The Black-Bellied Tarantula 



appetite is good. My daughters feed him 

 on Flies, bread-crumb, apricot-pulp. He is 

 sure to get well, he will recover his strength; 

 the poor victim of the curiosity of science 

 will be restored to liberty. This is the wish, 

 the intention of us all. Twelve hours later, 

 the hope of a cure increases; the invalid takes 

 nourishment readily; he clamours for it, if 

 we keep him waiting. But the leg still drags. 

 I set this down to a temporary paralysis 

 which will soon disappear. Two days after, 

 he refuses his food. Wrapping himself in 

 his stoicism and his rumpled feathers, the 

 Sparrow hunches into a ball, now motionless, 

 now twitching. My girls take him in the 

 hollow of their hands and warm him with 

 their breath. The spasms become more fre- 

 quent. A gasp proclaims that all is over. The 

 bird is dead. 



There was a certain coolness among us at 

 the evening-meal. I read mute reproaches, 

 because of my experiment, in the eyes of my 

 home-circle; I read an unspoken accusation of 

 cruelty all around me. The death of the un- 

 fortunate Sparrow had saddened the whole 

 family. I myself was not without some re- 

 morse of conscience: the poor result achieved 



73 



