make the spiral part. It is fascinating to watch her, as she crosses each spoke, stop and pat down the silk once or twice, then pull it to see if it is well secured before passing to the next one. When the web is finished, she makes a zigzag ladder of white silk, running from the bottom outer edge to the center. When she hangs in the middle of her web, as she does much of the time, the ladder helps to conceal her. The web is made of two kinds of silk—one smooth, the other covered with an adhesive liquid. When the insects are caught, their legs and wings are soon covered with the sticky juice, so that it is impossible for them to escape. The spider, knowing it would not be convenient to become entangled herself, spins one long, smooth thread from the center to the outside, which she uses m traveling to and fro.
The common house spider is wonderfully sagacious. Once in a while a large insect is caught in her web. She wants to take it up to her inner retreat to devour, and it is too heavy for her to carry. What is she to do? First she bites its leg, injecting some of her poison, which stupefies it. Next she throws some additional threads about it and ascends to the top, pulling the thread as hard as she can. When she has rested for a little time, she winds more threads about her victim and pulls again, each time attaching the threads at the top. In this way she finally succeeds in hoisting her feast into her house, though the process may last several days.
Who would think that our predecessors in the art of curling the hair were spiders? One species has been provided by Nature with a sort of little curling comb called the calimistra. It is on the hind legs and consists of two rows of parallel spines. The web, which she makes of bluish-white silk, is unusually pretty, as each thread is gracefully curled by drawing it between the spines.
Thoreau calls the little gossamer webs which we see spread over the grass on a dewy morning the napkins of the fairies. Even Chaucer, who wrote five hundred years ago, mentions them as a great curiosity to the people of his time. He says:
On ebb and flood, on gossamer and on mist,
A hundred and fifty years ago a Frenchman, M. Le Bon, made some stockings, purses, and gloves from spiders' silk. The Bermuda ladies use the thread of Nephila for sewing, and Queen Victoria was presented by the Empress of Brazil with a dress made of spiders' silk.
Spiders molt several times, each time appearing in a different color. We should hardly expect to find very brilliant or showy
