The huge yellow spider, the writing-spider, in hot, weedy places, strident with the stinging music of the weed-bugs; and the corpulent red spider, with its big abdomen; and the angular black spider, ungainly and humped of back, enameled, as it were, with white, a porcelain-backed horror, spin their webs across the open paths of the woods, patiently awaiting the arrival of prey, some wood-fly, gnat, moth, wasp, or grasshopper, hurrying or lumbering blindly along that entangles itself in their nets.
How they remind me of that horrible humanity that lairs in our