THE CRAB-SPIDER’S NEST
Skillful in the prompt despatch of her prey, the little Crab-spider is no less clever in the nesting art. I find her settled on a privet in the inclosure. Here, in the heart of a cluster of flowers, the luxurious creature plaits a little pocket of white satin, shaped like a wee thimble. It is the receptacle for the eggs. A round, flat lid, of a felted fabric, closes the mouth.
Above this ceiling rises a dome of stretched threads and faded flowerets which have fallen from the cluster. This is the watcher’s conning-tower. An opening, which is always free, gives access to this post.
Here the Spider remains on constant duty. She has thinned greatly since she laid her eggs, has almost lost her figure. At the least alarm, she sallies forth, waves a threatening limb at the passing stranger and invites him, with a gesture, to keep his distance. Having put the intruder to flight, she quickly returns indoors.
And what does she do in there, under her arch of withered flowers and silk? Night and day, she shields the precious eggs with her poor body spread out flat. Eating is neglected. No more lying in wait, no more Bees drained to the last drop of blood. Motionless, rapt in meditation, the Spider is sitting on her eggs.
The brooding Hen does likewise, but she is also a heating-apparatus and, with the gentle warmth of her body, awakens the germs to life. For the Spider, the heat of the sun is enough; and this alone keeps me from saying that she “broods.”
For two or three weeks, the little Spider, more and more wrinkled by lack of food, never relaxes her position. What is the withered thing waiting for, before expiring? She is waiting for her children to emerge; the dying creature is still of use to them.
When the Banded Spider’s little ones come out from their balloon, they have long been orphans. There is none to come to their assistance; and they have not the strength to free themselves without help. The balloon has to split automatically and to scatter the youngsters and their flossy mattress all mixed up together. The Crab-spider’s wallet, sheathed in leaves over the greater part of its surface, never bursts; nor does the lid rise, so carefully is it sealed down. Nevertheless, after the delivery of the brood, we see, at the edge of the lid, a small, gaping hole, an exit-window. Who contrived this window, which was not there at first?
The fabric is too thick and tough to have yielded to the twitches of the feeble little prisoners. It was the mother, therefore, who, feeling her offspring shuffle impatiently under the silken ceiling, herself made a hole in the bag. She persists in living for five or six weeks, despite her shattered health, so as to give a last helping hand and open the door for her family. After performing this duty, she gently lets herself die, hugging her nest and turning into a shriveled relic. The Hen does not reach this height of unselfishness!