hunting on the pampas, had his leg broken by a fall from his horse, and was left out all night. During the whole time he was guarded, as it seemed, by a puma, who, when a jaguar drew near to attack him, as he thought, sprang upon it, and prevented it from doing so. All through the night the puma and jaguar fought about the man, sometimes so near that he could see their shadowy forms through the darkness, whilst at other times their presence and actions were betrayed only by the fierce sounds which issued from them. These, on the part of the jaguar, consisted of growls and roars, but the puma has a peculiar yelling cry which, in itself, is still more terrible, and comes full of fear to all who do not know its habits. For this dreadful sound the Gaucho kept listening, and when it rang out, loud and shrill, he hailed it as an assurance that the puma was victorious, or, at least, holding its own, and took courage accordingly. But when it sank, or seemed choked and muffled, then his heart sank with it, and nervously grasping his long, curved knife--the only weapon that remained to him--he sat each moment expecting the jaguar's spring, till once more that thrilling cry--raised as in triumph--cheered his spirits, filling him with hope. The sweetest music--from his wife's or children's lips perhaps--had never fallen so sweetly on his ears as did that savage sound. So much, in this world, are we the creatures of circumstance, and so much are things what they mean for us! This dreadful alternation of hope and fear, or rather of fear relieved by hope, or weighted with despair, continued till the dawn of morning, when both the beasts disappeared, the combat apparently having had no decisive issue. The man was confident that he owed his life to the puma, which, as he further related, had appeared first upon the scene, and sat for some time near him, though without appearing to notice him. It was not till after midnight that he first saw the jaguar, which was crouching only a little way off, but with its head turned in the opposite direction. Doubtless it was watching the puma, for shortly afterwards, when it had crawled farther off and had become invisible, the dreadful sounds of strife rose suddenly out of the darkness of the night.

There can be little doubt, I think, that the jaguar would have seized and devoured the Gaucho had it not been for the puma; but it does not, therefore, follow that the puma, knowingly and of set purpose, protected the man. As its enemy, he would have been likely to attack the jaguar in any case, and if we suppose the latter to have kept all night near the man, because it wished to attack him, this would account for the fighting having been always near him, too, instead of the scene of it having gradually shifted; for the puma would have stayed where the jaguar was, in order to fight with it. We have, of course, only the Gaucho's word for the truth of his story; but I think myself that if he had been romancing he would have made up a very different one, containing much more varied incidents, wherein he himself would have played a much more considerable part. It looks to me like a true tale, but, as I say, it does not quite prove that the puma stayed by the man all night, in order to take care of him. His strange love of man might have brought him there at first, and then all the rest would have followed as it did. That for some reason or other, perhaps to do with his scent--we must remember how fond cats are of valerian--the puma really does like man, and becomes quite mild in his presence, can hardly, I think, be doubted. All the Gauchos and all the Indians--the two races of men that come most in contact with the animal--assert that such is the case, and the very name which the Gauchos give to the puma is "El amigo del hombre" . They say that not only will it never attack man, but that, if attacked by him, it will allow itself to be slaughtered without making any resistance. Why should they assert things so unlikely in themselves, and which are in such contrast with the known character of the puma where other animals are concerned, and especially in regard to the jaguar, if they were not the actual truth? The Spaniards, when they first came to America, were not prepared for anything of the sort, and if they had wished to invent they would have been much more likely to have invented tales of the puma's fierceness, and of their own skill and courage in hunting it. Perhaps they did at first, but gradually the truth became manifest, so that such stories no longer "went down," as we say. Instances of the puma's strange attachment to mankind became more and more numerous, until at last the matter ceased even to excite their wonder, as the strangest things do when once they have become familiar. Now, in South America at least, the fact is notorious, and notoriety, here as elsewhere, ought, I think, to be accepted as proof. Moreover, nobody has the slightest fear of the puma. There is no record of men having been seized by it, as they often are, or, at least, as they often used to be, by the jaguar, and even if a little girl or boy happens to be out on a dark night, nobody is alarmed, if only pumas are supposed to be about. When the Gaucho we have been reading about told his strange story, nobody disbelieved him, or even thought it was anything very remarkable. If, however, it had been told in early colonial days, before the Spaniards had left a race of half-breed descendants, whose life is always bringing them into contact with wild animals, and who are familiar with all their ways, in that case it would either have been discredited or else put down to a miracle. Whether the story of Maldonada, as told by the old Spanish chronicler, Rui Diaz de Guzman, is true or false, and whether, if true, it is in the nature of a miracle or not, I will let my readers decide: but here it is.

