in my study.

We must go direct to the spot and force the duel upon the Tarantula, who
is full of pluck in her own stronghold. Only, instead of the Bumble-bee,
who enters the burrow and conceals her death from our eyes, it is
necessary to substitute another adversary, less inclined to penetrate
underground. There abounds in the garden, at this moment, on the flowers
of the common clary, one of the largest and most powerful Bees that haunt
my district, the Carpenter-bee (_Xylocopa violacea_), clad in black
velvet, with wings of purple gauze. Her size, which is nearly an inch,
exceeds that of the Bumble-bee. Her sting is excruciating and produces a
swelling that long continues painful. I have very exact memories on this
subject, memories that have cost me dear. Here indeed is an antagonist
worthy of the Tarantula, if I succeed in inducing the Spider to accept
her. I place a certain number, one by one, in bottles small in capacity,
but having a wide neck capable of surrounding the entrance to the burrow.

As the prey which I am about to offer is capable of overawing the
huntress, I select from among the Tarantulae the lustiest, the boldest,
those most stimulated by hunger. The spikeleted stalk is pushed into the
burrow. When the Spider hastens up at once, when she is of a good size,
when she climbs boldly to the aperture of her dwelling, she is admitted
to the tourney; otherwise, she is refused. The bottle, baited with a
Carpenter-bee, is placed upside down over the door of one of the elect.
The Bee buzzes gravely in her glass bell; the huntress mounts from the
recesses of the cave; she is on the threshold, but inside; she looks; she
waits. I also wait. The quarters, the half-hours pass: nothing. The
Spider goes down again: she has probably judged the attempt too
dangerous. I move to a second, a third, a fourth burrow: still nothing;
the huntress refuses to leave her lair.

Fortune at last smiles upon my patience, which has been heavily tried by
all these prudent retreats and particularly by the fierce heat of the dog-
days. A Spider suddenly rushes from her hole: she has been rendered
warlike, doubtless, by prolonged abstinence. The tragedy that happens
under the cover of the bottle lasts for but the twinkling of an eye. It
is over: the sturdy Carpenter-bee is dead. Where did the murderess
strike her? That is easily ascertained: the Tarantula has not let go;
and her fangs are planted in the nape of the