ANTS

Otago Witness, Issue 4041, 25 August 1931, Page 10

ANTS

THEIR PECULIAR WAYS.

By

T. Martyn.

With all due respect to Professor Sharp and Mr Herbert Spencer, I cannot share their admiration for the ant. It’s one thing to study their ways and habits under glass -and through a microscope, but it is a different matter entirely to meet the pests on their native heaths, so to speak. Solomon, that pattern of wisdom, advises us to “Go to the ant, thou sluggard.” In these parts our aim and object is to keep as far from them as possible. Mr Spencer asserts that the majority of ants are females, and that males are only tolerated as a necessary evil. Personally I cannot say for certain, but judging from the vicious way they bite, I think it may be true. There are many varieties of emmets or pismires, that is to say ants, in these regions, nearly all bad and inimical to man—at times. The most outstanding are Cutters, Reds, and Travellers.

The cutter is a brownish-looking beastie, about half an inch in length, and can carry three times her own weight. She —I am taking Mr Spencer’s word for it —works at night when decent people are sleeping. Normally, cutters don’t do a lot of harm, as they feed on grass and the leaves of orange and peach trees. About sundown the marauders gather up and start for the scene of their depredations. Selecting the best orange tree in the grove, the ants divide into two gangs. One gang, the cutters, ascend the tree and set to work cutting the leaves into sections for easy removal. The second gang, the carters, are waiting below, trotting around and doing a few exercises to stipple themselves for their night’s work. Soon a faint rustle denotes that the cutters are busy, and in the rays of a flashlight one can see a shower of leaf fragments filtering down like a miniature snowstorm. The carters cease their gymnastics; each one seizes a piece, hoists it above her head, and starts off on the long trek to the communal nest in the tall grass. That’s all right —even if they do make the tree look pretty sickly—and whilst they confine themselves to their legal food our policy is one of non-interference. But when a scout discovers our vegetable garden and brings a gang along to raid our precious vitamins, well, then it’s war to the knife—or the kerosene bottle. When La Scnora comes from the “ patch ” with an apron full of derelict cabbages, a face as long as a wet week,

and the news that “ the eutters are in the garden,” I know it’s up to El Scnor to get busy.

That night, equipped with a machete — for the benefit of stray snakes —an electric torch, and a storm lantern—that sadly needs Fluxite—we set out to trace the robbers to their den.

The garden is alive with millions of emmets, all hard at work. Professor Sharp would have been “tickled to death ” to see his little friends so industrious—we weren’t.

It was useless attempting to destroy them—might as well try to empty the Thames with a tea-cup. Truly an awesome sight.

A little mob of ants—with a big sister in charge—would gather round one of my wife’s pet cauliflowers. Two minutes’ work on the stem and down it came with a crash, and the pesky pismires swarmed all over it.

With a groan—two groans—we turned away and started to find their homeward trail. After a few false starts we struck it. Out through the picket, fowlproof fence, across the fire-clearing into a clump of guava bushes —out again, across the corner of the paddock to the wire fence. Just a narrow track about three inches wide, winding round tree trunks, tunnelling through the long grass, and chock-a-block with two hurrying lines of insects. The rule of the road appeared to be “ keep to the right,” and two-thirds of it was reserved for the outgoing ants, laden with our vegetables. Out in the campana, about 100yds from the fence, the trail halted at a ring of wild pine-apples, and in the centre, protected from cattle by the prickly leaves, was the nest.

I hacked down a couple of “ pines ” to mark' the spot. Then we went home, thinking of our lost beauty sleep. 111.

Next morning, after the sun had dried the dew from the grass, my -wife, my boy —hereafter known as Turo—and I set out to interview those vitamin destroyers. Clad in ant-fighting garments —that is, shorts tied tightly below the knee—a shirt buttoned securely round the throat, and no shoes, we felt fairly safe. Still, to do the cutters justice, they are not so ferocious as other ants I have met.

The equipment for the undertaking was one long stick with a hooked end for pulling out the wild pines—daren’t touch them with the bare hand —a machete, a sickle for cutting grass, a bundle of old newspapers, a pair of old pants that had seen better days in England', a gallon of kerosene, and a box of matches.

When we reached our destination all was quiet—not an ant in sight. The road, so busy last night, was as empty as Princes street on a Sunday morning. But we knew they were, like Brer Babbit, just lying low.

I set to work on the pine-apples—Turo wished they were good to eat —and yanked out sufficient to give us access to the nest. About six feet across and 20in high in the centre, it was one solid heap of dry vegetation, all stored up for consumption on rainy days—no wonder Mr Spencer says ants are wiser than men.

