The Life of the Spider 



are now engaged upon a senseless task. You 

 remind me of the Pelopaeus, 1 who used to 

 coat with mud the place on the wall whence 

 her nest had been removed. You speak to 

 me, in your own fashion, of a strange psy- 

 chology which is able to reconcile the wonders 

 of a master-craftsmanship with aberrations 

 due to unfathomable stupidity. 



Let us compare the work of the Banded 

 Epeira with that of the Penduline Titmouse, 

 the cleverest of our small birds in the art of 

 nest-building. This Tit haunts the osier-beds 

 of the lower reaches of the Rhone. Rocking 

 gently in the river breeze, his nest sways 

 pendent over the peaceful backwaters, at 

 some distance from the too-impetuous cur- 

 rent. It hangs from the drooping end of the 

 branch of a poplar, an old willow or an alder, 

 all of them tall trees, favouring the banks of 

 streams. 



It consists of a cotton bag, closed all 

 round, save for a small opening at the side, 

 just sufficient to allow of the mother's, pas- 

 sage. In shape, it resembles the body of an 

 alembic, a chemist's retort with a short 

 lateral neck, or, better still, the foot of a 



*A species of Wasp. Translator's Note. 



IOC 



