Twilight And Dawn by Caroline Pridham

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But _how_ does the house grow large so as to suit the growing tenant? Most
shells are made from a part of the animal called the mantle, and increase
round the rim; if the snail's house is broken, its slime will harden over
the injured part and repair it. Then, when the cold weather comes, and the
snail prepares to bury itself underground for several months, and take
its winter nap, it makes a strong cement of earth and slime, with which
it builds up the open part of its shell--but, wonderful to think of, the
clever little mason leaves, as it were, one brick out of the wall, and thus
there is a tiny opening, too small to let in the water, but large enough to
admit air sufficient to keep him alive during his long sleep.

Now that our snail has been good enough to put out those four horns of his,
let us ask what purpose they serve, and why they are placed' where they
are. The answer is very simple; these "feelers" are to the snail instead of
arms and legs; and the upper pair have eyes at the end, so that the wary
little traveller, as it drags itself along a broad cabbage leaf, leaving a
slimy track behind it, can tell, both by sight and touch, what obstacles
may lie in its path. I don't know whether you have ever seen the eggs of
snails; I have not, but I have heard that they are about the size of peas,
and are buried in the earth, as the crocodile's eggs are buried in the
sand.

Of the many families of Ringed or Jointed Animals, we will choose the Crabs
and Lobsters first. They are encased in armour of shell, and this has given
to them and their relations the name of Crustaceans, or Crusty creatures,
because what bones they have are outside, not hidden beneath the flesh. But
unlike the snail's house, which grows with the growth of its inmate, and
unlike _our_ skeleton which grows as _we_ grow, this close-fitting armour
does not increase in size, nor is it elastic enough to expand, but every
year one coat of mail is cast off, in a way not unlike the sloughing of the
serpent, to make room for a fresh soft suit. This new suit soon hardens,
and the creatures embrace the opportunity to make a little progress in
growing, which they do by fits and starts, not continuously; for the shell,
when once hardened, gives them no room to increase in size--they have to
wait till next year! The long pointed claws of the crab and lobster are
easily broken, and sometimes lost altogether, so that the power which they
have of growing new ones is a wonderful provision for their life among the
rough rocks and tangled sea-weeds.

One of the crusty creatures you know well enough, and you can find it
without going to the seaside, I mean the wood-louse, which I used to hear
called a "carpenter" when I was a child. In damp places, you can hardly
turn over a mossy stone, or pick off a bit of bark from a fallen tree,
without disturbing a whole colony of these slate-coloured creatures, with
their mailed coats, made of ten rings, or plates of armour. They seem
to know the use of their armour well enough, for if disturbed you will
see them either scurry off as fast as their many little feet can carry
them--and they are able to run forward or backward at pleasure--or else
roll themselves up into tight balls, so that feet and head and feelers are
all safe, under the ringed shield which God has given them as a defence and
protection.

Many such creatures, rolled up just as the wood-louse curls itself, in
tight balls, have been found in a fossil state; and there is a little
petrified crustacean with wonderful eyes, which has been found in the slate
quarries of South Wales. It is called the Trilobite, because it is composed
of three lobes or divisions, and is an animal of the same kind as the
lobster. Be sure you look for it, if you are fossil-hunting in the Museum,
for it is a most interesting specimen, and has been found in rocks deep
down in the earth's crust.

Now, next to this Crab and Lobster family, come that of the Spiders, and
then that of the Insects.

Perhaps you will say, "But what are spiders, if they are not insects?"
I know I used to think they were, until I found that no creature can be
reckoned one of that large family unless it has _six legs_--not even one
more or one less. Now, a spider has eight legs, and it has no wings, while
all true insects have either wings, or what seems to be the beginning of
wings: also although some spiders have as many as eight eyes, they are all
"simple," while the eyes of insects are "compound"; that is, great numbers
are massed together at each side of the head, like the "facets," or little
faces, of a precious stone. As insects have fixed eyes, which cannot move,
they would be very badly off without these many points of view.

I wonder whether you ever had a good look at a spider, or whether you
learnt when you were almost a baby to think it a "horrid creature"; so that
now, when you might be watching it at its work, your first notion is to get
out of its way as fast as possible.

