Ants see, then, and hear. But their hearing is not at all good; while they do most of their work in pitch darkness underground, where they can not possibly see anything anyway. So they depend on touch, and still more on smell. Smell, therefore, is their chief sense, as sight is ours. So much thinking as they do, they do largely with their “smell center.”

We in a strange country, find our way back home by remembering what we saw on the way out. An ant gets home by following the smell of its outward trail. We recognize our friends by sight, and know them by the way they look. An ant recognizes its friends by touching them with its feelers, as no doubt you have often seen ants do, and so getting the familiar odor, smelling out each other’s claims to acquaintance.

For the feelers or antennae are the ant’s nose. It feels with them, and it also smells. As you can discover by looking at any ant, the antenna is like some whips which have a stiff handle and a long flexible lash fastened to its end. The handle sticks out sidewise, and the lash is jointed so that it can be moved about freely.

Our common brown ant has eleven joints in its whip-lash. With the joint at the tip it smells its nest. With the tenth joint it gets the general odor of the colony to which it belongs. With the ninth, it follows the scent of its own track. With the eighth and seventh, it recognizes the helpless young which are its care. By means of the sixth and fifth, it knows its enemies, the inhabitants of other ant cities with which it is at war. What the remaining four joints next the handle are for, is by no means clear.

An ant, therefore, which has had the outermost joint of its feelers cut off, or has lost them in battle, does not know its own nest. One that has lost the two outermost, does not recognize its fellows when it meets them away from home. One that has lost the outermost three joints, can not smell its own track and so can no longer find its way home. If the seventh and eighth joints are gone, the ant no longer has the slightest interest in the eggs and the helpless young, which before the mutilation it would have fought to the death to defend. Apparently, it no longer knows what they are; like the men who wake up some morning with a little blood clot on the surface of their brains over their left ears, who can see words but not read them, and don’t know what their wives and children are. On the other hand, ants from different nests, which have lost the whole of their antennae down to the fourth joint, live together in perfect peace and harmony. But ants from different nests, deprived of their antennae only as far as the sixth joint, straightway start to fighting like cats and dogs; and never leave off till they are all killed or disabled.

Apparently then, the ant has enemy-smelling spots, and egg-smelling spots, and track-smelling spots, and friend-smelling spots, and nest-smelling spots, strung along in order on the lash-like part of its feelers; so that when one of these sets of spots goes, that particular sort of smell goes with it.

The ant, I say, depends greatly on smell. Probably it never knows any of its fellows, or any of its young, separately as individuals. It only knows that they have a certain familiar smell. At any rate, ants taken from a nest, soaked in water with ants from another nest, till they have taken on the foreign odor, and then returned to their own nest, are promptly set upon and killed as if they were invaders. But ants soaked in water with members of the colony, so that they have the proper colonial smell, are received as brothers.

Each sort of ant has its own peculiar odor, so different from that of other sorts that even the blunt human nose can tell them apart. Each nest of ants, too, has a slightly different smell from that of other nests of the same sort, so that each ant knows its own, tho the differences are too small for us to detect. All the ants of a colony are the children of the single queen, who lays all the eggs for the entire ant city. All the ants of a hill, therefore, instead of looking like their mother, smell like her. Each ant, then, recognizes its own brothers and sisters, its mother, its mother’s sisters, and the children of its mother’s sisters, who are its cousins. All these have the familiar smell, and the ant treats them as friends.

Ants from a related nest whose smell is nearly right, but not quite, are received with suspicion, and not allowed to take any part in the care of the young. Those whose odor is still less familiar are dragged about and roughly handled, but allowed to live. But those whose odor is entirely strange are promptly lynched, and their bodies dragged away to the waste heap.

The odor of the queen ant remains the same thruout life. Consequently, any ant will always recognize its own mother. But the odor of the worker ants changes with age. An ant, brought up in a nest, learns the queen odor, and the general nest odor, and the odor of workers of its own age, and of all younger than itself, and of all older than itself to which it is accustomed. But a young ant taken away from its nest, and kept away for two months, will find that its older sisters have meanwhile taken on a new smell. It treats them therefore as enemies. Yet an ant, once familiar with the odor belonging to any age, will remember it for at least two years.

There are some other peculiar results of the ant’s reliance on its smell. Occasionally, in the fields and woods, one finds what are called mixed nests of ants. Two different sorts of ants, which ordinarily are mortal enemies, springing upon one another and fighting to the death on sight, are found living together in harmony, caring for each other’s young, and in all respects behaving as if they were all of the same sort.

The way these arise is this: Two young queens, of different kinds, starting their new colonies, happen to settle so near together that the young workers mix with one another as soon as they are hatched out. From their infancy, therefore, each sort knows the smell of the other; and being used to it, thinks it quite the right and proper thing. So the ants grow up together, while the odors change so slowly with age that they never seem strange. Indeed, such nests have been made in this way by students of the ways of ants, with as many as ten different sorts in them, all living peacefully together.

When, however, such a nest is separated, and the two sorts of ants kept apart for a few months, the mixed nest cannot be reformed. Each sort of worker ant will recognize and care for the queen of the other sort, and all young of the other sort of all ages up to the time when the nest was split up. These the ant remembers. But all workers older than this have, of course, taken on an unfamiliar smell. The old friends have become enemies, to be slain on sight. So each sort of ant befriends the young of the other, whose smell it recalls, tho it has never known the individuals; while it fights to the death its former friends of its own age, with whom it has been working side by side, but whose odor has become strange.

Evidently then, an ant has no instinctive liking for any particular smell. It simply has to learn a set of smells, and what they mean, just as we have to learn our lessons. I think you will agree that for ants living under ground, smell is on the whole the best sense to tie to and do one’s thinking with. But for us, living upstairs in the sunlight, sight is, I am sure, very much the most useful of all the senses.