The Life of the Spider 



died. The Hen does not reach this height of 

 self-abnegation. 



Other Spiders do better still, as, for in- 

 stance, the Narbonne Lycosa, or Black- 

 bellied Tarantula (Lycosa narbonnensis, 

 Walck.), whose prowess has been described 

 in an earlier chapter. The reader will re- 

 member her burrow, her pit of a bottle-neck's 

 width, dug in the pebbly soil beloved by the 

 lavender and the thyme. The mouth is 

 rimmed by a bastion of gravel and bits of 

 wood cemented with silk. There is nothing 

 else around her dwelling: no web, no snares 

 of any kind. 



From her inch-high turret, the Lycosa lies 

 in wait for the passing Locust. She gives a 

 bound, pursues the prey and suddenly de- 

 prives it of motion with a bite in the neck. 

 The game is consumed on the spot, or else in 

 the lair; the insect's tough hide arouses no 

 disgust. The sturdy huntress is not a drinker 

 of blood, like the Epeira; she needs solid 

 food, food that crackles between the jaws. 

 She is like a Dog devouring his bone. 



Would you care to bring her to the light 

 of day from the depths of her well? Insert 

 a thin straw into the burrow and move it 



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