Some creatures are really harmful, and it is right to keep out of their
way, but it is never right to despise a single thing which God has made,
and when we think that the spider is one of His creatures, one which He
calls "exceeding wise," it does indeed seem a pity not to learn something
about it; and the best way to learn about spiders, as well as all the rest
of the animals, is not only to read about them--though that is a very great
help to begin with--but to observe and study their habits for ourselves.

Ernest is fond of repeating a poem about King Robert the Bruce; how, as he
noticed a spider six times fail to climb up its slender thread, but succeed
at the seventh attempt, he took courage to make one more effort for his
lost kingdom, and succeeded.

This was long, long ago; but Kings and Commons have yet their tugs of war;
and for old and young it is still all honour to those who

"Try, try, try till they win,
Brave with the thought that despair is a sin--
Who fights on God's side is sure to win."

There are a great many spiders, of which we cannot now learn much more than
the names which have been given them; but the true story of their lives,
and the wonderful way in which they overcome all sorts of difficulties, if
rightly read, would make us feel that many a lesson of patient toil may be
learnt from such busy little weavers, and engineers, and divers.

Here are a few of them: The Hunters--they live in crevices of walls and
houses, and have their name because they wander about constantly, ready
to steal upon any insect which may come in their way; the Vagrants, who,
though they will run to catch their prey when it is in sight, lie in wait
for it, rolled up in a leaf, or hiding at the bottom of a flower, just
where the flies are sure to come for honey; the Water-spiders--they manage
to live under water in a nest so nearly made of air, though in the midst
of the water, that this spider has been looked upon as the inventor of the
diving-bell. Then there is the industrious Mason, which bores a hole in the
earth, makes the walls of its little tunnel as smooth as if it worked with
trowel and mortar, and then hangs them with delicate silken curtains of its
own spinning and weaving; the Trap-door spider, so called because the mouth
of its burrowed nest is fitted with a cleverly hinged door, which the owner
of the nest can shut with its claw when it leaves home; the Pirate, which
makes a leafy raft, and skims along the water after the insects which suit
its taste; the Gossamer spider, which rises so high in the air, and floats
at its ease in its own balloon--and Epeira, the Garden spider, whose
beautiful web, covered with dewy diamonds, we have all seen, laid like some
fairy lacework, over the hedges, on an autumn morning, as if the little
weaver had been early at its work, as "wise" people usually are; and, as
God has deigned to tell us, He Himself has been.

[Illustration: THE GARDEN SPIDER.]

As we can only find time to study one spider, this shall be the one, for we
have not to go far to look for it.

First let us consider why it makes its beautiful web, so slender and so
easily destroyed that it is used as an emblem of the "hypocrite's hope"
which "shall not endure"; and yet so strong when we think of the little
creature whose cunning "hands" have woven it. The spider lives upon flies
and other insects, but is itself without wings, so that it would be
impossible for it to catch its prey if it had not been given power which
the animals on which it feeds do not possess--the power to lay snares; this
is why it takes such trouble with its beautiful web, and makes the cords
from which it is woven so fine, and yet so strong. The web is the snare in
which the insects on which it lives are caught, and from which they have no
power to escape, for as soon as the insect is entangled, the spider, in his
hiding-place, knows by the shaking of the threads that his prey is secure,
pounces upon it, benumbs it by one prick of his poison-fang, binds it fast
with silken threads, and carries it off to his "dismal den," as the verse
about "the spider and the fly" calls the place where he lies in wait for
any winged thing which may "come buzzing by."

But this subtle and beautiful snare--how is it made? Where do the threads
which form the silken meshes come from? Ah! you have seen the cocoons
which silkworms spin, have you not? The weaver-spiders get their threads
just as the silkworms do, from their own bodies; each thread comes from an
exceedingly small hole; there are four of these holes in the spider's body,
and the threads are made of a sort of gum which is almost liquid, but which
becomes hard when it is exposed to the air. The spider spins and twists its
slender threads just as a rope-maker twists his ropes, only using its feet
for hands--for each fine thread in the web, which you could break with one
touch of your finger, is made up of many finer ones, and thus rendered
strong. The only tools which the spider uses for his rope-walk and in his
loom, are his own claws, which are furnished with comb-like fingers, and an
extra claw, for winding up the thread into a ball.

