All day long, the sky, of a uniform grey, has appeared to be brewing a storm.  In spite of the threatened downpour, my neighbour, who is a shrewd weather-prophet, has come out of the cypress-tree and begun to renew her web at the regular hour.  Her forecast is correct:  it will be a fine night.  See, the steaming-pan of the clouds splits open; and, through the apertures, the moon peeps, inquisitively.  I too, lantern in hand, am peeping.  A gust of wind from the north clears the realms on high; the sky becomes magnificent; perfect calm reigns below.  The Moths begin their nightly rounds.  Good!  One is caught, a mighty fine one.  The Spider will dine to-day.

What happens next, in an uncertain light, does not lend itself to accurate observation.  It is better to turn to those Garden Spiders who never leave their web and who hunt mainly in the daytime.  The Banded and the Silky Epeira, both of whom live on the rosemaries in the enclosure, shall show us in broad day-light the innermost details of the tragedy.

I myself place on the lime-snare a victim of my selecting.  Its six legs are caught without more ado.  If the insect raises one of its tarsi and pulls towards itself, the treacherous thread follows, unwinds slightly and, without letting go or breaking, yields to the captive’s desperate jerks.  Any limb released only tangles the others still more and is speedily recaptured by the sticky matter.  There is no means of escape, except by smashing the trap with a sudden effort whereof even powerful insects are not always capable.

Warned by the shaking of the net, the Epeira hastens up; she turns round about the quarry; she inspects it at a distance, so as to ascertain the extent of the danger before attacking.  The strength of the snareling will decide the plan of campaign.  Let us first suppose the usual case, that of an average head of game, a Moth or Fly of some sort.  Facing her prisoner, the Spider contracts her abdomen slightly and touches the insect for a moment with the end of her spinnerets; then, with her front tarsi, she sets her victim spinning.  The Squirrel, in the moving cylinder of his cage, does not display a more graceful or nimbler dexterity.  A cross-bar of the sticky spiral serves as an axis for the tiny machine, which turns, turns swiftly, like a spit.  It is a treat to the eyes to see it revolve.

What is the object of this circular motion?  See, the brief contact of the spinnerets has given a starting-point for a thread, which the Spider must now draw from her silk-warehouse and gradually roll around the captive, so as to swathe him in a winding-sheet which will overpower any effort made.  It is the exact process employed in our wire-mills:  a motor-driven spool revolves and, by its action, draws the wire through the narrow eyelet of a steel plate, making it of the fineness required, and, with the same movement, winds it round and round its collar.