red bits of leaf, or one large mosaic
leaf. Below all is swung the pair of great scythes, so edged and hung
that they can function as jaws, rip-saws, scissors, forceps, and
clamps. The thorax, like the head of a titanothere, bears three pairs
of horns--a great irregular expanse of tumbled, rock-like skin and
thorn, a foundation for three pairs of long legs, and sheltering
somewhere in its heart a thread of ant-life; finally, two little
pedicels lead to a rounded abdomen, smaller than the head. This
Third-of-an-inch is a worker Atta to the physical eye; and if we catch
another, or ten, or ten million, we find that some are small, others
much larger, but that all are cast in the same mold, all
indistinguishable except, perhaps, to the shoe-button eyes.

When a worker has traveled along the Atta trails, and has followed the
temporary mob-instinct and climbed bush or tree, the same
irresistible force drives him out upon a leaf. Here, apparently,
instinct slightly loosens its hold, and he seems to become individual
for a moment, to look about, and to decide upon a suitable edge or
corner of green leaf. But even in this he probably has no choice. At
any rate, he secures a good hold and sinks his jaws into the tissue.
Standing firmly on the leaf, he measures his distance by cutting
across a segment of a circle, with one of his hind feet as a center.
This gives a very true curve, and provides a leaf-load of suitable
size. He does not scissor his way across, but bit by bit sinks the tip
of one jaw, hook-like, into the surface, and brings the other up to
it, slicing through the tissue with surprising ease. He stands upon
the leaf, and I always expect to see him cut himself and his load
free, Irishman-wise. But one or two of his feet have invariably
secured a grip on the plant, sufficient to hold him safely. Even if
one or two of his fellows are at work farther down the leaf, he has
power enough in his slight grip to suspend all until they have
finished and clambered up over him with their loads.

Holding his bit of leaf edge-wise, he bends his head down as far as
possible, and secures a strong purchase along the very rim. Then, as
he raises his head, the leaf rises with it, suspended high over his
back, out of the way. Down the stem or tree-trunk he trudges, head
first, fighting with gravitation, until he reaches the ground. After a
few feet, or, measured by his stature, several hundred yards, his
infallible instinct guides him