but, when the day began to break, the goat’s-foot and the parsley were near snapping with surprise.

the spider was hanging in the air between their branches. she had drawn her legs up under her, bundled herself together and was sleeping like a top.

“is she on you?” asked the goat’s-foot.

“no,” replied the parsley. “is she on you?”

“no,” said the goat’s-foot.

“she’s not on us either,” said the twigs.

“it is a bird,” said the parsley and the goat’s-foot, enraptured.

“a bird doesn’t hang in the middle of the air, sleeping,” said the twigs.

“it’s an elf,” said the mouse, who came up at that moment. “just wait till it’s quite light: then perhaps we shall see.”

and, when the sun rose, they saw.

in between the branches of the goat’s-foot and the fool’s-parsley were stretched a number of very fine threads, which crossed one another and shone in the sun so that it was a delight to see. other threads ran across them in circles, one outside the other.

“ah!” said the mouse. “now i understand. she was sitting in the middle of that. but where has she gone to now?”

“here i am,” said the spider, from under a leaf. “i can’t stand the bright sunlight. what do you think of my work? but i haven’t finished yet.”

“pish!” said the mouse. “frankly speaking, i think it’s a funny sort of nest you’ve made.”

“nest, nest, nest!” said the spider. “it’s you who’ve been talking of a nest, not i. you keep on taking it for granted that i am a silly, effeminate woman like yourself and the others. what use is a nest to me? i’m all right here under this leaf. it’s shady here and good enough for me. the threads are my web. i catch flies in it. i wonder, shall we have a little rain? then i can set to again and finish my work.”

presently, the sun disappeared behind the clouds. a mild and gentle rain fell and when it stopped the spider came out and stretched her eight legs contentedly in the moist air.

and then she set to work.

they all saw how she pulled a multitude of very fine threads at a time from her abdomen. then she began to unravel them with combs which she had at the ends of her legs, twisted them together into one thick thread and hung it beside the others where she thought that the opening was too large or the net not strong enough. all the threads were greasy and sticky, so that the flies would have to hang fast in them. later in the day, the web was ready; and they all admired it because it was so pretty.

“now i’m settled,” said the spider.

at that moment came a starling and sat on the top of one of the long twigs:

“is there nothing to eat here?” he asked. “a few grubs? a spider or so?”

the goat’s-foot and the parsley said nothing: they almost withered with fright at the idea of losing their lodger. the mouse made off, for safety’s sake, but the twigs on the stubs cried with one breath that a nice fat spider had just come and had spun her web in the night.

“i can see none,” said the starling and flew away.

but the spider, quick as lightning, had let herself down to the ground by a long thread and lay there as still as if she were dead. now she crept up again and sat in the middle of her web with all her eight legs outstretched.

“that was a near thing,” she said. “now my turn’s coming.”

up came a smart little fly, who didn’t see the web but flew in and got caught, poor fellow.

“that’s an earnest,” said the spider.

she bit the fly with her mandibles, which were filled with poison, so that he died at once. then she ate him. and she did the same with the next three that came into the web. after that, she could eat no more. she let a good many little insects, that had the misfortune to get caught, hang and sprawl, without stirring a limb. when a good fat fly came along, she bit him dead, spun a little web round him and hung him up:

“he may come in handy one day, when i run short,” she said.

“very sensible,” said the mouse. “that’s really the first thing you’ve said that i can agree with. but, otherwise, i am bound to say i don’t care for your ways. they’re far too sly for me. and then you use poison, like the adder. that, i think, is mean.”

“you think so, do you?” said the spider, with a sneer. “is it any worse than what you others do? i suppose you blow a trumpet when you sneak out after your prey; eh, you pious little mouse?”

“indeed i could, if i had a trumpet,” said the mouse. “thank goodness, i am not a robber and murderer like yourself. i gather nuts and acorns and anything else that comes to hand and i have never hurt a soul.”

“no, you’re a dear little woman of the old-fashioned sort,” said the spider, “you take other people’s leavings and are quite happy. then you go home and let your husband and children pet and fondle you. i’m not built that way, let me tell you. i don’t care for caresses, but i have an appetite. i want meat: nice, juicy fly-meat; and lots of it. i ask nothing of anybody, but get myself what i want. if things go well, i have all the honour and pleasure myself; if they go badly, i don’t go crying to anybody. it would be a good thing if there were more women like me.”

