Читать книгу Children of Africa онлайн

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In tropical Africa nearly all the insects bite or sting, even innocent-looking caterpillars, if touched, give one itch. Nor may you pull every flower you see, for some of them are more stinging than nettles. To-day I came across two boys hoeing a road. One was a bright fellow who kept things lively by singing snatches of songs and whistling at his work. When I came near I spied a fine large glossy black beetle hurrying away after having been thrown up by the hoe. I asked the lively youth what kind of insect it was. In reply he dropped his hoe and pounced upon the unfortunate beetle and held it up to me for inspection. “Does it bite?” I asked, astonished. “Oh! yes,” he said, “look.” So saying he stuck the point of one of his fingers close to the head of the angry creature, which promptly seized it with its pincers.

But one gets used to these pests, and even the sight of a spider the size of a two-shilling piece running up the wall does not disturb one. There is one insect, however, you may not despise, and which you can never get accustomed to, the red ant. He comes in millions, and if he deigns to pay your house a visit while on his journey, you had better leave him in possession of the place. Unless you happen to head him off early with burning grass and red hot ashes you need not stay to argue with him. Everything living disappears before him, rats, mice, lizards, cats, dogs, boys and girls, men and women give way before his majesty, the red ant.