The problem of dissemination is now solved.  What would happen if matters, instead of being brought about by my wiles, took place in the open fields?  The answer is obvious.  The young Spiders, born acrobats and rope-walkers, climb to the top of a branch so as to find sufficient space below them to unfurl their apparatus.  Here, each draws from her rope-factory a thread which she abandons to the eddies of the air.  Gently raised by the currents that ascend from the ground warmed by the sun, this thread wafts upwards, floats, undulates, makes for its point of contact.  At last, it breaks and vanishes in the distance, carrying the spinstress hanging to it.

The Epeira with the three white crosses, the Spider who has supplied us with these first data concerning the process of dissemination, is endowed with a moderate maternal industry.  As a receptacle for the eggs, she weaves a mere pill of silk.  Her work is modest indeed beside the Banded Epeira’s balloons.  I looked to these to supply me with fuller documents.  I had laid up a store by rearing some mothers during the autumn.  So that nothing of importance might escape me, I divided my stock of balloons, most of which were woven before my eyes, into two sections.  One half remained in my study, under a wire-gauze cover, with, small bunches of brushwood as supports; the other half were experiencing the vicissitudes of open-air life on the rosemaries in the enclosure.

These preparations, which promised so well, did not provide me with the sight which I expected, namely, a magnificent exodus, worthy of the tabernacle occupied.  However, a few results, not devoid of interest, are to be noted.  Let us state them briefly.

The hatching takes place as March approaches.  When this time comes, let us open the Banded Epeira’s nest with the scissors.  We shall find that some of the youngsters have already left the central chamber and scattered over the surrounding eiderdown, while the rest of the laying still consists of a compact mass of orange eggs.  The appearance of the younglings is not simultaneous; it takes place with intermissions and may last a couple of weeks.

Nothing as yet suggests the future, richly-striped livery.  The abdomen is white and, as it were, floury in the front half; in the other half it is a blackish-brown.  The rest of the body is pale-yellow, except in front, where the eyes form a black edging.  When left alone, the little ones remain motionless in the soft, russet swan’s-down; if disturbed, they shuffle lazily where they are, or even walk about in a hesitating and unsteady fashion.  One can see that they have to ripen before venturing outside.

Maturity is achieved in the exquisite floss that surrounds the natal chamber and fills out the balloon.  This is the waiting-room in which the body hardens.  All dive into it as and when they emerge from the central keg.  They will not leave it until four months later, when the midsummer heats have come.