The Spider that showed me the exodus in all its magnificence is known officially as Thomisus onustus, WALCK.  Though the name suggest nothing to the reader’s mind, it has the advantage, at any rate, of hurting neither the throat nor the ear, as is too often the case with scientific nomenclature, which sounds more like sneezing than articulate speech.  Since it is the rule to dignify plants and animals with a Latin label, let us at least respect the euphony of the classics and refrain from harsh splutters which spit out a name instead of pronouncing it.

What will posterity do in face of the rising tide of a barbarous vocabulary which, under the pretence of progress, stifles real knowledge?  It will relegate the whole business to the quagmire of oblivion.  But what will never disappear is the popular name, which sounds well, is picturesque and conveys some sort of information.  Such is the term Crab Spider, applied by the ancients to the group to which the Thomisus belongs, a pretty accurate term, for, in this case, there is an evident analogy between the Spider and the Crustacean.

Like the Crab, the Thomisus walks sideways; she also has forelegs stronger than her hind-legs.  The only thing wanting to complete the resemblance is the front pair of stone gauntlets, raised in the attitude of self-defence.

The Spider with the Crab-like figure does not know how to manufacture nets for catching game.  Without springs or snares, she lies in ambush, among the flowers, and awaits the arrival of the quarry, which she kills by administering a scientific stab in the neck.  The Thomisus, in particular, the subject of this chapter, is passionately addicted to the pursuit of the Domestic Bee.  I have described the contests between the victim and her executioner, at greater length, elsewhere.

The Bee appears, seeking no quarrel, intent upon plunder.  She tests the flowers with her tongue; she selects a spot that will yield a good return.  Soon she is wrapped up in her harvesting.  While she is filling her baskets and distending her crop, the Thomisus, that bandit lurking under cover of the flowers, issues from her hiding-place, creeps round behind the bustling insect, steals up close and, with a sudden rush, nabs her in the nape of the neck.  In vain, the Bee protests and darts her sting at random; the assailant does not let go.

Besides, the bite in the neck is paralysing, because the cervical nerve-centres are affected.  The poor thing’s legs stiffen; and all is over in a second.  The murderess now sucks the victim’s blood at her ease and, when she has done, scornfully flings the drained corpse aside.  She hides herself once more, ready to bleed a second gleaner should the occasion offer.

This slaughter of the Bee engaged in the hallowed delights of labour has always revolted me.  Why should there be workers to feed idlers, why sweated to keep sweaters in luxury?  Why should so many admirable lives be sacrificed to the greater prosperity of brigandage?  These hateful discords amid the general harmony perplex the thinker, all the more as we shall see the cruel vampire become a model of devotion where her family is concerned.