er fat belly, a mighty silk-warehouse nearly
as large as a hazel-nut, are alternate yellow, black and silver sashes,
to which she owes her epithet of Banded. Around that portly abdomen the
eight long legs, with their dark- and pale-brown rings, radiate like
spokes.

Any small prey suits her; and, as long as she can find supports for her
web, she settles wherever the Locust hops, wherever the Fly hovers,
wherever the Dragon-fly dances or the Butterfly flits. As a rule,
because of the greater abundance of game, she spreads her toils across
some brooklet, from bank to bank among the rushes. She also stretches
them, but not so assiduously, in the thickets of evergreen oak, on the
slopes with the scrubby greenswards, dear to the Grasshoppers.

Her hunting-weapon is a large upright web, whose outer boundary, which
varies according to the disposition of the ground, is fastened to the
neighbouring branches by a number of moorings. Let us see, first of
all, how the ropes which form the framework of the building are
obtained.

All day invisible, crouching amid the cypress-leaves, the Spider, at
about eight o'clock in the evening, solemnly emerges from her retreat
and makes for the top of a branch. In this exalted position she sits
for sometime laying her plans with due regard to the locality; she
consults the weather, ascertains if the night will be fine. Then,
suddenly, with her eight legs widespread, she lets herself drop
straight down, hanging to the line that issues from her spinnerets.
Just as the rope-maker obtains the even output of his hemp by walking
backwards, so does the Epeira obtain the discharge of hers by falling.
It is extracted by the weight of her body.

The descent, however, has not the brute speed which the force of
gravity would give it, if uncontrolled. It is governed by the action of
the spinnerets, which contract or expand their pores, or close them
entirely, at the faller's pleasure. And so, with gentle moderation, she
pays out this living plumb-line, of which my lantern clearly shows me
the plumb, but not always the line. The great squab seems at such times
to be sprawling in space, without the least support.

She comes to an abrupt stop two inches from the ground; the silk-reel
ceases working. The Spider turns round, clutches the line which she has
just obtained and climbs up by this road, still spinning. But, this
time, as she is no longer assisted by the force of gravity, the thread
is extracted