The Crab Spider 



of May, after which, lying flat on the ceiling 

 of her nest, the mother never leaves her 

 guard-room, either by night or day. Seeing 

 her look so thin and wrinkled, I imagine that 

 I can please her by bringing her a provision of 

 Bees, as I was wont to do. I have misjudged 

 her needs. The Bee, hitherto her favourite 

 dish, tempts her no longer. In vain does the 

 prey buzz close by, an easy capture within the 

 cage: the watcher does not shift from her 

 post, takes no notice of the windfall. She 

 lives exclusively upon maternal devotion, a 

 commendable but unsubstantial fare. And so 

 I see her pining away from day to day, be- 

 coming more and more wrinkled. What is 

 the withered thing waiting for, before expir- 

 ing? She is waiting for her children to 

 emerge; the dying creature is still of use to 

 them. 



When the Banded Epeira's little ones issue 

 from their balloon, they have long been 

 orphans. There is none to come to their 

 assistance; and they have not the strength to 

 free themselves unaided. The balloon has to 

 split automatically and to scatter the young- 

 sters and their flossy mattress all mixed up 

 together. The Thomisus' wallet, sheathed in 



223 



