THE CRAB-SPIDER
The Banded Spider, who works so hard to give her eggs a wonderfully
perfect dwelling-house, becomes, after that, careless of her family.
For what reasons? She lacks the time. She has to die when the first
cold comes, whereas the eggs are to pass the winter in their cozy home.
She cannot help deserting the nest. But, if the hatching were earlier
and took place in the Spider’s life, I imagine that she would be as
devoted to her family as a Bird is. So I gather from the behavior of a
shapely Spider who weaves no webs, lies in wait for her prey, and walks
sideways, like a Crab.
This Spider with the Crab-like figure does not know how to make nets
for catching game. Without springs or snares, she lies hidden among the
flowers, and waits for the arrival of the prey, which she kills by a
scientific stab in the neck. The particular species I have observed is
passionately fond of the pursuit of the Domestic Bee.
The Bee appears, seeking no quarrel, intent upon plunder. She tests
the flowers with her tongue; she chooses a spot that will yield a good
return. Soon she is wrapped up in her harvesting. While she is filling
her baskets and distending her crop, the Crab-spider, that bandit
lurking under cover of the flowers, comes out of her hiding-place,
creeps round behind the bustling insect, steals up close, and, with a
sudden rush, nabs her in the nape of the neck. In vain the Bee protests
and darts her sting at random; the assailant does not let go.
Besides, the bite in the neck is paralyzing, because the nerve-centers
are affected. The poor thing’s legs stiffen; and all is over in a
second. The murderess Spider now sucks the victim’s blood at her ease
and, when she has done, scornfully flings the drained corpse aside.
We shall see the cruel vampire become a model of devotion where her
family is concerned. The ogre loved his children; he ate the children
of others. Under the tyranny of hunger, we are all of us, beasts and
men alike, ogres.
After all, this cutter of Bees’ throats is a pretty, a very pretty
creature, in spite of her unwieldy body fashioned like a squat pyramid
and embossed on the base, on either side, with a pimple shaped like a
camel’s hump. The skin, more pleasing to the eye than any satin, is
milk-white in some, in others lemon-yellow. There are fine ladies among
them who adorn their legs with a number of pink bracelets and their
backs with crimson patterns. A narrow, pale-green ribbon sometimes
edges the right and left of the breast. The costume is not so rich
as that of the Banded Spider, but much more elegant because of its
soberness, its daintiness, and the artistic blending of its colors.
People who shrink from touching any other Spider do not fear to handle
the beautiful Crab Spider, so gentle in appearance.
[Illustration]
THE CRAB-SPIDER’S NEST
Skillful in the prompt despatch of her prey, the little Crab-spider
is no less clever in the nesting art. I find her settled on a privet
in the inclosure. Here, in the heart of a cluster of flowers, the
luxurious creature plaits a little pocket of white satin, shaped like a
wee thimble. It is the receptacle for the eggs. A round, flat lid, of a
felted fabric, closes the mouth.
Above this ceiling rises a dome of stretched threads and faded
flowerets which have fallen from the cluster. This is the watcher’s
conning-tower. An opening, which is always free, gives access to this
post.
Here the Spider remains on constant duty. She has thinned greatly since
she laid her eggs, has almost lost her figure. At the least alarm,
she sallies forth, waves a threatening limb at the passing stranger
and invites him, with a gesture, to keep his distance. Having put the
intruder to flight, she quickly returns indoors.
And what does she do in there, under her arch of withered flowers and
silk? Night and day, she shields the precious eggs with her poor body
spread out flat. Eating is neglected. No more lying in wait, no more
Bees drained to the last drop of blood. Motionless, rapt in meditation,
the Spider is sitting on her eggs.
The brooding Hen does likewise, but she is also a heating-apparatus
and, with the gentle warmth of her body, awakens the germs to life. For
the Spider, the heat of the sun is enough; and this alone keeps me from
saying that she “broods.”
