direction.  At the end of half an hour, he fetches up within six inches of the place he started from and lays his burden down; meantime he has been over all the ground for two yards around, and climbed all the weeds and pebbles he came across.  Now he wipes the sweat from his brow, strokes his limbs, and then marches aimlessly off, in as violently a hurry as ever.  He does not remember to have ever seen it before; he looks around to see which is not the way home, grabs his bundle and starts; he goes through the same adventures he had before; finally stops to rest, and a friend comes along.  Evidently the friend remarks that a last year’s grasshopper leg is a very noble acquisition, and inquires where he got it.  Evidently the proprietor does not remember exactly where he did get it, but thinks he got it “around here somewhere.”  Evidently the friend contracts to help him freight it home.  Then, with a judgment peculiarly antic (pun not intended), then take hold of opposite ends of that grasshopper leg and begin to tug with all their might in opposite directions.  Presently they take a rest and confer together.  They decide that something is wrong, they can’t make out what.  Then they go at it again, just as before.  Same result.  Mutual recriminations follow.  Evidently each accuses the other of being an obstructionist.  They lock themselves together and chew each other’s jaws for a while; then they roll and tumble on the ground till one loses a horn or a leg and has to haul off for repairs.  They make up and go to work again in the same old insane way, but the crippled ant is at a disadvantage; tug as he may, the other one drags off the booty and him at the end of it.  Instead of giving up, he hangs on, and gets his shins bruised against every obstruction that comes in the way.  By and by, when that grasshopper leg has been dragged all over the same old ground once more, it is finally dumped at about the spot where it originally lay, the two perspiring ants inspect it thoughtfully and decide that dried grasshopper legs are a poor sort of property after all, and then each starts off in a different direction to see if he can’t find an old nail or something else that is heavy enough to afford entertainment and at the same time valueless enough to make an ant want to own it.

There in the Black Forest, on the mountainside, I saw an ant go through with such a performance as this with a dead spider of fully ten times his own weight.  The spider was not quite dead, but too far gone to resist.  He had a round body the size of a pea.  The little ant —­observing that I was noticing—­turned him on his back, sunk his fangs into his throat, lifted him into the air and started vigorously off with him, stumbling over little pebbles, stepping on the spider’s legs and tripping himself up, dragging him backward, shoving him bodily ahead, dragging him up stones six inches high instead of going around them, climbing weeds twenty times his own height and jumping from