The Life of the Fly 



open-air shambles of the pans. It is this Fly 

 also who, at intervals and nearly always alone, 

 hastens to the bait exposed on the window- 

 sill. 



She comes up suddenly, timidly. Soon she 

 calms herself and no longer thinks of fleeing 

 when I draw near, for the dish suits her. She 

 is surprisingly quick about her work. Twice 

 over — buzz ! Buzz ! — the tip of her abdomen 

 touches the meat; and the thing is done: a 

 group of vermin wriggles out, releases itself 

 and disperses so nimbly that I have no time 

 to take my lens and count then accurately. As 

 seen by the naked eye, there were a dozen of 

 them. What has become of them? One 

 would think that they had gone into the flesh, 

 at the very spot where they were laid, so 

 quickly have they disappeared. But that dive 

 into a substance of some consistency is im- 

 possible to these new-born weaklings. Where 

 are they? I find them more or less every- 

 where in the creases of the meat; singly and al- 

 ready groping with their mouths. To collect 

 them in order to number them is not prac- 

 ticable, for I do not want to damage them. 

 Let us be satisfied with the estimate made at a 

 rapid glance : there are a dozen or so, brought 



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