For two or three weeks, the little Spider, more and more wrinkled by
lack of food, never relaxes her position. What is the withered thing
waiting for, before expiring? She is waiting for her children to
emerge; the dying creature is still of use to them.
When the Banded Spider’s little ones come out from their balloon, they
have long been orphans. There is none to come to their assistance;
and they have not the strength to free themselves without help. The
balloon has to split automatically and to scatter the youngsters and
their flossy mattress all mixed up together. The Crab-spider’s wallet,
sheathed in leaves over the greater part of its surface, never bursts;
nor does the lid rise, so carefully is it sealed down. Nevertheless,
after the delivery of the brood, we see, at the edge of the lid, a
small, gaping hole, an exit-window. Who contrived this window, which
was not there at first?
The fabric is too thick and tough to have yielded to the twitches of
the feeble little prisoners. It was the mother, therefore, who, feeling
her offspring shuffle impatiently under the silken ceiling, herself
made a hole in the bag. She persists in living for five or six weeks,
despite her shattered health, so as to give a last helping hand and
open the door for her family. After performing this duty, she gently
lets herself die, hugging her nest and turning into a shriveled relic.
The Hen does not reach this height of unselfishness!
[Illustration]
THE YOUNG CRAB-SPIDERS
It is in July that some little Crab-spiders that I have in my
laboratory come out of their eggs. Knowing their acrobatic habits, I
have placed a bundle of slender twigs at the top of the cage in which
they were born. All of them pass through the wire gauze and form a
group on the summit of the brushwood, where they swiftly weave a roomy
lounge of criss-cross threads. Here they stay, pretty quietly, for a
day or two; then foot-bridges begin to be flung from one object to the
next. This is the fortunate moment.
I put the bunch laden with beasties on a small table, in the shade,
before the open window. Soon they begin to spin threads to carry them
away, but slowly and unsteadily. They hesitate, go back, fall short at
the end of a thread, climb up again. In short, much trouble for a poor
result.
As matters continue to drag, it occurs to me, at eleven o’clock, to
take the bundle of brushwood swarming with the little Spiders, all
eager to be off, and place it on the window-sill, in the glare of the
sun. After a few minutes of heat and light, things move much faster.
The little Spiders run to the top of the twigs, bustle about actively.
I cannot see them manufacturing the ropes or sending them floating at
the mercy of the air; but I guess their presence.
Three or four Spiders start at a time, each going her own way. All are
moving upwards, all are climbing some support, as can be told by the
nimble motion of their legs. Moreover, you can see the thread behind
them, where it is of double thickness. Then, at a certain height,
individual movement ceases. The tiny animal soars in space and shines,
lit up by the sun. Softly it sways, then suddenly takes flight.
What has happened? There is a slight breeze outside. The floating cable
has snapped and the creature has gone off, borne on its parachute.
I see it drifting away, showing, like a spot of light, against the
dark foliage of the near cypresses, some forty feet distant. It rises
higher, it crosses over the cypress-screen, it disappears. Others
follow, some higher, some lower, hither and thither.
[Illustration: “Like the finish of a fireworks display.”]
But the throng has finished its preparations; the hour has come to
disperse in swarms. We now see, from the crest of the brushwood, a
continuous spray of starters, who shoot up like tiny rockets and mount
in a spreading cluster. In the end, it is like the bouquet at the
finish of a fireworks display, the sheaf of rockets fired all at once.
The comparison is correct down to the dazzling light itself. Flaming in
the sun like so many gleaming points, the little Spiders are the sparks
of that living fireworks. What a glorious send-off! What an entrance
into the world!
Sooner or later, nearer or farther, the fall comes. To live, we have to
descend, often very low, alas! The Spiderling, therefore, touches land.
The parachute tempers her fall. She is not hurt.
The rest of her story escapes me. What infinitely tiny Midges does she
capture before possessing the strength to stab her Bee? What are the
methods, what the wiles of atom contending with atom? I know not. We
shall find her again in spring, grown quite large and crouching among
the flowers whence the Bee takes toll.
[Illustration]