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I remember watching for half an hour an army of red ants on the march. They were streaming out from a small hole in the grass, crossing over a hoed road, and disappearing into another hole in the grass on the other side. Each was carrying a tiny load that looked like a small grain of rice, and was hurrying after his neighbour as if the whole world depended on his speed. Here and there on each side of the hurrying companies were scouts and officers without loads evidently engaged in keeping the others in order and in watching for enemies. What I thought were grains of rice, the boys told me were “ana a chiswe,” that is white ant’s children. Somewhere underground there must have been dreadful war and the red ants were carrying off the spoils of victory.

Next there came along a poor little lizard home by eager and willing—I had almost said hands—pincers. Here a pair were fixed in, there another pair. Everywhere that a pair of pincers could find a grip there was the pair. I pulled the lizard out but it was quite dead. So I pushed it back into the excited line and it was soon on the march again. After a little there came past a curious round little object into which dozens of ants were sticking and which with ants swarming atop was being carried along with the stream. I rescued this strange thing too, because I was anxious to find out what it was—the thing inside this living ball of ants. One of the boys got a basin of water and plumped the ball into it, and with a piece of wood scraped the angry insects and frothy-looking stuff off. Then there was revealed a tiny toad which the boys called “Nantuzi.” It was just like a little bag with four legs, one at each corner. When annoyed it swells itself up like a ball and refuses to budge. When seized by the ants it had promptly covered itself with a frothy, sticky spittle, and so was little hurt. Had I not rescued it, however, it would have been eaten at last overcome by numbers. Then I got tired watching, and left the never-ending ant army still on the march.