In the early days of the Spanish conquest, Buenos Ayres, which is now a large and beautiful city, the capital of the Argentine Republic, was only a small town, with a fort and some soldiers to guard it, and in the year 1536 it was besieged by the Indians, so that, the provisions being exhausted, a terrible famine set in. Eighteen hundred people died of starvation, and the putrefying smell of their bodies, which were disposed of hastily in shallow trenches, only just outside the town, caused beasts to assemble from the surrounding country, so that the risk of being devoured by them was added to that of death at the hands of the Indians, for any who might venture beyond the palisades. Still, as the allowance of flour on which the survivors were living had shrunk to six ounces a day, whilst the flour itself had become almost putrid, there were many who were content to run both these risks for the chance of finding anything, either living or dead, which hunger might enable them to eat, in the woods surrounding the town. Amongst these was a young and beautiful woman named Maldonada, who, losing her way, and wandering amongst the woods, was at last taken by the Indians, and received by them into their tribe. A few months afterwards, however, the governor of the town, a man named Ruiz, succeeded in ransoming her, and she was brought back.

Little good, however, was intended to Maldonada by this act. Upon her arrival Ruiz accused her of having wished to betray the town to the Indians, and, in expiation of this imaginary crime, ordered her to be taken again to the forest, tied to a tree, and left either to starve, or be devoured by any ravenous beast that might see her. The cruel command was punctually obeyed, and Maldonada, bound and helpless, was left to her terrible fate. At the end of two days, the Governor, wishing to have his ears gratified with an assurance of her death, sent a body of soldiers to seek for her remains. They found Maldonada herself, alive and uninjured, and the story she told was the same as that of the Gaucho left helpless, all night, on the pampas. An enormous puma, she said, had appeared soon after sunset, on the day that she had been left to die, and during the whole of that night and the following one, had guarded her against the assaults of numberless savage beasts that had raged around. God, she thought, had sent the puma to protect her, knowing her innocence; and this was the view that the soldiers, sent to find her, took too, as did also the townspeople, and, at last, the Governor, Ruiz, himself. Maldonada, on being taken back, was proclaimed innocent, and the war with the Indians being shortly brought to a close, she lived the rest of her life in happiness and prosperity. Whether she thought kindly of pumas ever afterwards, and always wore a mantle made of their skins in recognition of the service one had done her, I do not know; but were this recorded of her, I should see no reason to doubt the truth of the statement. The old chronicler who tells the story says that he knew Maldonada; but, instead of telling us anything more about her, he contents himself with making an obvious, poor pun upon her name. From this we may, perhaps, infer that, except when helped by a puma, she was not a very interesting person.

BEES AND ANTS--A ROBBER MOTH--ANTS THAT KEEP COWS AND SLAVES--ANTS THAT ARE HONEY-POTS--ANTS THAT SOW AND REAP.

The most wonderful of all insects--that, at least, would be the general opinion--are bees and ants. As bees are so very well known, and kept by so many people, I will not say much about them here, which will leave more space for the ants. Of the two, bees perhaps are the finer architects, for nothing quite so wonderful as their rows of hexagonal cells is to be found in an ant's-nest. "He must be a dull man," says Darwin, "who can examine the exquisite structure of a comb, so beautifully adapted to its end, without enthusiastic admiration"; and he goes on to observe that "bees have practically solved a recondite problem, and have made their cells of the proper shape to hold the greatest possible amount of honey, with the least possible consumption of precious wax in their construction." No doubt these wonderful cells are now made instinctively, yet the bees can adapt their architecture to special circumstances, which shows the possession of reasoning power. Thus, should a piece of the comb fall down, they will not only fix it, by wax, in its new position, but, what is much more extraordinary, will strengthen the attachments of the other combs, lest they should fall too--for there can be no other reason for such an act. Bees, again, are sometimes much annoyed by the death's-head moth which enters the hive at night, and devours the honey, apparently without danger to itself, though why this should be the case we do not know. After having suffered for some time, however, the bees barricade the entrance by building behind it a wall of wax and propolis, through which they make a hole large enough to admit themselves, but which quite excludes the bulky body of the moth. Here, too, we have reason and foresight in a high degree, as much, I think--perhaps more so--as has ever been observed in any occasional act of an ant, devised to meet special circumstances. For it is only in years in which the death's-head moth is specially abundant that the bees act in this way; and, moreover, when it seems no longer required, they remove the barrier they have made.

