for the
capture of a Moth!

I should like an anatomist endowed with better implements than mine and
with less tired eyesight to explain to us the work of the marvellous
rope-yard. How is the silken matter moulded into a capillary tube? How
is this tube filled with glue and tightly twisted? And how does this
same mill also turn out plain threads, wrought first into a framework
and then into muslin and satin? What a number of products to come from
that curious factory, a Spider's belly! I behold the results, but fail
to understand the working of the machine. I leave the problem to the
masters of the microtome and the scalpel.

THE HUNT.

The Epeirae are monuments of patience in their lime-snare. With her
head down and her eight legs widespread, the Spider occupies the centre
of the web, the receiving-point of the information sent along the
spokes. If anywhere, behind or before, a vibration occur, the sign of a
capture, the Epeira knows about it, even without the aid of sight. She
hastens up at once.

Until then, not a movement: one would think that the animal was
hypnotized by her watching. At most, on the appearance of anything
suspicious, she begins shaking her nest. This is her way of inspiring
the intruder with awe. If I myself wish to provoke the singular alarm,
I have but to tease the Epeira with a bit of straw. You cannot have a
swing without an impulse of some sort. The terror-stricken Spider, who
wishes to strike terror into others, has hit upon something much
better. With nothing to push her, she swings with the floor of ropes.
There is no effort, no visible exertion. Not a single part of the
animal moves; and yet everything trembles. Violent shaking proceeds
from apparent inertia. Rest causes commotion.

When calm is restored, she resumes her attitude, ceaselessly pondering
the harsh problem of life:

"Shall I dine to-day, or not?"

Certain privileged beings, exempt from those anxieties, have food in
abundance and need not struggle to obtain it. Such is the Gentle, who
swims blissfully in the broth of the putrefying Adder. Others--and, by
a strange irony of fate, these are generally the most gifted--only
manage to eat by dint of craft and patience.

You are of their company, O my industrious Epeirae! So that you may
dine, you spend your treasures of patience nightly; and often without
result. I sympathize with your woes, for I, who am as concerned as you
about my daily bread, I also doggedly spread m