The labyrinth is greatly inferior, as a work of art, to that advanced geometrical contrivance, the Garden Spider’s net; and, in spite of its ingenuity, it does not give a favourable notion of its constructor.  It is hardly more than a shapeless scaffolding, run up anyhow.  And yet, like the others, the builder of this slovenly edifice must have her own principles of beauty and accuracy.  As it is, the prettily-latticed mouth of the crater makes us suspect this; the nest, the mother’s usual masterpiece, will prove it to the full.

When laying-time is at hand, the Spider changes her residence; she abandons her web in excellent condition; she does not return to it.  Whoso will can take possession of the house.  The hour has come to found the family-establishment.  But where?  The Spider knows right well; I am in the dark.  Mornings are spent in fruitless searches.  In vain I ransack the bushes that carry the webs:  I never find aught that realizes my hopes.

I learn the secret at last.  I chance upon a web which, though deserted, is not yet dilapidated, proving that it has been but lately quitted.  Instead of hunting in the brushwood whereon it rests, let us inspect the neighbourhood, to a distance of a few paces.  If these contain a low, thick cluster, the nest is there, hidden from the eye.  It carries an authentic certificate of its origin, for the mother invariably occupies it.

By this method of investigation, far from the labyrinth-trap, I become the owner of as many nests as are needed to satisfy my curiosity.  They do not by a long way come up to my idea of the maternal talent.  They are clumsy bundles of dead leaves, roughly drawn together with silk threads.  Under this rude covering is a pouch of fine texture containing the egg-casket, all in very bad condition, because of the inevitable tears incurred in its extrication from the brushwood.  No, I shall not be able to judge of the artist’s capacity by these rags and tatters.

The insect, in its buildings, has its own architectural rules, rules as unchangeable as anatomical peculiarities.  Each group builds according to the same set of principles, conforming to the laws of a very elementary system of aesthetics; but often circumstances beyond the architect’s control—­the space at her disposal, the unevenness of the site, the nature of the material and other accidental causes—­interfere with the worker’s plans and disturb the structure.  Then virtual regularity is translated into actual chaos; order degenerates into disorder.

We might discover an interesting subject of research in the type adopted by each species when the work is accomplished without hindrances.  The Banded Epeira weaves the wallet of her eggs in the open, on a slim branch that does not get in her way; and her work is a superbly artistic jar.  The Silky Epeira also has all the elbow-room she needs; and her paraboloid is not without elegance.  Can the Labyrinth Spider, that other spinstress of accomplished merit, be ignorant of the precepts of beauty when the time comes for her to weave a tent for her offspring?  As yet, what I have seen of her work is but an unsightly bundle.  Is that all she can do?