The puzzling thing is that acts like this seem to show higher intelligence than, to judge by various experiments, one would think either ants or bees possessed. The results, for instance, of the experiments made by Lord Avebury in this direction, are rather disappointing than otherwise, especially with ants, creatures so far advanced in civilisation, as we may call it, and the ways of man, that they keep both cows and slaves, milking the one and making the others work for them. The cows are represented by little insects called aphides, one species of which we are accustomed to see upon our rose trees, and the milk is a drop of nectar which they exude from the abdomen, upon the ants gently tapping them there with their antennae. Various kinds of ants milk various kinds of aphides, and some keep them in their nests, where, indeed, they are born, their eggs being tended with the same care as those of the ants themselves. Thus we see amongst ants a creature kept and used regularly for a certain purpose, as domestic animals are amongst ourselves, and this, as far as we know, is unique in the animal world. The aphides, too, belong to a family of insects quite distinct from the Hymenoptera, amongst which the ants are included.

One of the most extraordinary of all ants--and therefore of all insects--is the honey-ant of Mexico and Australia. Amongst these, a certain section of the community take the place of aphidae amongst other ants. They live but to distribute honey to the rest, and by reason of this, and the remarkable way in which their purpose is accomplished, may be said to be living honey-pots. In the first place, they are themselves fed with honey by the workers, who swallow it and bring it up from their stomachs in the way in which a pigeon brings up food for its young--a process which is called "regurgitation." During this process the abdomen of the honey-bearers begins to swell, and by degrees becomes quite globular, and of such a disproportionate size to the rest of the body that the latter projects from it like a piece of stick, and is raised high above the ground. When thus fully distended it is difficult for the insect to walk--a feat which it can only accomplish sideways--but it has, as a rule, no necessity to do so, and only clings motionless to the vaulted roof of the cell or chamber in which it is enclosed. This is of a roughly circular shape, about three inches across, and an inch or three-quarters of an inch in height. It is called the honey-chamber, and in it a number of these honey-bearers reside--if they may not rather be said to be stored--hanging closely together, and looking like a bunch of currants or small amber-coloured grapes--for their abdomens are transparent, so that the honey shows through them. It used to be thought that these ants had no stomachs, so that the abdomen itself made the jar for the honey. This, however, is a mistake. The honey on being swallowed, is received into the stomach, and this by swelling inordinately, causes the abdomen to swell too. It is interesting that whilst the floors of these honey-chambers are quite smooth, the roof is rough, so that the ants, fixing their feet upon the granulated surface, can cling there more securely. We need not suppose, however, that the ants produce this result purposely, for it is by their constantly walking over the floors of the chambers that they become smooth and polished. Here, then, we have the honey-jars. The workers when they are hungry come to them, and lifting their mouths up to the mouth of the jars, the honey from the latter is poured--or regurgitated--into them. In doing this the honey-bearing ant--or, as she is often called, from the shape of her abdomen, the rotund--throws her head up, and a drop of clear, amber fluid is then seen to exude from her mouth, which is eagerly licked up by the workers.

Some ants, it is now well known, are accustomed to store up grain in their nests during the summer or autumn, so as to have a supply of food during the winter. Long ago this habit had been recorded by Solomon, who says, "The ants are a people not strong, yet they prepare their meat in the summer"; and again, "Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise: which having no guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest." Classic writers have also dwelt upon this interesting point in ant economy, so that for a long time it was taken for granted not only that some ants stored grain, but that all of them did. However, when the European species began to be observed very carefully, this opinion was found to be erroneous, and Huber and other investigators, having convinced themselves that grain in these instances was not so stored, opinion began to go to the other extreme, and the fact was denied altogether. It was supposed that Solomon, and the ancient writers generally, had seen the ants carrying their little white larvae or pupae--as anyone may do who disturbs a nest--and that these had been mistaken for seeds.

For my part, I think that this is very likely to have been the case in some instances, for until lately it has not been the custom to watch insects, or indeed any animals, minutely, and it is not the business--and often not the interest--of poets to verify matters of this kind. In the Mishna, however, which is a collection of old Jewish writings, we find a law relating to this grain stored up by the ants, and the ownership of it; and anyone who had read this might have known that the thing was a reality, since minute regulations about the possession of something can hardly exist, unless that something exists, too. This is the law, which, as will be seen, dealt fairly by everyone except by the ants--"The little caves of ants, when in the midst of a standing crop, are adjudged to the owner of the field; of those behind the reapers, the upper part is the property of the poor, the lower of the proprietor." Rabbi Meir, however, decided that "all belong to the poor, since whatever is in doubt, in gleaning, goes to the gleaner."

