gle part of the animal moves;
and yet everything trembles. Violent shaking proceeds from apparent
inertia. Rest causes commotion.

When calm is restored, she resumes her attitude, ceaselessly pondering
the harsh problem of life:

'Shall I dine to-day, or not?'

Certain privileged beings, exempt from those anxieties, have food in
abundance and need not struggle to obtain it. Such is the Gentle, who
swims blissfully in the broth of the putrefying adder. Others--and, by a
strange irony of fate, these are generally the most gifted--only manage
to eat by dint of craft and patience.

You are of their company, O my industrious Epeirae! So that you may
dine, you spend your treasures of patience nightly; and often without
result. I sympathize with your woes, for I, who am as concerned as you
about my daily bread, I also doggedly spread my net, the net for catching
ideas, a more elusive and less substantial prize than the Moth. Let us
not lose heart. The best part of life is not in the present, still less
in the past; it lies in the future, the domain of hope. Let us wait.

All day long, the sky, of a uniform grey, has appeared to be brewing a
storm. In spite of the threatened downpour, my neighbour, who is a
shrewd weather-prophet, has come out of the cypress-tree and begun to
renew her web at the regular hour. Her forecast is correct: it will be a
fine night. See, the steaming-pan of the clouds splits open; and,
through the apertures, the moon peeps, inquisitively. I too, lantern in
hand, am peeping. A gust of wind from the north clears the realms on
high; the sky becomes magnificent; perfect calm reigns below. The Moths
begin their nightly rounds. Good! One is caught, a mighty fine one. The
Spider will dine to-day.

What happens next, in an uncertain light, does not lend itself to
accurate observation. It is better to turn to those Garden Spiders who
never leave their web and who hunt mainly in the daytime. The Banded and
the Silky Epeira, both of whom live on the rosemaries in the enclosure,
shall show us in broad day-light the innermost details of the tragedy.

I myself place on the lime-snare a victim of my selecting. Its six legs
are caught without more ado. If the insect raises one of its tarsi and
pulls towards itself, the treacherous thread follows, unwinds slightly
and, without letting go or breaking, yields to the captive's desperate
jerks. Any limb released only tangles the others still