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Then his legs flew in the caving sand and the
young ant struck his blades in it to hold the little he could gain.
Upward he struggled, leaping and floundering in the dust. He had
got near the rim and had stopped, clinging to get his breath, when
the lion began flinging the sand at him with his long feelers. It rose
in a cloud and fell on the back of the ant and pulled at him as it
swept down. He could feel the mighty cleavers of the lion striking
near his hind legs and pulling the sand from under them. He must
go down in a moment and he knew what that meant. He had heard
the old men of the tribe tell often - how they hold one helpless and
slash him into a dozen pieces. He was letting go, in despair, when
he felt a hand on his neck. Looking up he saw one of his own
people reaching over the rim, and in a jiffy they had shut their
fangs together. He moved little by little as the other tagged at him,
and in a moment was out of the trap and could feel the honest
earth under him. When they had got home and told their adventure,
some were for going to slay the beetle.


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