The Life of the Fly 



. — brought down, in the enclosure, by my son's 

 gun. 



I have just served up a Linnet shot two days 

 ago. T next place in the cage a Bluebottle, one 

 only, to avoid confusion. Her fat belly pro- 

 claims the advent of a laying-time. An hour 

 later, when the excitement of being put in 

 prison is allayed, my captive is in labour. With 

 eager, jerky steps, she explores the morsel of 

 game, goes from the head to the tail, returns 

 from the tail to the head, repeats the action 

 several times and at last settles near an eye, a 

 dimmed eye sunk into its socket. 



The ovipositor bends at a right angle and 

 dives into the junction of the beak, straight 

 down to the root. Then the eggs are emitted 

 for nearly half an hour. The layer, utterly 

 absorbed in her serious business, remains sta- 

 tionary and impassive and is easily observed 

 through my lens. A movement on my part 

 would doubtless scare her; but my restful 

 presence gives her no anxiety. I am nothing 

 to her. 



The discharge does not go on continuously 

 until the ovaries are exhausted; it is intermit- 

 tent and performed in so many packets. Several 

 times over, the Fly leaves the bird's beak and 

 comes to take a rest upon the wire-gauze, 

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