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170 pocket, and the confiding little animal jumped to his shoulder and ran down his arm for the feast.

Sometime in February this squirrel disappeared entirely; but when the family had given up their pet as lost, what was their surprise, one sunny spring morning, to see her returning along the rail fence with a baby squirrel in her mouth, exactly like an old cat with a kitten! The wise little mother made trip after trip, until she had her entire family of four safely housed in her old home in the spruce-tree, where she knew perfectly well that she would find protection and plenty of food. With mother-like instinct, she undoubtedly brought the weakest first, for the last squirrel kitten was too heavy for the panting little mother, and she coaxed it along behind her over the perilous rail fence.

Whenever we think of spiders we think of webs, large wheel-like stretches or bulky masses or dainty gossamers spread on the grass or in fence-corners. If the spider did not build its snare, how would it get its dinner? Spiders, like boys and girls, are generally anxious about dinner. Spiders are always on the lookout for a hearty meal, and as this means something to eat almost or quite as big as themselves, with somewhat epicurean tastes into the bargain, they must be ever seeking food. The snare-weavers follow best the good, poetic precept,

“Learn to labor and wait”; but the little fellows that build no snares, that do not depend on waiting, must, if the temperature permits, be ever on the hunt. Let us see how they follow a revised precept—learn to labor and to “hustle”.

On the sunny side of this tree-trunk, on the old barn door, among the pine-needles, in the crannies of the stone wall, under the projecting end of the wooden steps, amid the evergreen honeysuckle on the south porch, in almost any half-sheltered, half-sunny spot, we shall have no trouble finding the little black jumping-spider Attus, that scientists have recently renamed Phidippus Tripunctatus, though the three spots to which the specific name refers are generally increased to five or more. This is the little tiger of the spider fraternity. So common and so active and so hungry is it that its list of victims grows very long indeed, even in its short lifetime, and generally they are of a kind that makes the little tiger a great and worthy friend of man. Flies, bugs, very young crickets and grasshoppers, plant-lice, tree-hoppers, midges, gnats, small moths, and caterpillars—these and many others are its victims by the score and by the hundreds.

It, too, spins a web (what spider does not in some way?), a delicate, pure white, cottony bag; to shelter itself and eggs throughout the winter, and later, when the eggs hatch, its young, the little spiders, swarm all over the mother, and all through the thick web, reminding one of the old woman who lived in a shoe. Our little  will not venture far from home. Find one that seems a wanderer and hunt closely, and ten to one you will find the web near by, somewhere in a cranny or crack, under bark, under stones, in heads of wild carrot, in curled leaves, in the disused lock or latch of an old