9 o 



THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



winged ship-cockroach, or the more loathsome, wingless, 

 tortoiseshelled variety, Nemesis overtakes it when it falls 

 in the way of the running spider. 



2. They spring upon the victim. These are the cats of 

 the tribe, and table flies are their prey ; but they put cats 

 to shame, for they seek no cover or concealment. On the 

 open table-cloth, while the gourmand is engrossed in a 

 luscious drop of gravy, the spider is creeping on it step by 

 step, whetting her jaws against each other. As she gets 

 nearer the suspense begins to be painful. She moves like 

 the hour-hand of a watch, each step is a matter of thought, 

 while all her eight eyes are focussed, like burning-glasses, 

 on the victim, and not an eyelash moves. At length you 

 see her tail go down, and a fine thread is made fast to the 

 table-cloth, for a spider always casts anchor at critical 

 moments. Then comes the fatal spring, followed by a 

 brief buzzing scuffle, and the foul career of that fly is 

 ended. 



3. They lie in ambush on some flower of their own hue, 

 for the busy bee improving each shining hour, or the 

 frivolous butterfly on pleasure bent. One common kind, 

 of a lily-white colour, generally lurks, almost invisible, on 

 the tuberose, with its arms stretched out, ready for an 



