These two are different species of ants, aka as weaver ants.
Here is how a weaver ant nest-construction project gets under way.
A single worker stands on a leaf and reaches to grasp the edge of another leaf nearby. If the span is too great, a second worker climbs over the first, and the bottom ant grasps the newcomer by its wire-thin waist and holds it out closer to the goal. Still not enough? A third ant clambers over the first two and is lifted out farther yet. Ant by ant, a living chain grows into thin air like the arm of a construction crane. Once the distant leaf is grabbed, the squad pulls in unison, often with nest mates that have formed parallel chains and reinforcing cross-links, to draw the leave's edges together. Workers begin to array themselves like live staples along the seam between the leaves, legs holding on to one edge, jaws gripping the other. And then? They wait.
As evening comes on and the humidity rises, more workers arrive from nearby nests. They've carrying larvae that are about to enter the pupal stage and metamorphose into adults.
Larvae of other ant species spin individual protective cocoons of silk. Oceophylla larvae donate their silk to the colony. Straddling the leaf seam, an adult uses its antennae to tap the head of the larva held in its jaws, telling it to extrude silk from its salivary glands. A worker's operating manual would read: swing head to one side. Tappity-tap larva. Dab glob of its silk onto leaf. Swing head opposite way, drawing thread across to other leaf. Keep tappity-tapping larva. Dab next glob there. Step forward. Repeat procedure. When finished, move on to other tasks.
If you're close enough to witness this use of juveniles as sewing tools, some workers are probably goingo to be biting you, having caught your motion with their keen eyes, sensed the odors in your breath, or felt movement when you brushed a branch. When you're really close, an agitated throng coats the nearest plant parts like bristling fur, each ant lifting its body high on four legs, raising its gaster -the largest and hindmost segment of its body- up (sometimes vibrating it), a posture that signals excitement. The two front legs flail forward; they can hardly wait to grab you. The sharp-tipped , curving jaws are cocked open, poisen to pincer, puncture and inject some glandular conoction that adds extra hurt; it may make you woozy as the number of bites adds up.
Meanwhile the troops are spraying formic acid, which burns the nostrils like a whiff of ammonia. They're also releasing alarm pheromones, from that upraised rear end as well as those formidable jaws, while other workers race off to contact nest mates directly, establishing scent trails along the way to guide them toward the threat. Give the recruiters a few minutes and thousands may be streaming in your direction. Don't linger. The population of some colonies exceeds half a million.
So, we can see how successful the colaboration between the populations is. If humans were more cooperative, how long would we have arrived?
Here is how a weaver ant nest-construction project gets under way.
A single worker stands on a leaf and reaches to grasp the edge of another leaf nearby. If the span is too great, a second worker climbs over the first, and the bottom ant grasps the newcomer by its wire-thin waist and holds it out closer to the goal. Still not enough? A third ant clambers over the first two and is lifted out farther yet. Ant by ant, a living chain grows into thin air like the arm of a construction crane. Once the distant leaf is grabbed, the squad pulls in unison, often with nest mates that have formed parallel chains and reinforcing cross-links, to draw the leave's edges together. Workers begin to array themselves like live staples along the seam between the leaves, legs holding on to one edge, jaws gripping the other. And then? They wait.
As evening comes on and the humidity rises, more workers arrive from nearby nests. They've carrying larvae that are about to enter the pupal stage and metamorphose into adults.
Larvae of other ant species spin individual protective cocoons of silk. Oceophylla larvae donate their silk to the colony. Straddling the leaf seam, an adult uses its antennae to tap the head of the larva held in its jaws, telling it to extrude silk from its salivary glands. A worker's operating manual would read: swing head to one side. Tappity-tap larva. Dab glob of its silk onto leaf. Swing head opposite way, drawing thread across to other leaf. Keep tappity-tapping larva. Dab next glob there. Step forward. Repeat procedure. When finished, move on to other tasks.
If you're close enough to witness this use of juveniles as sewing tools, some workers are probably goingo to be biting you, having caught your motion with their keen eyes, sensed the odors in your breath, or felt movement when you brushed a branch. When you're really close, an agitated throng coats the nearest plant parts like bristling fur, each ant lifting its body high on four legs, raising its gaster -the largest and hindmost segment of its body- up (sometimes vibrating it), a posture that signals excitement. The two front legs flail forward; they can hardly wait to grab you. The sharp-tipped , curving jaws are cocked open, poisen to pincer, puncture and inject some glandular conoction that adds extra hurt; it may make you woozy as the number of bites adds up.
Meanwhile the troops are spraying formic acid, which burns the nostrils like a whiff of ammonia. They're also releasing alarm pheromones, from that upraised rear end as well as those formidable jaws, while other workers race off to contact nest mates directly, establishing scent trails along the way to guide them toward the threat. Give the recruiters a few minutes and thousands may be streaming in your direction. Don't linger. The population of some colonies exceeds half a million.
So, we can see how successful the colaboration between the populations is. If humans were more cooperative, how long would we have arrived?
Biology
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