The Life of the Fly 



groups and to do business in common while an 

 icy blast is raging. A belated specimen, the 

 plaything of the north wind, and one alone 

 must have deposited the burden of her ovaries 

 on the Owl's eyes. This laying of nine hun- 

 dred eggs, an incomplete laying perhaps, bears 

 witness to the mighty part played by the Fly 

 as a liquidator of corpses. 



Before throwing away the Screech-owl 

 treated by the worms, let us overcome our 

 repugnance and give a glance inside the bird. 

 We see a tortuous cavity, fenced in by name- 

 less ruins. Muscles and bowels have disap- 

 peared, converted into broth and gradually 

 consumed by the teeming throng. In every 

 part, what was wet has become dry, what was 

 solid muddy. In vain my forceps ransacks 

 every nook and corner: it does not hit upon a 

 single pupa. All the worms have emigrated, 

 all, without exception. From first to last, they 

 have forsaken the refuge of the corpse, so 

 soft to their delicate skins; they have left the 

 velvet for the hard ground. Is dryness neces- 

 sary to them at this stage? They had it in the 

 carcass, which was thoroughly drained. Would 

 they protect themselves against the cold and 

 rain? No shelter could suit them better than 

 the thick quilt of the feathers, which has re- 

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