The Life of the Fly 



seen enough. Let us leave the knotted cords 

 alone. 



The next creatures please me better. They 

 spin round on the surface of the water and 

 their black backs gleam in the sun. If I lift 

 a hand to seize them, that moment they disap- 

 pear, I know not where. It's a pity: I should 

 have much liked to see them' closer and to 

 make them wriggle in a little bowl which I 

 should have put ready for them. 



Let us look at the bottom of the water, pull- 

 ing aside those bunches of green string whence 

 beads of air are rising and gathering into 

 foam. There is something of everything un- 

 derneath. I see pretty shells with compact 

 whorls, flat as beans; I notice little worms 

 carrying tufts and feathers; I make out some 

 with flabby fins constantly flapping on their 

 backs. What are they all doing there? What 

 are their names? I do not know. And I stare 

 at them for ever so long, held by the incom- 

 prehensible mystery of the waters. 



At the place where the pond dribbles into 

 the adjoining field are some alder-trees; and 

 here I make a glorious find. It is a Scarab — 

 not a very large one, oh no! He is smaller 

 than a cherry-stone, but of an unutterable 

 blue. The angels in paradise must wear 

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