THE SPIDER'S WEB.

THE web of the garden-spider-the most ingenious and perfect contrivance that can be imagined—is usually fixed in a perpendicular or somewhat oblique direction in an opening between the leaves of some shrub or plant; and, as it is obvious that round its whole extent lines will be required to which those ends of the radii that are furthest from the centre can be attached, the construction of those exterior lines is the spider's first operations.

It seems careless about the shape of the area they are to enclose, well aware that it can as readily inscribe a circle in a triangle as in square; and, in this respect, it is guided by the distance or proximity of the points to which it can attach them.

It spares no pains, however, to strengthen and keep them in a proper degree of tension.

With the former view, it composes each line of five or six or even of more threads glued together; and with the latter, it fixes to them, from different points, a numerous and intricate apparatus of smaller threads, and having thus completed the foundation of its snare, it proceeds to fill up the outline.

Attaching a thread to one of the main lines, it walks along it, guiding it with one of its hind feet, that it may not touch in any part and be prematurely glued, and crosses over to the opposite side, where, by applying its spinners, it firmly fixes it.

To the middle of this diagonal thread, which is to form the centre of its net, it fixes a second, which, in like manner it conveys and fastens to another part of the lines including the area.

The work now proceeds rapidly.

During the preliminary operations it sometimes rests, as though its plan required meditation; but no sooner are the marginal lines of the net firmly stretched, and two or three

radii spun from its centre, than it continues its labour so I quickly and unremittingly, that the eye can scarcely follow

its progress.

The radii, to the number of about twenty, gives the net the appearance of a wheel, and are speedily finished.

It then proceeds to the centre, quickly turns itself round, and pulls each thread with its feet to ascertain its strength, breaking any that seems defective, and replacing it by another.

Next it glues, immediately round the centre, five or six small concentric circles, distant about half a line from each other, and then three or four larger ones, each separated by the space of half an inch or more.

These last serve as a sort of temporary scaffolding to walk over, and to keep the radii properly stretched while it glues to them the concentric circles that are to remain, which it now proceeds to construct.

Placing itself at the circumference, and fastening its thread to one of the radii, it walks up that one, towards the centre, to such a distance as to draw the thread from its body of a sufficient length to meet the next.

Then stepping across, and conducting the thread with one of its hind feet, it glues it with its spinners to the point in the adjoining radius to which it is to be fixed.

This process it repeats until it has filled up nearly the whole space from the circumference to the centre with concentric circles, distant from each other about two lines.

It always, however, leaves a vacant interval around the smallest first-spun circles that are nearest to the centre, and bites away the small cotton-like tuft that united all the radii, which, being now held together by the circular threads, have thus, probably, their elasticity increased; and in the circular opening resulting from this procedure, it takes its station and watches for its prey, or occasionally retires to a little apartment formed under some leaf, which it also uses as a slaughter-house.

The moment an ill-starred fly, or other insect, comes in

contact with the net, the spider springs upon it with the rapidity of lightning; and if the captured insect be of small size only, the spider conveys it at once to the place of slaughter, and having at its leisure sucked all its juice, throws out the carcase.

If the insect, being somewhat larger in size, should struggle to escape, the spider, with surprising address and agility, envelopes its prey in a mesh of thread, passed round its body in various directions.

Both its wings and legs being by these means effectually secured, it is then conveyed to the den, and devoured.

Sometimes a bee or large fly, too powerful to be mastered by the spider, happens to get entangled in its toils.

In this case, the wary animal, conscious of its incapacity to contend against such fearful odds, makes no attempt either to seize or embarrass the intruder; on the contrary, it assists the entangled captive in its efforts to free itself, and often goes so far as to break off that part of the web from which it may be suspended; apparently content to get rid of so unwelcome a customer at any sacrifice.-The Passions of Animals.

THE SISTER'S CHARGE.

A WIDOW lay on her dying bed, her two daughters standing by her side. Lucy, the eldest, was gently wiping the death-sweat from her cherished mother's face, while tears trickled down her cheeks; and little Lilly stood holding her parent's hand, but feeling sorrowful because her sister was weeping. The silence was broken by the striking of the old-fashioned clock; the noise roused the poor sufferer, and feebly taking Lucy's hand she whispered, "Lucy, my own child, I am going to leave you; it is God's will that I should go, and you would not wish your mother to linger longer in this world of pain. I would I could take you both with me; but promise me, darling, you will meet me

in heaven." Then turning to Lilly she said, "May my precious Lilly live worthy of the name she bears; pure and spotless from the world may she be kept." Then taking a hand of each she said in an earnest, thrilling tone, "Lucy, I give your sister in your charge; train her to meet me in heaven." With tears Lucy promised her mother's request should be fulfilled, and the dying saint opened her eyes, already beaming with immortal joy, and murmured, "I trust in Jesus-precious Jesus!" Then the hands dropped, the eyes closed, and the band of spirits bright numbered another kindred saint. Mrs. Neale had lived a Christian life, devoting her earliest and brightest days to God's service, and as she had grown up and experienced the rough waves and tempests of life she had ever proved her Saviour to be a very present help in her trouble. Lucy followed in her mother's steps, gentle and loving; she was a good daughter, loving sister, and a true disciple and follower of the religion she professed. But the little fiveyear old Lilly was exactly her opposite in temperament: warm-hearted but wilful, unselfish but heedless, she had caused both mother and sister much pain and trouble, and Lucy felt the responsibility of her charge. But she loved her little sister, and prayed earnestly for strength to fulfil her dying mother's request, and lead the little one in the road to heaven. After the interment of their mother, the sisters removed to a small cottage outside the town, and with needlework Lucy managed to support herself and Lilly comfortably, but her chief desire was to lead that sister's heart to Christ; and as Lucy's health failed, and she knew consumption had already fastened its death pangs upon her, that longing became more intense. And who shall say prayer is ever unanswered, even though the answer be delayed, yet it shall surely come and not tarry.

It was a sultry day for June, and the sisters were sitting on a rustic seat outside the cottage to inhale the sweet scent of the flowers, and listen to the warbling of the happy