Yet in spite of the strong presumption in favour of ant providence and foresight, which this piece of ancient legislation raises, opinion was against it, and it was not till 1829 that the question was set at rest by Lieutenant-Colonel Sykes, who, whilst at Poonah, in India, saw and examined these "little caves of the ants" and also the ants carrying the seeds, not into but out of them. "Each ant," he tells us, "was charged with a single seed; but, as it was too weighty for many of them, and as the strongest had some difficulty in scaling the perpendicular sides of the cylindrical hole leading to the nest below, many were the falls of the weaker ants with their burdens, from near the summit to the bottom." The ants, however, that thus fell never relaxed their hold of the grain they were carrying, and, with a perseverance affording a useful lesson to humanity, "steadily recommenced the ascent, after each successive tumble, nor halted in their labour until they had crowned the summit and lodged their burden on the common heap." This observation was made just after the heavy rains of the Indian monsoon. The seeds had probably got wet, and the ants were bringing them up to dry in the sun.

Here then, at last, the truth of the ancient opinion as to ants storing grain was vindicated; but now came another and still more wonderful discovery. A harvesting ant--one, that is to say, that stored grain--was found to inhabit Texas, and Dr. Lincecum, who lived for twelve years in that country, came to the conclusion that this species not only stored the grain, but planted it, too, so as to have a crop of seeds next year, just as a farmer plants wheat. In an account of this ant which Dr. Lincecum sent to Darwin, who read it before the Linnean Society, he says: "The species which I have named Agricultural, is a large, brownish ant. It dwells in what may be termed paved cities, and like a thrifty, diligent, provident farmer, makes suitable and timely arrangements for the changing seasons. When it has selected a situation for its habitation, if on ordinary dry ground, it bores a hole, around which it raises the surface three and sometimes six inches, forming a low circular mound, having a very gentle inclination from the centre to the outer border, which on an average is three or four feet from the entrance. But if the location is chosen on low, flat, wet land, liable to inundation, though the ground may be perfectly dry at the time the ant sets to work, it nevertheless elevates the mound in the form of a pretty sharp cone to the height of fifteen to twenty inches or more, and makes the entrance near the summit. Around the mound, in either case, the ant clears the ground of all obstructions, and levels and smooths the surface to the distance of three or four feet from the gate of the city, giving the space the appearance of a handsome pavement, as it really is. Within this paved area not a blade of any green thing is allowed to grow except a single species of grain-bearing grass. Having planted this crop in a circle around, and two or three feet from, the centre of the mound, the insect tends and cultivates it with constant care, cutting away all other grasses and weeds that may spring up amongst it, and all around, outside the farm-circle, to the extent of one or two feet more. The cultivated grass grows luxuriantly, and produces a heavy crop of small, white, flinty seeds, which under the microscope very closely resemble ordinary rice. When ripe it is carefully harvested and carried by the workers, chaff and all, into the granary cells, where it is divested of the chaff and packed away. The chaff is taken out and thrown beyond the limits of the paved area. During protracted wet weather," continues Dr. Lincecum, thus supporting the observations of Lieutenant-Colonel Sykes, "it sometimes happens that the provision stores become damp, and are liable to sprout and spoil. In this case, on the first fine day, the ants bring out the damp and damaged grain and expose it to the sun till it is dry, when they carry it back and pack away all the sound seeds, leaving those that had sprouted to waste."

In 1877 Mr. MacCook visited Texas on purpose to find out whether the harvesting ants really sowed the seed, as Dr. Lincecum had reported, for of course anyone may be mistaken. He saw a good deal of what Dr. Lincecum had seen, but not all, which is no wonder, since he only stayed a few weeks, whereas Dr. Lincecum had lived in the country for twelve years. Mr. MacCook could not make up his mind upon the subject, but he saw no reason why the ants should not sow their seed, nor has he given any better explanation of their clearing a space and not letting anything but their ant-rice grow upon it. There can, I think, be very little doubt that Dr. Lincecum was right in his opinion. We need have no difficulty in believing that some ants have fields and raise crops upon it, because there are other kinds, which, though they do not do this, do other things which are quite as wonderful, and demand quite as much intelligence. Mr. Belt, too, as we shall see, in a little, believes that some ants in South America grow mushrooms and make beds to grow them on.

