The difficulty is to set to work.  How does the bird proceed, in order to knit its stocking?  How, with such simple implements as its beak and claws, does it manage to produce a fabric which our skilled fingers would fail to achieve?  An examination of the nest will inform us, to a certain extent.

The cotton of the poplar cannot, of itself, supply a hanging pocket capable of supporting the weight of the brood and resisting the buffeting of the wind.  Rammed, entangled and packed together, the flocks, similar to those which ordinary wadding would give if chopped up very fine, would produce only an agglomeration devoid of cohesion and liable to be dispelled by the first breath of air.  They require a canvas, a warp, to keep them in position.

Tiny dead stalks, with fibrous barks, well softened by the action of moisture and the air, furnish the Penduline with a coarse tow, not unlike that of hemp.  With these ligaments, purged of every woody particle and tested for flexibility and tenacity, he winds a number of loops round the end of the branch which he has selected as a support for his structure.

It is not a very accurate piece of work.  The loops run clumsily and anyhow:  some are slacker, others tighter; but, when all is said, it is solid, which is the main point.  Also, this fibrous sheath, the keystone of the edifice, occupies a fair length of branch, which enables the fastenings for the net to be multiplied.

The several straps, after describing a certain number of turns, ravel out at the ends and hang loose.  After them come interlaced threads, greater in number and finer in texture.  In the tangled jumble occur what might almost be described as weaver’s knots.  As far as one can judge by the result alone, without having seen the bird at work, this is how the canvas, the support of the cotton wall, is obtained.

This warp, this inner framework, is obviously not constructed in its entirety from the start; it goes on gradually, as the bird stuffs the part above it with cotton.  The wadding, picked up bit by bit from the ground, is teazled by the bird’s claws and inserted, all fleecy, into the meshes of the canvas.  The beak pushes it, the breast presses it, both inside and out.  The result is a soft felt a couple of inches thick.

Near the top of the pouch, on one side, is contrived a narrow orifice, tapering into a short neck.  This is the kitchen-door.  In order to pass through it, the Penduline, small though he be, has to force the elastic partition, which yields slightly and then contracts.  Lastly, the house is furnished with a mattress of first-quality cotton.  Here lie from six to eight white eggs, the size of a cherry-stone.

Well, this wonderful nest is a barbarous casemate compared with that of the Banded Epeira.  As regards shape, this stocking-foot cannot be mentioned in the same breath with the Spider’s elegant and faultlessly-rounded balloon.  The fabric of mixed cotton and tow is a rustic frieze beside the spinstress’ satin; the suspension-straps are clumsy cables compared with her delicate silk fastenings.  Where shall we find in the Penduline’s mattress aught to vie with the Epeira’s eiderdown, that teazled russet gossamer?  The Spider is superior to the bird in every way, in so far as concerns her work.