argued, be unnecessary. Indeed, does not the presence of a fat, flat
fellow lurking behind a rafter or in some gloomy corner, ever ready to
seize cockroach or beetle, imply lack of order? Yet I have known homes
where the tarantula was an honoured, if not a petted, lodger. When it had
cleared one room it was coaxed on to a card and thereon transported to
the next, and so it went the rounds. The children were wont to say that
it knew its carriage, and would sidle on it whenever it was presented. To
those of us who live in the bush, and who suffer fresh incursions almost
every hour of the day, the help of a long-limbed, obese-bodied spider
whose docility is beyond question, whose non-poisonous character is
vouched for by high authorities, is by no means unwelcome.

But in spite of negative knowledge I have had my suspicions that the
tarantula was not altogether wholesome in his anger, and now I have proof
in support of my doubts. In a cool, dark cavity under a log in the bush
were two huge representatives of the race. Each had its own compartment,
a smooth, worn gallery, and they appear to have been on good terms until
the moment of disturbance, for which each seemed to blame the other. They
fought. It was a very brief, casual, and unentertaining encounter; but
in less than half a minute one was dead, shrivelled and shrunk as though
fire had passed over it. As no dismemberment or wound was apparent, I
was fairly well satisfied that poison, very rapid in its effect, was at
the service of the tarantula when its anger was aroused.

The next fact settled the point. Tom, the black boy, felt a nip on the
arm as he put on a clean shirt an evening or two ago, and, reversing the
sleeve, found a tarantula. Blood was oozing from two tiny incisions, the
space between which was slightly raised. For two days Tom suffered pain
in the arm, which became slightly swollen, headache, and great
uneasiness.