The Ant Bridge

The ants were walking home, the way ants do — one behind another behind another, all in a line.

March, march, march.

But — oh! The line stopped.

The rain had been busy. Right across the ants’ path lay a puddle. To you it would be a splash. To an ant, it was a whole wide river, shining and deep.

“Too wide to jump!” said the first ant.

“Too deep to wade!” said the second.

“And home is on the OTHER side,” said the third, and everyone’s feelers drooped.

Then the biggest ant had a thought — the old thought, the good one, the one ants have been having forever:

“One ant can’t cross a river. But we are not one ant.”

So the biggest ant gripped a grass stem and stretched out over the water. “Hold on!”

The next ant climbed down and held tight to her legs. Grip!

The next ant held onto HIM. Grip!

Ant by ant by ant, holding tight, tight, tight — reaching further and further across the shining water — until the bridge of ants was almost, ALMOST touching the other side…

…but not quite. One ant short!

And who came hurrying up from the back of the line? The littlest ant of all. The one who was always last. The one everyone thought was too small for big jobs.

“Me!” said the littlest ant. “I fit!”

Grip! — and the bridge touched home.

“CROSS!” called the biggest ant, and over they went, all the walking ants with all their crumbs — march, march, march — right across a bridge made entirely of friends.

Then the bridge unbuilt itself, ant by ant, everyone popping safely onto dry land, everyone waggling their feelers, which is how ants clap.

And the littlest ant marched home at the FRONT of the line that day.

Because a bridge isn’t finished until everyone holds on — even the smallest ones.

Especially the smallest ones.