—Edith M. Thomas.
Ruth was in the garden counting colours among the hollyhocks when a little breeze hurried by.
“Come,” it said, kissing her cheek, “and hurry; things are going to happen.”
“It is my dear Wind,” cried Ruth, her eyes growing big with expectation, and, stopping just long enough to snatch up Belinda, who of course would wish to go, too, she followed where the little breeze led.
This was to a lovely spot on the edge of the wood, and one of the first things she saw was a big round spider’s web on the branches of a tall bush.
“Oh,” she said, going up closer, “who would ever think a spider could make anything like that?”
“Indeed,” said a voice which made her give a little jump, “who else but a spider could spin a web, I’d like to know? You haven’t any brains, I’m thinking.”
“Oh, please excuse me,” said Ruth. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“That’s because you don’t use your eyes properly,” was the answer of the large, handsome black and gold spider hanging head down from the centre of the big web.
Her eight long, slender legs were outstretched and rested by their tips on the bases of the taut radii, and her eight eyes were staring at Ruth.