THE INSTINCT OF SPIDERS 125 



September evening as the sun sinks in a clear and 

 settled sky. A few snow-white flocculi of cloud rest 

 lightly on the wooded hills ; a gentle haze of dust 

 dims the further peaks, and all the valleys are re- 

 fulgent with the evening light. When the sun dips 

 behind the enclosing ridge the spiders are most busy 

 at their work. They toil while the hills and clouds 

 change their hue beneath the fast declining light. 

 The green woods turn to a dull purple, the white 

 clouds pass into a faint pink or, tinged with yellow, 

 they assume a golden hue. 



On such an evening each spider is busy ; all are 

 weaving with a subtle skill. Filaments of inimitable 

 texture are being wafted over the rippling stream ; 

 ingenious nets are being spun amidst permanent 

 foundation-lines, and snare is being linked to snare. 

 The intricate sheet of web soon spans the channel in 

 the hill. There is no strife ; all work in perfect 

 harmony. By sunset the fabric is woven. Each 

 little architect takes its station at the centre of its 

 web and there awaits the entanglement of its prey. 

 Not till another sunset will work again commence. 

 In the meantime insects innumerable will be captured ; 

 the juice will be sucked from their bodies, and the 

 spider will feed in peace and plenty. 



I have dwelt so long on the mechanism of con- 

 struction, that I will now say something of the motive 

 instinct on which all this work depends. At first 

 sight the work of the spider looks like the act of an 

 intelligent being. How exquisite is all its harmony ! 

 The precision of science here blends with the 

 beauty of art. Untiring industry, exact method, 

 faultless accuracy, inimitable skill raise this edifice 