If you could watch the spider at his work, you would see that he first
marks the outline, by passing this thread from one leaf or branch to
another, until the circle is as large as the web he intends to make; then
this circle is filled with lines, which are woven from the outside to the
centre, and resemble the spokes of a cart-wheel. A spider has actually been
seen trying the strength of these cords which form the foundation of his
web, breaking any that are not strong, and weaving others in their stead;
for he has a sure instinct which tells him that if the framework is faulty,
all will fall to pieces; and only when, by pulling each thread separately,
he is certain that each will hold, does he begin to work from the centre,
and spin ring after ring, the threads which pass from one spoke to another.
When all is finished, the workman rests from his labour, and may often be
seen sitting in the place which he has left for himself in the middle of
his own web, watching with all his eyes for his prey.

A careful little fellow too is the spider; he is not ashamed to mend as
well as to make, and you may see him busily repairing his broken net, and
may know, by means of this little barometer, what weather to expect; for he
is too wise to waste his silken threads and busy skill in making or mending
a net for a coming storm to break.

"When the spider works away,
Be pretty sure of a sunny day."

Very soon after the little spiders leave the silky ball in which they are
hatched, they begin to make webs of their own; but I. have heard that these
first attempts look very irregular, which shows us that although God has
given them the instinct by which they set about weaving snares, they learn,
as we do, by painstaking and practice, to make their work more and more
perfect.

Perhaps one reason why God has allowed us to watch the spider lay snares
for his prey, is to keep us in mind of the snares of which He tells us in
His Book. There are many very important passages about snares to which we
do well to take heed.

While I was telling you about the way the spider has of pulling each of the
cords which form the foundation of his web, one by one, to make sure that
there is no weak place in any of them, I remembered something which a young
girl once said to her mother. Alice had always been a merry, happy child,
the light and joy of her home, and she loved her father and mother and
little brothers and sisters, and the lambs and birds and flowers and summer
sunshine, and games and treats, just as much as you do. But as she grew
tall, Alice was not so strong; the child who, when she was nine years old,
had "climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn"--running on before
all the rest, until the guide called her his mountain-goat, and actually
getting first to the top of the mountain--when she was about seventeen,
began to fade like a flower, and to grow weaker and weaker day by
day. [Footnote: _The Master's Home Call_. Memorials of Alice Frances
Bickersteth, by her father.]

Her parents sorrowfully took her from place to place, hoping that fresh air
might give new life to their child, and bring back the roses to her pale
cheeks. But nothing made her better, and at last, when they brought her
home again from the seaside, her father thought the time had come to tell
Alice that the doctors all said the same thing; she might live a few months
longer, but she would never, never be well and strong again, for she was
not only very ill, but dying.

[Illustration: MOUNTAIN PEAKS.]

It was lovely bright summer weather; you would have thought the sunshine
and the soft air would have made anyone well, as Alice lay on the sofa
while her dear father read to her. They had been reading the Epistle to the
Philippians, and when they came to the verse where the Apostle Paul says,
that to him "to die is gain," and to that other verse which speaks of
departing "to be with Christ, which is far better," though he could hardly
speak for tears, he told her just what the doctors had said.

I do not know whether Alice had ever thought of not getting better, but
long before her illness, when she was strong and well, she had come to
the Lord Jesus Christ--and now He was her Saviour and Friend, so that her
father was not afraid to tell her that she was going to Him. This is what
she said, as soon as he had told her:

"Dear father, I am not afraid to go. How I thank you for telling me." Then,
when the tears came at the sight of his grief, she added, "It is only
leaving you all; but Jesus will be there. What should I do without my
Saviour now?"

From this time Alice very often spoke, about dying, but she always called
it "going home." It was very soon after her father had told her, that she
said to her mother those sweet words which came to my mind when we were
speaking of the little spider making quite sure that his threads were
strong, with no weak place anywhere.

"I feel just like a sailor," Alice said. "When he is called to go aloft, he
tries all the ropes to see if they are firm. I have been trying them all,
and, mother, they are all right."

Another time, when someone said, "You always looked happy, Alice," she
smiled and said, "Yes, but I am happier now." And when he asked, "Have you
no fear whatever?" she replied, "None whatever."