Whilst I dealt with the pines, Turo and “ Mum ” were busy cutting dry grass and forming it in a ring round the nest. This we saturated with kerosene. Then the papers were torn up, soaked in oil, thrust into the nest at strategic points, and covered with dry grass and brambles. Last, but not least, came my old pants. Little thought.the head cutter of Samuel Bros., Ltd., when he designed those bags, of the fate in store for them in far-off Paraguay! Giving them a liberal dose of kerosene, I thrust them into the centre of the nest and well down. By this time the ants were on the move, climbing about the top of their home, but they made no attempt to scatter. Had they the intelligence that the professor credits them with they would have rushed us, but I guess they were sleepy after their night’s toil. Well, all was ready. We sprinkled the rest of our oil over the heap, and, taking a copy of the Glasgow Herald, well soaked, I set it alight, and with the hook-stick rammed it on top of my pants. Turo ran round the ring with a paper torch and started that’ going. Then we stepped back out of range. For a minute or so we thought it was going to be a fiasco, as, though the ring burnt merrily, nothing but a dense smoke arose from the nest. We could hear the insects as they swarmed out, to be met by the cordon of fire and driven back.

“There she goes!” shouted Turo, as he started a war dance, till he stepped on a prickly leaf and altered his mind. Sure enough, a tongue of flame cut

the smoke; then the centre of the nest burst out with a roar.

Ten minutes after a smouldering heap was all that was left of millions of energetic little workers, who were only fulfilling their destiny to the best of their instincts. Sorry; ’twas drastic, but the only way, and as La Senoia said, it was either that or Epsom salts instead of vegetables. IV. The red ant is an insect of different colour and other ways. It also has an odour, when smashed, similar to the London bed-bug—makes one feel homesick. As their name denotes, these ants are of blood-red colour. Somewhat larger than the cutters, they have big heads and prominent eyes. They nest in decayed trees or under rotting logs. After turning a log over it is instructive and amusing to watch them scurrying round, each one carrying a little white egg, seeking for cover. At least, it’s amusing till one finds half a dozen Amazon ants—non-breeders (see Spencer)—have introduced themselves between the interstices of one’s clothing to the raw hide, and are biting like fury. Then it’s our turn to seek for cover, to strip and dislodge the intruders. These jokers are of the bull-dog breed, as, once they grip, they don’t let go, but take the piece with them. The one method of making them quit is to pinch them till they open their jaws; but if one is in a hurry—and one usually is—and snaps the body from the head, the head still hangs on, and when brushed off takes its pound of flesh, more or less, with it.

They are semi-carnivorous, that is, will eat over-ripe fruit, but not green stuff. Their main food consists of other insects that cannot escape them, such as caterpillars, wood grubs, the spoil of an occasional raid on a white ants’ nest, and man.

However, they do not interfere with man till man interferes with them.

A new chum boy—the natives are too wise—will climb a tree after oranges, step on a decayed branch, upset the happy home, and come down quicker than he went up—in fact, he’s lucky if he doesn’t come down with a rush.

A week or so ago my W'ife and I were taking the short-cut through the Monte bush to the store. About a couple of hundred yards in front were two native girls going along the same track. Suddenly one let out a yell, started smacking her legs, and dived into the shrubbery. The other girl jumped off the track and stood laughing. Then she got the coinplaint, and, shrieking out, “Hormigas, hormigas! ” (ants), darted after her companion. “Come on,” said my wife, as she girded up her skirts and prepared to run the blockade.

But I didn’t think so. I am on e of those whom experience has made wise. Moreover, it would be infra dig to have to make an exhibition of myself with the Monte full of native girls.

So I went home. My wife, on second thoughts, thought she’d go too.

The traveller, so called from the insects perambulating habits, is a diabolical sort of ant in some ways; in others he—or rather she—is a benefactor of mankind. Black in colour, these ants vary from a quarter to three-quarters of an inch in length. They have no nests —at least, I have never found or heard of one—they are very gregarious, and strictly carnivorous. Flesh-eaters, pure and simple, fresh or otherwise; in fact, the more otherwise it is the better they like it; any meat is good meat to<them.

When they are on the march they keep column formation, about ten abreast, with a big fellow—beg pardon, Amazon —marching alongside at intervals of two

or three yards. I have sat for over an hour watching them march past, then gave it up, as there seemed no end to them.

No living thing will face them, not even mighty man. Billy, our dog, runs yelping and stays halfway down the paddock, when they call in “ home.” As for puss, it’s the topmost branch for her, till she secs Billy come home again. Chickens that usually pick up any stray ants, give them a bye, and fly out of range to pick off the stragglers that have formed an attachment to them. We have a breed of big frogs—like bazaar balloons—round these parts. They will tackle anything from fireflies to hornets, but when the travellers come around they strike a bee-line for the nearest water-hole.

Night or day makes no difference to these energetic little workers; when they are not travelling they are feeding. They must rest some time, but it’s hard to say when or where.

