The Life of the Spider 



leaves over the greater part of its surface, 

 never bursts; nor does the lid rise, so carefully 

 is it sealed down. Nevertheless, after the de- 

 livery of the brood, we see, at the edge of the 

 lid, a small, gaping hole, an exit-window. 

 Who contrived this window, which was not 

 there at first? 



The fabric is too thick and tough to 

 have yielded to the twitches of the feeble little 

 prisoners. It was the mother, therefore, who, 

 feeling her offspring shuffle impatiently under 

 the silken ceiling, herself made a hole in the 

 bag. She persists in living for five or six 

 weeks, despite her shattered health, so as to 

 give a last helping hand and open the door 

 for her family. After performing this duty, 

 she gently lets herself die, hugging her nest 

 and turning into a shrivelled relic. 



When July comes, the little ones emerge. 

 In view of their acrobatic habits, I have placed 

 a bundle of slender twigs at the top of the 

 cage in which they were born. All of them 

 pass through the wire gauze and form a 

 group on the summit of the brushwood, where 

 they swiftly weave a spacious lounge of criss- 

 cross threads. Here they remain, pretty 

 quietly, for a day or two; then foot-bridges 



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