the end of May, after which, lying flat
on the ceiling of her nest, the mother never leaves her guard-room,
either by night or day. Seeing her look so thin and wrinkled, I imagine
that I can please her by bringing her a provision of Bees, as I was wont
to do. I have misjudged her needs. The Bee, hitherto her favourite
dish, tempts her no longer. In vain does the prey buzz close by, an easy
capture within the cage: the watcher does not shift from her post, takes
no notice of the windfall. She lives exclusively upon maternal devotion,
a commendable but unsubstantial fare. And so I see her pining away from
day to day, becoming more and more wrinkled. What is the withered thing
waiting for, before expiring? She is waiting for her children to emerge;
the dying creature is still of use to them.

When the Banded Epeira's little ones issue from their balloon, they have
long been orphans. There is none to come to their assistance; and they
have not the strength to free themselves unaided. The balloon has to
split automatically and to scatter the youngsters and their flossy
mattress all mixed up together. The Thomisus' wallet, sheathed in leaves
over the greater part of its surface, never bursts; nor does the lid
rise, so carefully is it sealed down. Nevertheless, after the delivery
of the brood, we see, at the edge of the lid, a small, gaping hole, an
exit-window. Who contrived this window, which was not there at first?

The fabric is too thick and tough to have yielded to the twitches of the
feeble little prisoners. It was the mother, therefore, who, feeling her
offspring shuffle impatiently under the silken ceiling, herself made a
hole in the bag. She persists in living for five or six weeks, despite
her shattered health, so as to give a last helping hand and open the door
for her family. After performing this duty, she gently lets herself die,
hugging her nest and turning into a shrivelled relic.

When July comes, the little ones emerge. In view of their acrobatic
habits, I have placed a bundle of slender twigs at the top of the cage in
which they were born. All of them pass through the wire gauze and form a
group on the summit of the brushwood, where they swiftly weave a spacious
lounge of criss-cross threads. Here they remain, pretty quietly, for a
day or two; then foot-bridges begin to be flung from one object to the
next. This is the opportune moment.

I put the bunch laden with beasties on a small t