of the work already
executed and the hardness of the metal do not warn you that you are now
engaged upon a senseless task. You remind me of the Pelopaeus, {21} who
used to coat with mud the place on the wall whence her nest had been
removed. You speak to me, in your own fashion, of a strange psychology
which is able to reconcile the wonders of a master craftsmanship with
aberrations due to unfathomable stupidity.

Let us compare the work of the Banded Epeira with that of the Penduline
Titmouse, the cleverest of our small birds in the art of nest-building.
This Tit haunts the osier-beds of the lower reaches of the Rhone. Rocking
gently in the river breeze, his nest sways pendent over the peaceful
backwaters, at some distance from the too-impetuous current. It hangs
from the drooping end of the branch of a poplar, an old willow or an
alder, all of them tall trees, favouring the banks of streams.

It consists of a cotton bag, closed all round, save for a small opening
at the side, just sufficient to allow of the mother's passage. In shape,
it resembles the body of an alembic, a chemist's retort with a short
lateral neck, or, better still, the foot of a stocking, with the edges
brought together, but for a little round hole left at one side. The
outward appearances increase the likeness: one can almost see the traces
of a knitting-needle working with coarse stitches. That is why, struck
by this shape, the Provencal peasant, in his expressive language, calls
the Penduline _lou Debassaire_, the Stocking-knitter.

The early-ripening seedlets of the widows and poplars furnish the
materials for the work. There breaks from them, in May, a sort of vernal
snow, a fine down, which the eddies of the air heap in the crevices of
the ground. It is a cotton similar to that of our manufactures, but of
very short staple. It comes from an inexhaustible warehouse: the tree is
bountiful; and the wind from the osier-beds gathers the tiny flocks as
they pour from the seeds. They are easy to pick up.

The difficulty is to set to work. How does the bird proceed, in order to
knit its stocking? How, with such simple implements as its beak and
claws, does it manage to produce a fabric which our skilled fingers would
fail to achieve? An examination of the nest will inform us, to a certain
extent.

The cotton of the poplar cannot, of itself, supply a hanging pocket
capable of supporting the weight of the brood and resisting the buffet