Nature’s Weavers

“There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by—passed noiseless out of sight.” Thomas B. Read. Dawn breaks.  Now the little weaver cautiously retreats, for during those long hours of darkness she has ceaselessly been engaged in spinning her snare—a masterpiece of intricate art.  Patiently, she awaits the arrival of her prey.  But who can this spinner be? Certainly, it is no...