“That is because you haven’t used your eyes, as I said before; but you are only like others of your kind. Such ignorance! Because some spiders are dull and colourless, most people imagine that all are so. I suppose they think, if they stop to think at all, that all kinds of webs are spun by the same kind of spider, and that all spiders spin webs.” “Don’t they?” asked Ruth, with some hesitation, for Mrs. Spider’s indignation made her look quite fierce. “They do _not_,” was the decided answer. “All spiders are spinners, but not all are web makers.” Ruth looked puzzled. “You see,” explained Mrs. Spider, “it all depends upon the way they catch their prey. Spider habits are as different as their looks. Some like the sun, others prefer the shade. Some live in the forest, and others with the house people. Many make their home in the bark of trees, and under stones.” “I’ve seen that kind,” interrupted Ruth, eagerly, “and when you lift up the stone they run awfully fast. Sometimes they have a funny little gray bundle, just as the ants carry their babies. Maybe it’s their babies too. Is it?” “Well, they will be babies if nothing happens. Those gray bundles are cocoons full of eggs. The mother spins the cocoon of silk from her own body.” “Oh, now, I understand. They are spinners, but they don’t have any web. Isn’t that it?” “Exactly. They do not need a web. They spring on their prey when the prey isn’t looking. We call them hunters, also runners.” “Well, they _can_ run,” said Ruth. [Illustration: “‘THE MOTHER SPINS THE COCOON OF SILK FROM HER OWN BODY’”] “The flower spiders are not web spinners either,” went on Madame Spider, who seemed to like nothing better than to talk. “They live among flowers, and eat the visiting insects. You can see some of them over there. Talk about colours! They are gay enough, just like flowers themselves. Perhaps you can guess why.” Ruth thought a few minutes. “Well,” she said, “if they were the same colour as the flower they couldn’t be seen so easily. I saw something walk out of an ear of corn once, and it looked like a kernel of corn on eight legs. It was awful funny. Was that a spider?” “Very likely. We are wonderful enough for anything. I suppose you have never heard of the trapdoor spider and his silk-lined burrow, with its little hinged door, nor of the spider who lives under the water, in a tiny silken house, which she spins herself, and fills with air carried down, bubble by bubble, from the surface. Don’t look as though you didn’t believe me. It isn’t polite. I am telling you the truth. Very likely you’ll doubt me when I say that we sail in balloons, of our own making, and cross streams of water on bridges, which we can fashion as we need them—that is, we orb weavers do, for, after all, we stand at the head of the spider clan. Did you know I was an orb weaver?”