The Life of the Spider 



festivals, in the waste-lands of the South. The 

 murderess of the Bees is of a chilly constitu- 

 tion ; in our parts, she hardly ever moves away 

 from the olive-districts. Her favourite shrub 

 is the white-leaved rock-rose (Cistus albidus), 

 with the large, pink, crumpled, ephemeral 

 blooms that last but a morning and are re- 

 placed, next day, by fresh flowers, which 

 have blossomed in the cool dawn. This 

 glorious efflorescence goes on for five or six 

 weeks. 



Here, the Bees plunder enthusiastically, 

 fussing and bustling in the spacious whorl of 

 the stamens, which beflour them with yellow. 

 Their persecutrix knows of this affluence. She 

 posts herself in her watch-house, under the 

 rosy screen of a petal. Cast your eyes over 

 the flower, more or less everywhere. If you 

 see a Bee lying lifeless, with legs and tongue 

 outstretched, draw nearer: the Thomisus will 

 be there, nine times out of ten. The thug has 

 struck her blow ; she is draining the blood of 

 the departed. 



After all, this cutter of Bees' throats is a 

 pretty, a very pretty creature, despite her un- 

 wieldy paunch fashioned like a squat pyra- 

 mid and embossed on the base, on either side, 

 218 