“you’re so rough,” said the mouse.

“fiddlesticks!” replied the spider. “it’s all one. i’m no worse than most people. take the goat’s-foot and the parsley: they fight for the butterflies and bees and steal each other’s light and air as much as they can.”

“very true,” said the parsley.

“an exceedingly sensible woman,” said the goat’s-foot.

“that’s such an ugly name of yours,” said the mouse.

“can’t help that,” said the spider. “some people call me venom-head, because of those few drops of poison i carry in my mandibles. they’re so immensely upset about the poor flies i catch; and they kill a fly themselves if he only settles on their nose. it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. nothing but sentimental affectation. besides, i have no objection to changing my name. you can call me spinner, if you prefer. that’s a word which a dainty little lady like you can pronounce without fainting; and it suits me, because there’s not an animal in the world that spins as beautifully as i do.”

“that’s all very likely,” said the mouse, shaking her head. “but what you do is ugly and you yourself are so hideous that there’s no excusing you.”

“is that it?” asked the spider and laughed. “look here, little mrs. mouse: i’m rationally dressed. my homely gray clothes suit my work and don’t attract unnecessary attention. thank goodness, i don’t have to dress up like the others, who deck themselves out to obtain love and happiness and who strut and swagger in a way that a sensible person would be ashamed of. but, of course, the ninnies despise me for my plain frocks. let them! what do i care for ninnies? and, if they come into my meshes, i’ll eat them.”

the mouse shook her head and went away. the parsley and the goat’s-foot muttered softly to each other. the spider hung in her net, stretched her legs and digested her food.

when the sun came out, she crept under her leaf and then the mouse came back and peeped up:

“is she asleep?” she asked.

“i think so,” said the parsley. “and you had better not wake her with your chattering.”

“she’s our bird, once and for all,” said the goat’s-foot. “though she may behave differently from other birds, she has done us the honour and shown us the confidence to build in us and therefore we ask that she may be respected.”

“a nice sort of bird!” said the twigs, with a sneer.

“in any case, she’s better than nothing,” said the parsley.

“such louts as you had better hold your tongues,” said the goat’s-foot. “no one builds in you, at any rate.”

“she’s not a bird,” said the mouse. “but that’s no reason why she shouldn’t be very good. now i think that she’s a poor, unhappy old maid, who has fallen out with existence. perhaps her sweetheart jilted her; that leaves a wound. my first husband ran away with a white mouse, just after my children were born. so i speak from experience.”

“that’s possible,” said the parsley, thoughtfully. “but what can one do in a case like that?”

“we must try and make her happy,” said the mouse. “if she goes on leading this lonely life, she will grow more bitter every day and at last all gentler feelings will be stifled in her. if we could only find a husband for her!”

“yes, if we only could!” said the parsley.

“then perhaps she would build a real nest, with little eggs in it,” said the goat’s-foot.

“perhaps she would sing to her young,” said the parsley.

“that would at once entitle us to rank with the bushes,” said the goat’s-foot.

“what are you talking about?” asked the spider, putting out her head from under the leaf.

“we’re talking about you,” said the mouse. “we were saying that you really ought to get married. it’s not good, in the long run, for a woman to live alone. it makes her queer and sour. if you only knew how delightful it is to see one’s dear little young and feed them and educate them!”

“stuff!” said the spider.

“it’s the provision of nature,” said the mouse. “and i will do what i can for you, no matter what you say. i see a heap of spiders daily on my way along the hedge. they are certainly much smaller than you, but nice fellows, for all that. perhaps i may meet a big one, too. then i shall tell him that there’s a charming young lady over here, longing for a sweetheart.”

“then you’ll be telling an awful lie,” said the spider. “and you needn’t look for one who is bigger than i, for our men are all miserable under-sized vermin. i tell you, no one looks upon them as worth a straw. it’s long been understood among us that it’s only the women that are good for anything.”

“well, i’m going,” said the mouse. “i shall find the right man yet. and i feel sure that you’ll be much more amiable when you’re in love.”

“run away, mousie,” said the spider. “the man who can please me isn’t born yet. but you have nothing in your head but love and nonsense.”

she killed a fly, spun a web round him and hung him up and then hid under the leaf. the mouse went away, the parsley and the goat’s-foot put their heads together and talked of the future.