The Garden Spiders: My Neighbour 



ing the Finding of St. Stephen. This is Tues- 

 day, the third day of the rejoicings. There 

 will be fireworks to-night, at nine o'clock, to 

 conclude the merry-makings. They will take 

 place on the high-road outside my door, at a 

 few steps from the spot where my Spider is 

 working. The spinstress is busy upon her 

 great spiral at the very moment when the 

 village big-wigs arrive with trumpet and 

 drum and small boys carrying torches. 



More interested in animal psychology than 

 in pyrotechnical displays. I watch the 

 Epeira's doings, lantern in hand. The hul- 

 labaloo of the crowd, the reports of the 

 mortars, the crackle of Roman candles burst- 

 ing in the sky, the hiss of the rockets, the rain 

 of sparks, the sudden flashes of white, red or 

 blue light: none of this disturbs the worker, 

 who methodically turns and turns again, just 

 as she does in the peace of ordinary evenings. 



Once before, the gun which I fired under 

 the plane-trees failed to trouble the concert of 

 the Cicadae; to-day, the dazzling light of the 

 fire-wheels and the splutter of the crackers do 

 not avail to distract the Spider from her 

 weaving. And, after all, what difference 

 would it make to my neighbour if the world 



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