he virulence of the poison does the rest.

There are, however, some very few cases in which the bite is speedily
mortal. My notes speak of an Angular Epeira grappling with the largest
Dragon-fly in my district (_AEshna grandis_, LIN.). I myself had
entangled in the web this head of big game, which is not often captured
by the Epeirae. The net shakes violently, seems bound to break its
moorings.

The Spider rushes from her leafy villa, runs boldly up to the giantess,
flings a single bundle of ropes at her and, without further precautions,
grips her with her legs, tries to subdue her and then digs her fangs into
the Dragon-fly's back. The bite is prolonged in such a way as to
astonish me. This is not the perfunctory kiss with which I am already
familiar; it is a deep, determined wound. After striking her blow, the
Spider retires to a certain distance and waits for her poison to take
effect.

I at once remove the Dragon-fly. She is dead, really and truly dead.
Laid upon my table and left alone for twenty-four hours, she makes not
the slightest movement. A prick of which my lens cannot see the marks,
so sharp-pointed are the Epeira's weapons, was enough, with a little
insistence, to kill the powerful animal. Proportionately, the
Rattlesnake, the Horned Viper, the Trigonocephalus and other ill-famed
serpents produce less paralysing effects upon their victims.

And these Epeirae, so terrible to insects, I am able to handle without
any fear. My skin does not suit them. If I persuaded them to bite me,
what would happen to me? Hardly anything. We have more cause to dread
the sting of a nettle than the dagger which is fatal to Dragon-flies. The
same virus acts differently upon this organism and that, is formidable
here and quite mild there. What kills the insect may easily be harmless
to us. Let us not, however, generalize too far. The Narbonne Lycosa,
that other enthusiastic insect-huntress, would make us pay clearly if we
attempted to take liberties with her.

It is not uninteresting to watch the Epeira at dinner. I light upon one,
the Banded Epeira, at the moment, about three o'clock in the afternoon,
when she has captured a Locust. Planted in the centre of the web, on her
resting-floor, she attacks the venison at the joint of a haunch. There
is no movement, not even of the mouth-parts, as far as I am able to
discover. The mouth lingers, close-applied, at the point originally
bitten. There are no int