“You have doubtless remarked,” said Spinaway, “that each thread is composed of about five thousand others, all joined together.”
“No, really, I had no idea of that—how wonderfully fine they must be!”
“I am surprised that you did not see it; at least if the powers of your eyes equal their beauty. I never beheld anything like them before—their violet colour, their beautiful shape, cut, as it were, into hundreds of divisions, like fine honey-comb cells, and studded all over with most delicate hair. I would give my eight eyes for your two!”
“Two!” cried Sipsyrup, mightily pleased; “I have three more on the back of my head.”
“I would give anything to see them, if they are but equal to the faceted ones. No creature in the world could boast of such a set! Might I beg—would you favour me?”—
Silly Sipsyrup! foolish bee! not the first, however, nor, I fear, the last, to be caught by sugary words. Blinded by vanity, forward she flew—touched the sticky, clammy web—entangled her feet—struggled to get free—in vain, in vain!—quivered her wings in terrified efforts—shook the web with all her might—but could not escape. Her artful foe looked eagerly on, afraid to approach until the poor bee should have exhausted herself by her struggles. Ah, better for Sipsyrup had she kept in her hive, had she spent all the day in making bee-bread, to feed the little larvæ in their cells!
