dent, for, on seeing it held out again, she tried once more to take it. This time her tormentor let her get hold, and then drew it away. Even this she forgave, doubtless finding it hard to believe that her friend had become her enemy. But when he tried it a third time, the "last link was broken," the friendship at an end. She could not trust him, and the most tempting fly and the loudest buzzing appealed to her in vain. She refused to go near it, and in a day or two she deliberately abandoned her home and departed for parts unknown, probably soured for life.
Curious and unexpected traits of character were shown in captivity by two of the Lycosas, or running spiders, among whom—according to popular notions—are some of the most terrible of the race. The account appeared in a scientific magazine some time ago. The first member of the happy family was living contentedly in a large cigar-box with a cover of glass, accepting gratefully the fare provided, and becoming quite tame, when a second one was captured and placed in the same box, and the owner sat down to see one eat the other, the legitimate result, as he supposed, of his act. Nothing of the sort happened; on the contrary, the two seemed shy of making acquaintance. For two or three days each spider stayed on her own side of the box and made no advances, either of war or friendship, but in a week their reserve wore off and they became the best of friends. Together they ran when a fly was offered, side by side they drank from the little pool of water provided for them, and each amiably waited her turn to drink when water was given in a brush. Under this delightful and unheard-of state of things, having plenty of food and none of the work that makes the life of freedom a stern reality, they actually grew frolicsome. They chased each other around the box, playfully as two kittens; they retired to opposite corners, and then ran at each other with mouths open as if about to clinch for a fight, which the observer confidently expected to see. But on meeting each rose, stood erect on her hind feet, and laid her fore feet gently upon the head and body of her friend. Then, just as the astonished spectator looked to see them start off in a waltz, they dropped to their eight feet, ran back to their corners, and repeated the queer performance. This was a favorite amusement, with which they varied the semi-serious business of hunting flies within their small domain. They were exceedingly neat in their toilet, and after each meal every part of the body and legs was rubbed and brushed, in systematic order, and the minute heap of dust resulting carefully thrown away.
It may be thought that their refusal to justify the popular notion, and eat or be eaten, was because of their equal size or their close relationship. To test this, their keeper introduced within their box a common house spider, much smaller in size,
