The Life of the Spider 



now abandons the stalactites of sand, which 

 were used to keep the original pocket 

 stretched, and confines herself to dumping 

 down on her abode any more or less heavy 

 object, mainly corpses of insects, because she 

 need not look for these and finds them ready 

 to hand after each meal. They are weights, 

 not trophies; they take the place of materials 

 that must otherwise be collected from a dis- 

 tance and hoisted to the top. In this way, a 

 breastwork is obtained that strengthens and 

 steadies the house. Additional equilibrium is 

 often supplied by tiny shells and other objects 

 hanging a long way down. 



What would happen if one robbed an old 

 dwelling, long since completed, of its outer 

 covering? In case of such a disaster, would 

 the Spider go back to the sandy stalactites, 

 as a ready means of restoring stability? This 

 is easily ascertained. In my hamlets under 

 wire, I select a fair-sized cabin. I strip the 

 exterior, carefully removing any foreign body. 

 The silk reappears in its original whiteness. 

 The tent looks magnificent, but seems to me 

 too limp. 



This is also the Spider's opinion. She sets 

 to work, next evening, to put things right. 

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