be found by feeling daintily along the 

 outer rim of the door, which readily 

 opens when the latch is touched, and this 

 is the only means of opening from the 

 outside. 



After all this astounding mechanism 

 comes the spider's fine art, for it proceeds 

 to cover the walls with a kind of paint 

 which resembles silver bronze of a rich 

 dead finish, and which, whatever its 

 exposures may be, remains uncorroded 

 and untarnished through many years. 

 And then the artist adds to this silvery 

 background an elegant wall drapery of 

 a gauzy silken fabric, which is the prod- 

 uct of its own loom, after its own 

 designs, and so minutely complex and 

 delicate in structure that it contains a 

 thousand threads to the inch, and its 

 beauty can only be distinctly seen by the 

 use of the microscope. The completed 

 house is so exquisitely perfect that it 

 seems a kind of natural growth, like o 

 shapely tree or a beautiful flower. 



All this admirable constructive work of 

 a little creeper with a pin-head sized brain 

 raises anew the old query, "Have animals 



reason ? or are they guided wholly by the 

 something we call instinct ?" There is 

 a theory that the immanent God enters 

 into the creatures of the animal kingdom 

 other than man in such ways and to such 

 degrees as to guide them according to 

 their needs in their various environments, 

 but does not add man's self-conscious 

 reasoning and does not educate them into 

 new methods ; that they do only what 

 they are impelled to do by this pervading 

 Oversoul without much change through 

 the ages. There is another theory that 

 many of them possess self conscious 

 intelligence for thought and action 

 within the limits of their necessities, 

 perhaps more and better than our dim 

 human eyes are capable of discerning. 

 There is nothing in nature more forti- 

 fying to this latter theory than the doings 

 of the Trap Door Spider, and there 

 may be thoughts and emotions in the 

 microscopic brain cells of the little land 

 crab which, if it could communicate them 

 to us, would amaze us more than all its 

 wonderful mechanical art. 



Anson C. Allen. 



THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 



Among the mighty mountains 



A fair, white flower grows, 

 Like the smile on the lips of a Titan, 



'Tis the lovely Christmas rose. 



Braving the snows of their winter 



By the snow of its tender leaf, 

 Tinged with the faintest purple, 



As joy is tinged with grief, 



Out of the buried summer 



Rises this child of bloom, 

 As the Child of a love Divine 



In a weary world found room. 



— Cora Mae Crattv 



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