There is one season of the year when they take flight, having four
beautiful transparent wings; this occurs during the periodical rains, when
they are attracted by the lights of the houses, which they enter in
countless numbers, filling the tables, and whilst flitting before the
lights disencumber themselves of their wings. They then become, to
appearance, a fat maggot, and make their way to the floors and walls,
where it is supposed they secrete themselves for a season, and are
increasing in numbers whilst in this stage of existence. At the period of
their migration in search of food, they will devour any perishable
materials within their reach. It is probable, however, that they first
send out scouts to discover food for the family, for the traces of white
ants are discovered by a sort of clay-covered passage, formed as they
proceed on their march in almost a direct line, which often extends a
great distance from their nest.

To mark the economy of ants has sometimes formed a part of my amusements
in Hindoostaun.[4] I find they all have wings at certain seasons of the
year; and more industrious little creatures cannot exist than the small
red ants, which are so abundant in India. I have watched them at their
labours for hours without tiring; they are so small that from eight to
twelve in number labour with great difficulty to convey a grain of wheat
or barley; yet these are not more than half the size of a grain of English
wheat. I have known them to carry one of these grains to their nest at a
distance of from six hundred to a thousand yards; they travel in two
distinct lines over rough or smooth ground, as it may happen, even up and
down steps, at one regular pace. The returning unladen ants invariably
salute the burthened ones, who are making their way to the general
storehouse; but it is done so promptly that the line is neither broken nor
their progress impeded by the salutation.

I was surprised one morning in my breakfast parlour to discover something
moving slowly up the wall; on approaching near to examine what it was, I
discovered a dead wasp, which the khidmutghar[5] (footman) had destroyed
with his chowrie during breakfast, and which, falling on the floor, had
become the prize of my little friends (a vast multitude), who were
labouring with their tiny strength to convey it to their nest in the
ceiling. The weight was either too great, or they had quarrelled over the
burthen,--I know not which,--but the was