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.