Why is it (we were wondering, as we walked to the station) that
these nights of pearly wet Long Island fog make the spiders so
active? The sun was trying to break through the mist, and all the
way down the road trees, bushes, and grass were spangled with
cob-webs, shining with tiny pricks and gems of moisture. These damp,
mildewy nights that irritate us and bring that queer soft grayish
fur on the backs of our books seem to mean high hilarity and big
business to the spider. Along the hedge near the station there were
wonderful great webs, as big as the shield of Achilles. What a
surprising passion of engineering the spider must go through in the
dark hours, to get his struts and cantilevers and his circling
gossamer girders properly disposed on the foliage.[*] Darkness is no
difficulty to him, evidently. If he lays his web on the grass, he
builds it with a little tunnel leading down to earth, where he hides
waiting his breakfast. But on such a morning, apparently, with
thousands of webs ready, there can hardly have been enough flies to
go round; for we saw all the appetent spiders had emerged from their
tubes and were waiting impatiently on the web itself--as though the
host should sit on the tablecloth waiting for his guest. Put a
finger at the rim of the web and see how quickly he vanishes down
his shaft. Most surprising of all it is to see the long threads that
are flung horizontally through the air, from a low branch of a tree
to the near-by hedge. They hang, elastic and perfect, sagged a
little by a run of fog-drops almost invisible except where the
wetness catches the light. Some were stretched at least six feet
across space, with no supporting strands to hold them from
above--and no branches from which the filament could be dropped. How
is it done? Does our intrepid weaver hurl himself madly six feet
into the dark, trusting to catch the leaf at the other end? Can he
jump so far?
[* Perhaps the structural talent of our Salamis arachnids is
exceptional. Perhaps it is due to the fact that the famous
Engineers' Country Club is near by. Can the spiders have
learned their technology by watching those cheerful scientists
on the golf greens?]
All this sort of thing is, quite plainly, magic. It is rather
important to know, when you are dealing with magic, just where
ordinary life ends and the mystery begins, so that you can adjust
yourself to incantations and spells. As you make your green escape
from town (which has magic of its own, but quite different) you must
clearly mark the place where you pierce the veil. We showed it to
Endymion lately. We will tell you about it.
There is a certain point, as you go out to Salamis on the railroad,
when you begin to perceive a breath of enchantment in the landscape.
For our own part, we become aware of a subtle spice of gramarye as
soon as we see the station lamps at East Williston, which have tops
like little green hats. Lamps of this sort have always had a
fascination for us, and whenever we see them at a railway station we
have a feeling that that would be a nice place to get off and
explore.
And, of course, after you pass East Williston there is that little
pond in which, if one went fishing, he could very likely pull up a
fine fleecy cloud on his hook. Then the hills begin, or what we on
Long Island consider hills. There are some fields on the left of the
train that roll like great green waves of the sea; they surge up
against the sky and seem about to spill over in a surf of daisies.
A quiet road runs up a hill, and as soon as you pass along its green
channel, between rising thickets where rabbits come out to gape, you
feel as though walking into a poem by Walter de la Mare. This road,
if pursued, passes by a pleasing spot where four ways cross in an
attenuated X. Off to one side is a field that is very theatrical in
effect: it always reminds us of a stage set for "As You Like It,"
the Forest of Arden. There are some gigantic oak trees and even some
very papier-maché-looking stumps, all ready for the duke, "and other
Lords, like Foresters," to do their moralizing upon; and in place of
the poor sequestered stag there is a very fine plushy cow, grazing,
hard by a very agreeable morass. At the back (_L.U.E._) is
discovered a pleasing ruin, the carcass of an ancient farmstead,
whose stony ribs are thickset with brambles; and the pleasant
melancholy of an abandoned orchard rounds off the scene in the
wings, giving a fine place for Rosalind and Celia and the leg-weary
Touchstone to abide their cue.
Choosing the left-hand arm of the X, and moving past wild rose
bushes toward the even richer rose-garden of the sunset, the
fastidious truant is ushered (as was our friend Endymion the other
evening) upon a gentle meadow where a solitary house of white stucco
begs for a poet as occupant. This house, having been selected by
Titania and ourself as a proper abode for Endymion and his family,
we waited until sunset, frogsong, and all the other amenities of
life in Salamis were suitable for the introduction of our guest to
the scene. This dwelling, having long lain untenanted, has a back
door that stands ajar and we piloted the awe-struck lyrist inside.
Now nothing rages so merrily in the blood as the instinct of picking
out houses for other people, houses that you yourself do not have to
live in; and those Realtors whom we have dismayed by our lack of
enthusiasm would have been startled to hear the orotund accents in
which we vouched for that property, sewage, messuage, and all. Here,
we cried, is the front door (facing the sunset) where the postman
will call with checks from your publishers; and here are the
porcelain laundry tubs that will make glad the heart of the
washerwoman (when you can get one).
Endymion's guileless heart was strongly uplifted. Not a question did
he ask as to heating arrangements, save to show a mild spark in his
eye when he saw the two fireplaces. Plumbing was to him, we saw, a
matter to be taken on faith. His paternal heart was slightly
perturbed by a railing that ran round the top of the stairs. This
railing, he feared, was so built that small and impetuous children
would assuredly fall headlong through it, and we discussed means of
thwarting such catastrophe. But upstairs we found the room that
caused our guest to glimmer with innocent cheer. It had tall
casement windows looking out upon a quiet glimpse of trees. It had a
raised recess, very apt for a bust of Pallas. It had space for
bookcases. And then, on the windowsill, we found the dead and
desiccated corpse of a swallow. It must have flown in through a
broken pane on the ground floor long ago and swooped vainly about
the empty house. It lay, pathetically, close against the shut pane.
Like a forgotten and un-uttered beauty in the mind of a poet, it lay
there, stiffened and silent.
[Illustration]