The present edifice, hastily constructed in the space of a night, is the frail rough sketch of what the home will afterwards become.  Successive layers will be added to it; and the partition-wall will grow into a thick blanket capable of partly retaining, by its own weight, the requisite curve and capacity.  The Spider now abandons the stalactites of sand, which were used to keep the original pocket stretched, and confines herself to dumping down on her abode any more or less heavy object, mainly corpses of insects, because she need not look for these and finds them ready to hand after each meal.  They are weights, not trophies; they take the place of materials that must otherwise be collected from a distance and hoisted to the top.  In this way, a breastwork is obtained that strengthens and steadies the house.  Additional equilibrium is often supplied by tiny shells and other objects hanging a long way down.

What would happen if one robbed an old dwelling, long since completed, of its outer covering?  In case of such a disaster, would the Spider go back to the sandy stalactites, as a ready means of restoring stability?  This is easily ascertained.  In my hamlets under wire, I select a fair-sized cabin.  I strip the exterior, carefully removing any foreign body.  The silk reappears in its original whiteness.  The tent looks magnificent, but seems to me too limp.

This is also the Spider’s opinion.  She sets to work, next evening, to put things right.  And how?  Once more with hanging strings of sand.  In a few nights, the silk bag bristles with a long, thick beard of stalactites, a curious piece of work, excellently adapted to maintain the web in an unvaried curve.  Even so are the cables of a suspension-bridge steadied by the weight of the superstructure.

Later, as the Spider goes on feeding, the remains of the victuals are embedded in the wall, the sand is shaken and gradually drops away and the home resumes its charnel-house appearance.  This brings us to the same conclusion as before:  the Clotho knows her statics; by means of additional weights, she is able to lower the centre of gravity and thus to give her dwelling the proper equilibrium and capacity.

Now what does she do in her softly-wadded home?  Nothing, that I know of.  With a full stomach, her legs luxuriously stretched over the downy carpet, she does nothing, thinks of nothing; she listens to the sound of earth revolving on its axis.  It is not sleep, still less is it waking; it is a middle state where naught prevails save a dreamy consciousness of well-being.  We ourselves, when comfortably in bed, enjoy, just before we fall asleep, a few moments of bliss, the prelude to cessation of thought and its train of worries; and those moments are among the sweetest in our lives.  The Clotho seems to know similar moments and to make the most of them.