self a work of magnificent regularity, shall presently be
woven.

It is unnecessary to go over the construction of the masterpiece again;
the younger Spiders have taught us enough in this respect. In both
cases, we see the same equidistant radii laid, with a central landmark
for a guide; the same auxiliary spiral, the scaffolding of temporary
rungs, soon doomed to disappear; the same snaring-spiral, with its maze
of closely-woven coils. Let us pass on: other details call for our
attention.

The laying of the snaring-spiral is an exceedingly delicate operation,
because of the regularity of the work. I was bent upon knowing whether,
if subjected to the din of unaccustomed sounds, the Spider would hesitate
and blunder. Does she work imperturbably? Or does she need undisturbed
quiet? As it is, I know that my presence and that of my light hardly
trouble her at all. The sudden flashes emitted by my lantern have no
power to distract her from her task. She continues to turn in the light
even as she turned in the dark, neither faster nor slower. This is a
good omen for the experiment which I have in view.

The first Sunday in August is the feast of the patron saint of the
village, commemorating the Finding of St. Stephen. This is Tuesday, the
third day of the rejoicings. There will be fireworks to-night, at nine
o'clock, to conclude the merry-makings. They will take place on the high-
road outside my door, at a few steps from the spot where my Spider is
working. The spinstress is busy upon her great spiral at the very moment
when the village big-wigs arrive with trumpet and drum and small boys
carrying torches.

More interested in animal psychology than in pyrotechnical displays, I
watch the Epeira's doings, lantern in hand. The hullabaloo of the crowd,
the reports of the mortars, the crackle of Roman candles bursting in the
sky, the hiss of the rockets, the rain of sparks, the sudden flashes of
white, red or blue light: none of this disturbs the worker, who
methodically turns and turns again, just as she does in the peace of
ordinary evenings.

Once before, the gun which I fired under the plane-trees failed to
trouble the concert of the Cicadae; to-day, the dazzling light of the
fire-wheels and the splutter of the crackers do not avail to distract the
Spider from her weaving. And, after all, what difference would it make
to my neighbour if the world fell in! The village could be blown up with
dynamite, wit