The Life of the Fly 



what I was unable to keep in its natural state 

 in an herbarium. I began to paint life-size 

 pictures of all the species in my neighbour- 

 hood, from the largest to the smallest. I 

 know nothing of the art of painting in water- 

 colours. No matter: what I have never seen 

 practised I will invent, managing badly at 

 first, then a little better, at last well. The 

 paint-brush will make a change from the strain 

 of my daily output of prose. 



I end by possessing some hundreds of sheets 

 representing the mushrooms of the neighbour- 

 hood in their natural size and colours. My 

 collection has a certain value. If it lacks ar- 

 tistic finish, at least it boasts the merit of ac- 

 curacy. It brings me visitors on Sundays, 

 country-people, who stare at it in all sim- 

 plicity, astounded that such fine pictures should 

 be done by hand, without a copy and without 

 compasses. They at once recognize the mush- 

 room represented; they tell me its popular 

 name, thus proving the fidelity of my brush. 



Well, what will become of this great pile 

 of drawings, the object of so much work? 

 No doubt, my family will keep the relic for a 

 time; but, sooner or later, taking up too much 

 space, shifted from cupboard to cupboard, 

 from attic to attic, gnawed by the rats, foxed, 

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