During the two stifling months, when the light fails and a spell of
coolness follows upon the furnace-heat of the day, it is easy for me,
lantern in hand, to watch my neighbour's various operations. She has
taken up her abode, at a convenient height for observation, between a row
of cypress-trees and a clump of laurels, near the entrance to an alley
haunted by Moths. The spot appears well-chosen, for the Epeira does not
change it throughout the season, though she renews her net almost every
night.

Punctually as darkness falls, our whole family goes and calls upon her.
Big and little, we stand amazed at her wealth of belly and her exuberant
somersaults in the maze of quivering ropes; we admire the faultless
geometry of the net as it gradually takes shape. All agleam in the
lantern-light, the work becomes a fairy orb, which seems woven of
moonbeams.

Should I linger, in my anxiety to clear up certain details, the
household, which by this time is in bed, waits for my return before going
to sleep:

'What has she been doing this evening?' I am asked. 'Has she finished
her web? Has she caught a Moth?'

I describe what has happened. To-morrow, they will be in a less hurry to
go to bed: they will want to see everything, to the very end. What
delightful, simple evenings we have spent looking into the Spider's
workshop!

The journal of the Angular Epeira, written up day by day, teaches us,
first of all, how she obtains the ropes that form the framework of the
building. All day invisible, crouching amid the cypress-leaves, the
Spider, at about eight o'clock in the evening, solemnly emerges from her
retreat and makes for the top of a branch. In this exalted position, she
sits for some time laying her plans with due regard to the locality; she
consults the weather, ascertains if the night will be fine. Then,
suddenly, with her eight legs wide-spread, she lets herself drop straight
down, hanging to the line that issues from her spinnerets. Just as the
rope-maker obtains the even output of his hemp by walking backwards, so
does the Epeira obtain the discharge of hers by falling. It is extracted
by the weight of her body.

The descent, however, has not the brute speed which the force of gravity
would give it, if uncontrolled. It is governed by the action of the
spinnerets, which contract or expand their pores, or close them entirely,
at the faller's pleasure. And so, with gentle moderation she pays out
this l