The first experience of travellers for a new chum is a direful one, especially if it happens at night; ours did. One night, a few weeks after we had settled down to live the “ simple life ” and grow our own foodstuffs, we were roused by Turo weeping. Mosquitoes were biting him, and he wanted his “ Mum ” quick. My wife nudged me, “ Where are the matches ? ”

I wasn’t properly awake and couldn’t think. “ I dunno. You had them last.”

One plunge and my better half was out of bed. A shriek and a rending of the mosquito-net—and- she was back again. That rouseci me. i “ Hullo, what’s wrong ? ”

“ Quick, get th e light. Something’s biting me all over.” Sly memory had returned, so I rolled out, made a rush for the matches, and got the lamp going. Then I began to dance. On my bare feet and up my pyjamas red-hot needles were perforating

my tender flesh. I looked down—still dancing—and saw the floor was covered with black ants. They were swarming over the mosquito-net; as I looked up a little lizard came from the roof rafters with a flop, and the ants on the floor made short work of him. The hornets were flying about angrily, and as I didn't want their stings to acid to my woes, I decided to abandon my " Englishman’s home.” “ Come on,” I gasped, “ let’s get out of this. We’ll be eaten alive.” We scrambled into the kitchen, where Turo had his shakedown till we got his room finished.

The boy was standing up in bed, knocking the visitor's from his legs and trying to keep them out of his ears, but they came at him faster than he could clear them off.

I put the lamp on the table, and whilst my wife unbarred the door, I picked up Turo, blanket and all, and we scooted outside. There, by the light of the moon, well away from the house, we set to work to relieve ourselves of the unwelcome visitors.

Turo was vindictive. “ Kill them, clad, or they’ll go back and tell the others where we are.” So we killed them as we picked them off. I looked at the “ good lady,” dubious as to how she would take this experience. “So this is Paraguay,” I quoted. “Wonder how often this happens?”

But she only said. “ It’s chilly. Wish we’d brought our blankets.” I soon fixed that. Turning my pants well up, I went into the shack with a hop, skip, and jump, snatched up a blanket and a poncho, and was out again before the enemy could get after me. Then we sat on the top rail of the gate and dozed till daylight. At intervals I went across, but they were still swarming all over the place, and I wondered if they were going to

make a week-end of it, or stop with us permanently. Just as day was breaking I tripped over the dewy grass again. “Hurrah!” They were quitting. A steady stream about five inches wide was pouring out of the door, across the grass, bearing to the left towards Brown’s casa, about half a league distant. By sunrise they had all cleared out. We were able to resume possession and assess the damages. The safe was a wreck. Five kilos of good bacon had vanished; so had the cheese. A kerosene tin that had been half full of lard was now full of ants that had suicided in the liquid fat. They had been through the corn bin after weavils, and had perforated the flour sack with the same object—it was an awful mess.

The crickets that sang behind the stove chirruped no more, and there wasn’t a sign of a cockroach.

VI. Well, after a scratch breakfast, I rode oyer to Brown’s to ask him “ what about it ? ” My neighbours only laughed, and when I told them we had sat on the gate all night, Mrs B. nearly had a fit. Then they “ put me wise,” as the Yanks say.

“Travellers,” quoth Brown, “are a ‘ blessing in disguise.’ They are universal scavengers. A monthly visit is a godsend in these parts.” x I thought ruefully of my baeon and cheese, and didn’t quite see* it.

“ That’s what they are,” asserted Brown, “ Nature’s scavengers. They keep the campana clean. You saw those; bones as you came along the track?” I nodded. “That was a cow; died dajbefore yesterday, and if the scavengers had not cleaned it up, you could not have passed within half' a mile of it to-day. See ? ”

“Yes,” joined in Mrs 8., “they clear everything—rats, mice, beetles, frogs, snakes, and lizards—out of the thatched roof, and hornets’ nests; although they come back after the scavengers are gone?'

“ But do you sit on the fence all night when they come along after dark ? ” I queried. My wife had given me strict injunctions to find out what the Browns did in that event.

Brown grinned. “Not on your life. I’ll tell you how we prepare for night travellers. See those plates?” He pointed to four small enamelled plates, in which the legs of the table were resting. I nodded. “Well, at night we fill those plates with water, take the eatables out of the safe, put them on the table, and cover them with a cloth—that fixes the tucker. Our flour we keep in kerosene tins with ant-proof lids. The corn we don’t trouble about—a few weevils more or less doesn’t matter. As to ourselves, we simply keep a box of matches under the pillow, a lamp within reach of the bed, and the last one in bed tucks the net well under the mattress. See ? ”

Again I nodded. “ I get you.” “Well, that’s all there is to it. If the visitors come along I light the lamp, see the net is tight, exterminate any strays that may have found their way in, and go to sleep again. But you want to remember that the night you forget to put the tucker on the table is the night they come along.” And Mrs B. said, “ Sure thing.” Then I rode home, rejoicing. Stopping out at night never did agree with me.— Chambers’s Journal.