The Bluebottle : The Grub 



enced a sudden short cold snap of a seventy 

 very exceptional in my part of the country. 

 The thermometer fell to twelve degrees be- 

 low zero/ While a fierce north wind was 

 raging and beginning to redden the leaves of 

 the olive-trees, came one and brought me a 

 Barn- or Screech-owl, which he had found on 

 the ground, exposed to the air, not far from 

 my house. My reputation as a lover of ani- 

 mals made the donor believe that I should be 

 pleased with his gift. 



I was, as a matter of fact, but for reasons 

 whereof the finder certainly never dreamt. 

 The Owl was untouched, with trim feathers 

 and not the least wound that showed. Per- 

 haps he had died of cold. What made me 

 gratefully accept the present was exactly that 

 which would have inclined any one but myself 

 to refuse it. The Owl's eyes, glazed in death, 

 were hidden under a thick mass of eggs, which 

 I recognized as a Bluebottle's. Similar masses 

 occupied the vicinity of the nostrils. If I 

 wanted maggots, here, of a certainty, was a 

 richer crop than I had ever beheld. 



I place the corpse on the sand of a pan, 

 with a wire-gauze cover, and leave events to 

 take their course. The laboratory in which I 



^Centigrade; i.e., io° Fahrenheit. — Translator's Note. 

 351 



