Leaning her shoulder a little forward, she placed the finger-tip
against it, but lightly, scarcely touching, and moving
continuously, with a motion rapid as that of a fluttering moth's
wing; while the spider, still paying out his line, remained
suspended, rising and falling slightly at nearly the same
distance from the ground. After a few moments she cried: "Drop
down, little spider." Her finger's motion ceased, and the minute
captive fell, to lose itself on the shaded ground.
"Do you not see?" she said to me, pointing to her shoulder.
Just where the finger-tip had touched the garment a round shining
spot appeared, looking like a silver coin on the cloth; but on
touching it with my finger it seemed part of the original fabric,
only whiter and more shiny on the grey ground, on account of the
freshness of the web of which it had just been made.
And so all this curious and pretty performance, which seemed
instinctive in its spontaneous quickness and dexterity, was
merely intended to show me how she made her garments out of the
fine floating lines of small gossamer spiders!
Before I could express my surprise and admiration she cried
again, with startling suddenness: "Look!"
A minute shadowy form darted by, appearing like a dim line traced
across the deep glossy more foliage, then on the lighter green
foliage further away.
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