Jack. I thank you, aunt Betsey, for that idea—it makes the spider much more interesting, when we consider it as the work of God.
Aunt P. Yes, that is true, my boy. Now, as the spiders spread their nets in order to get a living, or for business, as you express it, they do it also for pleasure—for business and pleasure usually go together.
It may be very agreeable to children to scamper about, just for the sake of a frolic, but, generally speaking, the path of pleasure is the path of utility—in other words, there is more real satisfaction in doing something that is useful, than in mere idle sport. It is so with human beings, and, no doubt, it is so with spiders.
Jack. Well, aunt Betsey, you have answered one of my questions; but pray tell me where the spiders get their threads. They must have an immense manufactory of it somewhere. Are any of them rope-makers?
Aunt P. Yes, Jack, every one of them. Each one spins his own thread, and this is the most wonderful part of the whole story. You observe that the lower part of a spider’s body consists of a round ball.
In this, nature provides the insect with a gummy substance, which is spun into thread. It somewhat resembles melted glass, for a coarse thread of it is brittle, when it becomes dry; while a fine thread is as flexible as the fibres of cotton or silk.
The manner in which this gum or paste, is twisted into threads, has occupied the attention of many philosophers. By looking at the process through magnifying glasses, it has been discovered that even the finest thread in the web of the spider consists of many hundred strands.
These are drawn out from the body of the insect, being then in a soft state, like paste, but they immediately unite, and form one compact cord. In some instances, it is said that a single thread consists of four thousand strands.
Jack. Whew! that sounds like a whapper.
Aunt P. Still, it is no doubt true. There are many things invisible to the naked eye, which are revealed to us by the aid of magnifying glasses.