This is the description which Mr. MacCook gives of the way in which a harvesting-ant carries its grain of rice--as big almost and heavy as itself--to the nest. "At last a satisfactory seed is found. It is simply lifted from the ground, or, as often happens, has to be pulled out of the soil, into which it has been slightly pressed by the rain or by passing feet. Now follows a movement which at first I thought to be a testing of the seed, and which, indeed, may be partially that; but finally I concluded that it was the adjusting of the burden for safe and convenient carriage. The ant pulls at the seed-husk with its mandibles, turning and pinching or feeling it on all sides. If this does not satisfy, and commonly it does not, the body is raised by stiffening out the legs, the abdomen is curved underneath, and the apex applied to the seed. I suppose this to be simply a mechanical action for the better adjusting of the load. Now the worker starts homeward. It has not lost itself in the mazes of the grass-forest. It turns directly towards the road with an unerring judgment. There are many obstacles to overcome. Pebbles, pellets of earth, bits of wood, obtruding rootlets, or bent-down spears of grass block up or hinder the way. These were scarcely noticed when the ant was empty-handed. But they are troublesome barriers now that she is burdened with a seed quite as thick, twice as wide, and half as long as herself. It is most interesting to see the skill, strength, and rapidity with which the little harvester swings her treasure over or around, or pushes it beneath these obstacles. Now the seed has caught against the herbage as the porter dodges under a too narrow opening. She backs out and tries another passage. Now the sharp points of the husk are entangled in the grass. She jerks or pulls the burden loose, and hurries on. The road is reached, and progress is comparatively easy. Holding the grain in her mandibles well above the surface, she breaks into what I may describe with sufficient accuracy as a 'trot,' and with little further interruption reaches the disk and disappears within the gate."

The seeds, when thus brought into the nest, are stored by the ants in long galleries, or in vaulted chambers, the floors of which have been specially prepared for its reception. It is a very curious thing that the stored seeds, though they often become quite moist, do not germinate, as would be the case under ordinary circumstances, if we, for instance, were to lay them in some cave or cellar. Were they to do so they would become bitter, and, of course, unfit for food, so that it seems as if the ants must have some way of stopping the process of nature. What this way is we do not know, but if, out of a great many thousands, some of the seeds do begin to sprout, the ants bite off the little rootlet or radicle that then makes its appearance, by which act the germination is prevented from going farther. It is quite as wonderful that the ants should have found out how to prevent the seeds from growing in their nests--and do it in two ways--as it is that they should plant it in fields specially prepared for it to grow upon.

ANT ARMIES--A SNAKE'S PRECAUTION--WONDERFUL BRIDGES AND TUNNELS--MUSHROOM-GROWING ANTS.

These terrible insects travel night and day. "Many a time," says Du Chaillu, "have I been awakened out of a sleep and obliged to rush from the hut and into the water, to save my life, and after all, suffered intolerable agony from the bites of the advance-guard, who had got into my clothes. When they enter a house they clear it of all living things. Cockroaches are devoured in an instant. Rats and mice spring round the room in vain. An overwhelming force of ants kills a strong rat in less than a minute, in spite of the most frantic struggles, and in less than another minute its bones are stripped. Every living thing in the house is devoured. When on their march the insect-world flies before them, and I have often had the approach of a bashikonay army heralded to me by this means. Wherever they go they make a clean sweep, even ascending to the tops of the highest trees in pursuit of their prey. Their manner of attack is an impetuous leap. Instantly the strong pincers are fastened and they only let go when the piece gives way. At such times this little animal seems animated by a kind of fury which causes it to disregard entirely its own safety, and to seek only the conquest of its prey. The bite is very painful." This latter statement it is easy to believe from the figure given in Du Chaillu's book of one of these driver, or bashikonay ants. It is drawn twice the size of the real insect, but, even so, this would make the latter at least as large as a wasp. The head is enormous, larger than the thorax and abdomen--which make the body--together, and from it a huge pair of curved and pointed mandibles project and cross each other at the tips. When fairly covered with such creatures the effect would be that of thousands of tiny pincers, all tearing out pieces of flesh at the same time. No wonder that the negroes who are naked, or nearly so, run for their lives. In old times, Du Chaillu tells us, native criminals used to be tied down in the path of these terrible ants, to be torn to pieces and devoured by them--a shocking piece of cruelty which one is glad to know even then and amongst savages, was a thing of the past. This terrible fate, however, must sometimes overtake those who are too old or ailing to escape by their own efforts, and to assist whom there is no time, and possibly but little inclination.

