It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a creature possessed of eight legs and an impressive appetite, must be in want of a good meal. Such was the case with the tarantula of our present observation—a most solemn and unhurried specimen, who had, with all the deliberation of a true gentleman, concluded his evening supper.

The scene, upon first glance, might unsettle those of a delicate constitution. There, discarded upon the silken floor of his lair, lay the desiccated husk of what had once been a cricket of considerable sprightliness. Its limbs, once brisk with motion, now served only as quiet testament to the efficiency of nature’s design. The tarantula, having drawn every last drop of sustenance from its former companion, retreated to a corner with the satisfaction of a creature who neither wastes nor overindulges.

One cannot help but admire the elegance of such a system. No mess, no fuss—only the remains, neatly cast aside, as if to say: “I have dined well, and now shall reflect.”

Thus, in the drawing-rooms of spiders, as in the parlours of polite society, a good meal is followed by quiet contemplation and impeccable tidiness.