 Tracks By Carroll Jones "Stupid ants," Jimmy said. "They should know to stay away." He was thinking they were losers like him, except for the one he had just watched. "Which had you rather be, son," his grandfather asked, "an ant or a doodle-bug?" "That's easy, grandfather. I'd rather be a doodle-bug. All they have to do is just wait and their food comes to them." "Get up, son. Come with me and follow the ants to where they started." Jimmy got up, and bending over to see the tiny things, slowly followed their trail across the sand, passing through some willows, and finally ending at a red mound of clay some twenty yards away. "There it is, grandfather. That's where they come from. In the ground." "Now look back at everything you crossed coming here. Look up in the sky. See the eagle?" pointing upward. "Feel the breeze? In the mornings can they not taste the dew on the grass, smell the air? All the doodle-bug knows is the darkness of his hole. Even as you dig him out, he can see nothing. True, the ant may fall into his hole and be eaten, but at least he has lived. Now which would you rather be?" Sheepishly Jimmy said, "The ant, of course." Then, realizing why his grandfather had come looking for him, added, "I lost the race, Grandfather. I'm sorry, I—"
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