But in spite of such catastrophes, and of the danger and inconvenience which these driver-ants cause to the negroes, they are yet, in reality, very useful to them, since, several times a year, their huts are freed from the vermin with which they at all times abound.

If the gorilla and elephant fly before these ants, one can understand that snakes, however large, would also be afraid of them; and accordingly we have a curious story told by the natives, of the anxiety felt by the great python lest he should be overtaken by their armies, whilst lying torpid after a meal, and of the means which he takes to avoid such a catastrophe. Having killed his prey by crushing it in the great folds of his body, he leaves it lying on the ground, and does not return until, having made a circle of a mile or more in diameter, about the body, he is assured that no ant-army is on the march. Only then does he dare to swallow his prey and risk the dangerous period of sluggish inactivity which is necessitated by the process of digestion. If, however, the object of fear should be met with the python glides off with all possible speed, leaving the booty to be devoured by the ants should they happen to come upon it.

The habit of these driver-ants of making a tunnel as they march along, and thus sheltering themselves from the heat of the sun, is very remarkable, but I cannot quite understand how they drive it so deep under the ground as Du Chaillu says. To do so must surely delay them for a very long time, and the quicker and more expedient course would seem to be to wait for the sun to go down, and then to cross the open space. However, we should never assume, in natural history, that a certain course will be pursued by any animal, simply because it is the best one. Often, however obvious this seems, they act otherwise. From other accounts, however, it would seem as if the ants threw up their tunnel on the surface of the ground instead of excavating beneath it, and that, sometimes, the structure reared by them is more of the nature of an awning than a tunnel. The Rev. Dr. Savage, for instance, says: "If they should be detained abroad till late in the morning of a sunny day, by the quantity of their prey, they will construct arches over their path, of dirt agglutinated by a fluid excreted from their mouth. If their way should run under thick grass, sticks, etc., affording sufficient shelter, the arch is dispensed with; if not, so much dirt is added as is necessary to eke out the arch, in connexion with them."

Sometimes a still more wonderful arch or tunnel is made by the ants, for it is a living one composed of the bodies of some of their number. These, apparently, stand in two rows upon their hinder legs, and by interlocking their jaws and intertwining their anterior legs and antennae make a covered way for the workers to pass along. From this, it would appear that certain of the ants feel the heat less than the ordinary workers. Apparently, however, the ants only act in this way when the sky is clouded, and when, as a consequence, one would not have expected any covering to be necessary. Dr. Savage, who gives this interesting account of ant body-building, as one may call it, has not been sufficiently explicit in regard to the details and circumstances attending it.

More extraordinary even than their habit of making a living arch or gallery, is the method which these ants employ of passing rivers. To do this they climb a tree upon one or other of its banks, and running out along a branch overhanging the water, let themselves down by clinging one to another, until a rope is formed of their united bodies. This soon reaches the water, and becoming constantly longer as fresh ants run down and affix themselves, is swept out from the shore by the force of the current, until at length its free end is washed against the opposite bank. There is, now, a thin bridge of ants, like a ribbon and of immense length, stretched slanting-wise from shore to shore, and over it the main body of the ants ceaselessly pass, till there are no more to come. Only the bridge itself now remains, but the ants helping to form this, on the nearer side of the stream, detach themselves now from the tree, when the bridge changes to a rope in the water, and this, being carried at once down the stream, is soon washed against the further bank, to which its corresponding end is attached. As soon as this has been accomplished, the living ants composing this organic work of engineering skill, crawl on shore and continue their march, bringing up the rear of the column. It has been asserted, I know--for I have read it somewhere, and well remember the accompanying illustration--that the monkeys inhabiting the Brazilian forests are accustomed to cross the smaller rivers that flow through them, in the same way. As the ants do so, there seems nothing absolutely impossible in the thing, but as years have gone by and I have met with no reference to so interesting a fact in any work of standing, I have got to distrust the only authority I can remember for it--a boy's book, namely, by Mayne Reid.

If streams are not sufficient to daunt the driver-ant, neither are floods. When these occur, numbers of them rush together and cling to one another, forming a ball-shaped mass, that, being lighter than the water, floats upon it, till such time as the flood has retired. The size of these balls is, for the most part, that of an orange, but they may be either larger or smaller--tangerine orange-balls in the latter case. The natives say that the larger and stronger ants form the outer circumference of the globe, whilst the weakly ones--or, as they express it, the women and children--are contained and guarded in the centre.

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