FLIES IX WINTER. AND A PLY LEAF. 



" And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze, 

 Are glued to his sides by the frost." WORDSWORTH. 



The Flies are gone, but where are they gone to ? that is the 

 question. At the close of summer, when they are busy and 

 buzzing around us in the shape of a visitation, it is certainly 

 no easy matter to let them "pass by us as the idle wind;" 

 but in one respect they are, to most people, like the wind too, 

 since they scarce know whence they come or whither they go. 

 Doubt the first, as to whence they come, is not difficult to 

 solve, though perhaps with the most presuming of Flies, as 

 with the most presuming of folks, the more we pry into their 



