inches, but immediately returns, no doubt with the aid of her unbroken
lifeline.

The Pompilus' intention is plain: she wants to eject the Spider from her
fortress and fling her some distance away. So much perseverance leads to
success. This time all goes well: with a vigorous and well-timed tug
the Wasp has pulled the Segestria out and at once lets her drop to
the ground. Bewildered by her fall and even more demoralized by being
wrested from her ambush, the Spider is no longer the bold adversary that
she was. She draws her legs together and cowers into a depression in
the soil. The huntress is there on the instant to operate on the evicted
animal. I have barely time to draw near to watch the tragedy when the
victim is paralysed by a thrust of the sting in the thorax.

Here at last, in all its Machiavellian cunning, is the shrewd method
of the Pompilus. She would be risking her life if she attacked the
Segestria in her home; the Wasp is so convinced of it that she takes
good care not to commit this imprudence; but she knows also that, once
dislodged from her dwelling, the Spider is as timid, as cowardly as she
was bold at the centre of her funnel. The whole point of her tactics,
therefore, lies in dislodging the creature. This done, the rest is
nothing.

The Tarantula-huntress must behave in the same manner. Enlightened
by her kinswoman, Pompilus apicalis, my mind pictures her wandering
stealthily around the Lycosa's rampart. The Lycosa hurries up from
the bottom of her burrow, believing that a victim is approaching; she
ascends her vertical tube, spreading her fore-legs outside, ready to
leap. But it is the Ringed Pompilus who leaps, seizes a leg, tugs and
hurls the Lycosa from her burrow. The Spider is henceforth a craven
victim, who will let herself be stabbed without dreaming of employing
her venomous fangs. Here craft triumphs over strength; and this craft is
not inferior to mine, when, wishing to capture the Tarantula, I make her
bite a spike of grass which I dip into the burrow, lead her gently
to the surface and then with a sudden jerk throw her outside. For the
entomologist as for the Pompilus, the essential thing is to make the
Spider leave her stronghold. After this there is no difficulty in
catching her, thanks to the utter bewilderment of the evicted animal.

Two contrasting points impress me in the facts which I have just set
forth: the shrewdness of the Pompilus and the folly of the Spider. I
will adm