But had this always been so? Ah! no. It is true that she had always been a
loving child, and had many bright ways about her which made people fond of
her, so that it was no trouble to her to win love from all around her; but
Alice had a very strong will, and liked to do just as she pleased, and as
she grew up she often showed that she was indeed far away from God, and
one of those "lost sheep" whom the Lord Jesus, the Good Shepherd, came to
"seek and to save." But He had sought and found her, and now He was gently
carrying her home on His shoulder.

This is what Alice herself said about it: "I used to be afraid of death;
but God has taken it all away. I cannot understand people calling it 'being
in danger.' Once my sins seemed to me as a mountain-pile, but they have all
been laid on Jesus, and His blood is peace. It is all done for me. I have
nothing to do but to keep clinging to Jesus till I see Him."

I wonder, when she spoke of having had all her sins laid on Jesus, whether
Alice was thinking of that verse which says, "All we, like sheep, have gone
astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on
Him the iniquity of us all."

How well it was for her that she had learnt to know her Saviour before the
time of illness came; for she was then so weak and so very, very tired that
she could not think much; but only, as she said, "keep clinging to Him."
And as she grew weaker and weaker, I am sure the Good Shepherd taught her
that even if she could not cling to Him--and it was no longer "the weak
clinging to the Strong, but the Strong clinging to the weak"--she was safe,
for He has said of His sheep, "I give unto them eternal life; and they
shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand. My
Father, which gave them Me, is greater than all; and no man is able to
pluck them out of My Father's hand. I and My Father are one."

Alice had near her bed, where she could always see it, a beautiful picture
of a shepherd with a lamb upon his bosom. She was very fond of looking at
it, and saying how it made her think of herself. "If you see a flock of
sheep going along the road, and one of them is very weary," she said--one
day when she was very tired, and her feet were very hot, so that she felt
as if they would never be cool again--"you would not like to see them go on
driving it, but would wish to see the shepherd take it in his arms to the
fold." She asked that these works, "My Beloved is mine, and I am His,"
should be put upon her gravestone, saying that it was her favourite text;
and against her name in the family Bible she wished them to write,... "so
He bringeth them unto their desired haven."

When she was almost Home, her father spoke to Alice about the many she had
to love on earth, and the many in heaven; for two little sisters, Constance
and Eva, were already with the Lord. Looking up with a smile, as if she
really saw the One who had been her Friend in life, and from whose love
death could not separate her, she said softly, "Whom have I in heaven but
Thee?"

I think these were her last words; a little before, she had said, "It seems
strange to be going where you can none of you come with me; but He is
there, and that is enough."

If you are like the rest of my young friends, you do not mind having the
Spider's history interrupted, that we might think of this sweet story of
Alice, and how she too "tried the ropes," and found them "all right." But
there was one great difference, was there not? The spider's ropes are spun
out of his own body; they are twisted so strongly and firmly by his own
feet; but Alice knew that if she was to be safe in life and in death,
nothing of her own was strong enough to hold by; she could be saved only
because the Lord Jesus Christ had finished the work which God gave to Him
to do. It was because Alice knew Whom she had believed that she could say
she had tried the ropes and found them all right; she knew they would bear
_any_ strain, and so she could answer that question about being afraid, and
reply that she had no fear whatever.

I want just here to copy for you some beautiful lines, written by one who
"fell asleep in Jesus" when he was quite young, not yet sixteen; they were
found in his pocket-book.

"Oh! I have been at the brink of the grave,
And stood on the edge of its dark, deep wave;
And I thought, in the still calm hours of night,
Of those regions where all is for ever bright;
And I feared not the wave
Of the gloomy grave,
For I knew that Jehovah was mighty to save.

"I have watched the solemn ebb and flow,
Of life's tide which was fleeting sure though slow;
I've stood on the shore of eternity,
And heard the deep roar of its rushing sea;
Yet I feared not the wave
Of the gloomy grave,
For I knew that Jehovah was mighty to save.

"And I found that my only rest could be
In the death of the One who died for me;
For my rest is bought with the price of blood,
Which gush'd from the veins of the Son of God;
So I fear not the wave
Of the gloomy grave,
For I knew that Jehovah is mighty to save."

