The Life of the Fly 



down scurries off and disappears in the brush- 

 wood; but, when quiet is restored, at the first 

 summoning note they all return under the 

 mother's wing. Even so, recalled by mem- 

 ory, do my recollections of childhood return, 

 those other fledglings which have lost so many 

 of their feathers on the brambles of life. 

 Some, which have hardly come out of the 

 bushes, have aching heads and tottering steps; 

 some are missing, stifled in some dark corner 

 of the thicket; some remain in their full fresh- 

 ness. Now of those which have escaped the 

 clutches of time the hveliest are the first-born. 

 For them the soft wax of childish memory has 

 been converted into enduring bronze. 



On that day, wealthy and leisured, with an 

 apple for my lunch and all my time to myself, 

 I decided to visit the brow of the neighbouring 

 hill, hitherto looked upon as the boundary of 

 the world. Right at the top is a row of trees 

 which, turning their backs to the wind, bend 

 and toss about as though to uproot themselves 

 and take to flight. How often, from the little 

 window in my home, have I not seen them 

 bowing their heads in stormy weather; how 

 often have I not watched them writhing like 

 madmen amid the snow-dust which the north 

 wind's besom raises and smooths along the 

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