he suspension-cable, the sturdy piece of work that has served as a
foundation for the previous buildings and will serve for the new after
receiving a few strengthening repairs.

The collected ruins form a pill which the Spider consumes with the same
greed that she would show in swallowing her prey. Nothing remains. This
is the second instance of the Spiders' supreme economy of their silk. We
have seen them, after the manufacture of the net, eating the central
guide-post, a modest mouthful; we now see them gobbling up the whole web,
a meal. Refined and turned into fluid by the stomach, the materials of
the old net will serve for other purposes.

As goon as the site is thoroughly cleared, the work of the frame and the
net begins on the support of the suspension-cable which was respected.
Would it not be simpler to restore the old web, which might serve many
times yet, if a few rents were just repaired? One would say so; but does
the Spider know how to patch her work, as a thrifty housewife darns her
linen? That is the question.

To mend severed meshes, to replace broken threads, to adjust the new to
the old, in short, to restore the original order by assembling the
wreckage would be a far-reaching feat of prowess, a very fine proof of
gleams of intelligence, capable of performing rational calculations. Our
menders excel in this class of work. They have as their guide their
sense, which measures the holes, cuts the new piece to size and fits it
into its proper place. Does the Spider possess the counterpart of this
habit of clear thinking?

People declare as much, without, apparently, looking into the matter very
closely. They seem able to dispense with the conscientious observer's
scruples, when inflating their bladder of theory. They go straight
ahead; and that is enough. As for ourselves, less greatly daring, we
will first enquire; we will see by experiment if the Spider really knows
how to repair her work.

The Angular Epeira, that near neighbour who has already supplied me with
so many documents, has just finished her web, at nine o'clock in the
evening. It is a splendid night, calm and warm, favourable to the rounds
of the Moths. All promises good hunting. At the moment when, after
completing the great spiral, the Epeira is about to eat the central
cushion and settle down upon her resting-floor, I cut the web in two,
diagonally, with a pair of sharp scissors. The sagging of the spokes,
deprived of