I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, on a white heal-all, holding up a moth like a white piece of rigid satin cloth - assorted characters of death and blight mixed ready to begin the morning right, like the ingredients of a witches’ broth - a snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth, and dead wings carried like a paper kite. What had that flower to do with being white, the wayside blue and innocent heal-all? What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall? If design govern in a thing so small.