The backyard slope was no longer forbidden to him--hadn’t been since the day the lawn-tender had clicked and buzzed its way along it, mowing the weeds. But he no longer felt any particular urge to explore. Once, a long time ago in the summer, there had been something very special about the brook and the footbridge over it. But now he couldn’t remember what had seemed so important. He remembered, of course, that he had walked along the brook, and had seen a frog. But he’d been much younger then. Now summer was over, and in a few days Dicky would be starting to school. He scuffed his new shoes down the weedless slope aimlessly--as far as the fence and back again. Suddenly he stopped, noticing that the ants were still there. They seemed fewer than they had been, and not so active as they straggled in thinning lines across a patch of ground completely denuded of forage. The ants reminded him of the big man in white, who was so good at explaining things so that Dicky could understand. One thing he’d explained on request was why ants couldn’t see you, even when you stood right over them. They couldn’t see you because you were too big. That seemed a strange idea, but the big man, in his patient way, had made it all sound perfectly reasonable. If ants _could_ see you, they’d be scared, but only because you were so much bigger that they couldn’t do anything to help themselves. So it was better for them not even to know you were there. Dimly, as an echo, he remembered too how he’d watched the ants on a sunny afternoon, and wished he could be as small as they were. That was a silly thought, fit only for little kids that laughed and cried and wet their pants. But it _would_ be fun to be a very big giant, so big that all the people and cars in all the streets would look like little ants running around. So big they couldn’t even see you, because if they could it wouldn’t do them any good. “Black bugs’ blood!” said Dicky abruptly to himself. The hard sharp heel of his new shoe ground into the anthill, obliterating the entrance, burying the frantic workers under tumbled dust. He stamped the anthill flat with careful thoroughness. Then he turned without another glance, not laughing or crying any more, and walked sedately up the slope to the house. Transcriber’s note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, June 1956 (Vol. 5, No. 5.). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this version.