How happy it was for his parents to read these words in their dear boy's
own writing, after they had laid his body to rest in the grave which had no
terror for him!

But to return to our Spider, or Spinner, as his name means. You have not
only watched him coming down from the ceiling upon his own strong rope,
spinning it longer and longer as he travels, but have seen him crawling
along the ceiling head downwards, and perhaps wondered that he did not
fall. If you were to look at one of those eight feet of his through a
microscope, your wonder would be turned into admiration, as you saw the
beautiful little brushes by which he is enabled to cling fast to the smooth
surface, and walk along the ceiling as securely as you do on the floor.

And now I will leave you to read in some interesting book how prisoners
have tamed House-spiders, and about the Water-spider which has been known
to spin its nest in a tumbler of water, and the great Americans, as large
as sparrows, which catch tiny birds; for it is time to pass on to the
Insect family. But I must first tell you a story about a Tarantula, a very
large spider, which lives in the south of Europe, as well as in tropical
countries, and makes holes for itself about four inches deep in the ground.

Two officers from India agreed to spend their furlough together in a visit
to Australia, the one for the sake of making researches in natural history,
the other for any chance interest or amusement that might offer itself in a
new country.

The former, Dr. Prendergast, was one day writing in his log cabin, when a
huge Tarantula spider gently lowered itself from the roof by its slender
cord, and dangled in front of him. "Ha!" said the naturalist, making sure
of the handsome specimen that had thus unwittingly come within his reach,
"I'll have you, my good fellow"; and taking a valuable pin from his necktie
he made a dexterous shot, and pierced him through the body.

To his dismay, however, the spider, quite equal to the occasion, turned
and bit him so sharply that he drew back with a cry, and before he could
recover himself, the Tarantula had scrambled back up its rope, bearing the
pin with it, and was again safe in its hiding place in the roof.

Now as the pin contained a precious stone which Dr. Prendergast had had set
in order to carry it about in safety, he was exceedingly annoyed at this
loss, and he and his companion searched the roof with care in the hope
of finding it; but all in vain, and Dr. Prendergast could only reproach
himself with having made such a foolish experiment.

A few days later he was again writing in the same position, when he beheld
his enemy the spider once more descending from the roof, and to his
surprise and joy it carried with it the pin, still sticking through its
body. This time our naturalist made no vainglorious display of his power as
a marksman, but beating down the spider with the nearest object at hand,
he again possessed himself of the lost treasure, now doubly valuable on
account of its extraordinary adventure, and his mother, for whom he was
preserving the beautiful stone, afterwards wore it, set in a small brooch.

There are six "orders" of Insects, arranged according to their form, and
the number of their wings, and one of each is chosen to represent the whole
class.

First, the Beetle.

Second, the Grasshopper.

Third, the Dragon-fly.

Fourth, the Bee, the Wasp, and the Ant.

Fifth, the Butterfly, and the Moth.

Sixth, the Fly and the Gnat.

I wonder which of all these we had better discuss; for there are such
wonderful things to tell even of the tiniest creeping and winged creature,
that I only wish we had time for them all--the honey-making bees and
the paper-making wasps, the many coloured dragon-flies, the moths, the
butterflies and the beetles--but as we must choose one out of this great
family, it shall be the "wise" and busy little ant: for how are we to learn
the lesson which God has given her to teach us, if we do not, as He bids
us, "consider her ways?"

Before we attempt to do so by noticing her "city," so full of life and
bustle, suppose we ask ourselves for a moment how it is that we see so very
few insects in winter. Did you ever stand very still, in the silence of
a clear frosty day in the country, and wonder what made all around so
strangely quiet?

One reason is, that the myriads of insects, whose hum and buzz make a good
part of the noise and stir of a summer afternoon, are all gone. No whirring
wings rush past; there is no sound of "dragon-fly, or painted moth, or
musical winged bee" to break the stillness; all the insect-world seems
dead, or flown south with the swallows--though, as there are still spiders'
webs to be seen, each delicate thread marked in sharp outline, like the
rigging of an icebound ship, it would seem that there must still remain
some unwary fly to be taken in the beautiful snare.

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