The Bluebottle: The Laying 



and eyes. I serve it, under the wire-gauze 

 bell, to a third egg-layer. The bird has been 

 struck by a shot in the breast, but the sore is 

 not bleeding: no outer stain marks the injured 

 spot. Moreover, I am careful to arrange the 

 feathers, to smooth them with a hair-pencil, 

 so that the bird looks quite smart and has 

 every appearance of being untouched. 



The Fly is soon there. She inspects the 

 Linnet from end to end; with her front tarsi 

 she fumbles at the breast and belly. It is a 

 sort of auscultation by sense of touch. The 

 insect becomes aware of what is under the 

 feathers by the manner in which these react. 

 If scent comes to her assistance, it can only be 

 very slightly, for the game is not yet high. The 

 wound is soon found. No drop of blood is 

 near it, for it is closed by a plug of down 

 rammed into it by the shot. The Fly takes up 

 her position without separating the feathers or 

 uncovering the wound. She remains here for 

 two hours without stirring, motionless, with 

 her abdomen concealed beneath the plumage. 

 My eager curiosity does not distract her from 

 her business for a moment. 



When she has finished, I take her place. 

 There is nothing either on the skin or at the 

 mouth of the wound. I have to withdraw the 



