8.
The end to this spell of observation was that by
the time half an hour had elapsed not an ant was to
be seen.
That may have been the end of the episode, but little
did I realise that another was about to begin.
Three feet away precisely, another eruption in the
sward began. It was ants all over again, but certain-
ly not the same ones as their was no mistaking that
this was a yellow species, not black. For another
half hour a similar turmoil ensued, clearly a celebra-
tion, the triumphant climax to a year of secret sub-
terranean living!
As each companion took off, it was by now quite
impossible not to be moved by something approaching
admiration, almost empathy. I was even aware of being
a somewhat privileged onlooker, one who had done nothing
to prepare for the party, but who nevertherless could
share in it to the full. Once again, after about half
an hour the activity subsided, and soon hardly an ant
was to be seen.
There is a sequel to this simple tale. On 21st
August 1974, it was once again a fine hot sunny day,
and although I am by nature too restless to be a
basker too often, or for too long, I was in fact in
my shorts, lying on my back on the grass outside the
window. It was 2.30pm and beside me there began a
turmoil in the turf. It was the colony of black ants
as ever was and I was there one year later to witness
their happy event with even greater respect, an event
lasting thirty five minutes which in terms of probab-
ility I might so easily have missed.
Of course no tale is worth of its salt unless it be
properly told, and the proper telling, at least to the
young, demands the unfailing symmetry and repetition
of the fairy tale.
So what of the yellow ants upon whose sanctum my bare
back had been unwittingly resting?
I had not even remembered them. But they remembered
me it would seem. Five minutes or so after the subsid-
ance of the blacks into their grassroots existence,