A LITTLE girl into the garden goes
To sit awhile—we'll call her little Rose
And as she does not wish to idle be
She takes her books, a number, as you see.
While thus our little Rose is occupied,
She chanced to glance around, and then espied
Just straight before her, clinging to the trees,
A little long-legged thing one often sees.
A busy spider, anxious he to get
Within the meshes of his well-spread net
A few young flies—a dainty morsel they,
To him more sweet than would be nobler prey.
She watches as his mystic thread he spins,
Not like her knitting, done with glittering pins,
But joined together with his spider glue;
As one by one the magic circles grew.
Who taught the spider thus to spread his net,
So many lines each in its place to set;
Then patiently withdraw and take his stand
In some secluded corner near at hand?
Without this curious silken kind of thatch
A single fly the spider would not catch;
But with its help, although by no one fed,
The spider need not feel the want of bread.