n earlier or later within the mysteries of the burrow. It seems
possible that the repleted mother may there disgorge to her family a mite
of the contents of her crop. To this suggestion the Clotho undertakes to
make reply.

Like the Lycosa, she lives with her family; but the Clotho is separated
from them by the walls of the cells in which the little ones are
hermetically enclosed. In this condition, the transmission of solid
nourishment becomes impossible. Should any one entertain a theory of
nutritive humours cast up by the mother and filtering through the
partitions at which the prisoners might come and drink, the Labyrinth
Spider would at once dispel the idea. She dies a few weeks after her
young are hatched; and the children, still locked in their satin
bed-chamber for the best part of the year, are none the less active.

Can it be that they derive sustenance from the silken wrapper? Do they
eat their house? The supposition is not absurd, for we have seen the
Epeirae, before beginning a new web, swallow the ruins of the old. But
the explanation cannot be accepted, as we learn from the Lycosa, whose
family boasts no silky screen. In short, it is certain that the young,
of whatever species, take absolutely no nourishment.

Lastly, we wonder whether they may possess within themselves reserves
that come from the egg, fatty or other matters the gradual combustion of
which would be transformed into mechanical force. If the expenditure of
energy were of but short duration, a few hours or a few days, we could
gladly welcome this idea of a motor viaticum, the attribute of every
creature born into the world. The chick possesses it in a high degree:
it is steady on its legs, it moves for a little while with the sole aid
of the food wherewith the egg furnishes it; but soon, if the stomach is
not kept supplied, the centre of energy becomes extinct and the bird
dies. How would the chick fare if it were expected, for seven or eight
months without stopping, to stand on its feet, to run about, to flee in
the face of danger? Where would it stow the necessary reserves for such
an amount of work?

The little Spider, in her turn, is a minute particle of no size at all.
Where could she store enough fuel to keep up mobility during so long a
period? The imagination shrinks in dismay before the thought of an atom
endowed with inexhaustible motive oils.

We must needs, therefore, appeal to the immaterial, in particular to h