CH. XIV.] THE SPIDER. 235 



inevitably entangled. Their efforts to get away 

 rarely fail to precipitate them into the net spread 

 below for their reception ; and whenever this takes 

 place, their doom is fixed. 



But the ambuscade is still incomplete. The spider 

 seems to be well aware that its grim visage, if not 

 concealed, would scare away the game for which it 

 lies in wait. It therefore constructs a small silken 

 apartment under the net, where it takes its station, 

 unseen and unsuspected. " In this corner," says 

 Philemon Holland, in his quaint translation of Pliny, 

 ** with what subtiltie doth she retire, making sem- 

 blance as though she meant nothing less than that 

 she doth, and as if she went about some other busi- 

 ness ! Nay, how close lieth she, that it is impossi- 

 ble to see whether any one be within or no !" But 

 how does the spider, thus removed from the sight 

 of its toils, discover when its prey has been en- 

 trapped ? For this purpose, the following ingenious 

 contrivance is adopted : it spins and draws several 

 threads from the edge of the net to that of the hole 

 in which it conceals itself. When a fly falls into 

 the net, these threads by their vibrations give the 

 spider intimation of the event : they also serve as a 

 bridge over which it instantly passes to secure the 

 captured prey. 



Goldsmith has given so lively an account of some 

 of the habits of the house-spider, that it deserves to 

 be transcribed. 



" I perceived, about four years ago, a large spider 

 in one corner of my room making its web; and, 

 though the maid frequently levelled her fatal broom 

 against the labours of the little animal, I had the 

 good fortune then to prevent its destruction; and, I 

 may say, it more than paid me by the entertain- 

 ment it afforded. 



" In three days the web was with incredible dili- 

 gence completed : nor could I avoid thinking that the 

 insect exulted in its new abode. It frequently tra- 



