176 LITTLE FOLKS 
colors, like Madame Butterfly, nor making noise enough to craze 
one, like Mr. Humble-Bee. But I can tell you the Arachnida family 
is more ancient than the Human family, who take on so many airs, 
prying into our secrets with that impertinent little microscope of 
theirs. 
However, we're an honest and industrious family, and there's 
nothing about us to be ashamed of. In fact, I could show you some 
wonderful things, if your eyes were not too coarse to See them. 
There are my spinnerets, which spin out a beautiful silk rope of 
more than four thousand threads, as fast as I want it. Wouldn't 
you children think it fine if you could make a rope in a minute any 
time you wanted it? 
Then you've never seen my combs ; you can't — they're too 
small. I have one on each foot, and I use them to keep myself free 
from dust, as well as my web. I don't like to boast, but I really 
think you would admire my eyes. I have eight of them — I don't 
see how you can get along with two, though to be sure you can 
turn yours about. They are placed in a square in my forehead, for 
I belong to the Epeira branch of the family. Those of us who 
live under ground have their eyes close together in the foreheads, 
and those who live in the air have them more scattered, so as to see 
all around. 
Then I would really like to show you my babies, but alas! — 
they're much too small. I carry them about with me all the time, 
till they're big enough to take care of themselves. They ride on 
my back and head, and in fact, there are so many that they nearly 
cover me up. 
Perhaps the most interesting thing about us, is the variety of 
our houses. I build my house in your garden, or bushes, and if it 
wasn't for the impudence of your gardener, and a destructive instru- 
ment — called a broom — you would see them oftener than you do. 
It doesn't become me to brag, but if you know of any residence 
more graceful or elegant than mine, I'd like to know what it is. 
Some of my family live in a sort of tent made of a leaf lined 
with silk, which makes a pretty, though rather airy house. 
One branch of the family builds a house — or rather a cradle 
— shaped like a tiny bell, and hung to a leaf or twig, where it rocks 
with every breeze. It is not larger than a pea, snow white, and 
very long. But after it is finished and filled with eggs, forty or 
fifty of them, the careful mother closes it up, and covers the outside 
