The Life of the Fly 



of vainglory rises to my brow; I feel the fire 

 of enthusiasm run through my veins. But I 

 say nothing of these inner sensations. Before 

 the boys' eyes, the master must appear an old 

 hand at the things he teaches. What would 

 the young rascals think of me if I allowed 

 them to suspect my surprise, if they knew that 

 I myself am beholding the marvellous sub- 

 ject of my demonstration for the first time in 

 my life? I should lose their confidence, I 

 should sink to the level of a mere pupil. 



Sursum cor da! Let us go on as if chem- 

 istry were a familiar thing to me. It is the 

 turn of the steel ribbon, an old watch-spring 

 rolled corkscrew-fashion and furnished with 

 a bit of tinder. With this simple lighted bait, 

 the steel should take fire in a jar filled with 

 my gas. And it does burn; it becomes a 

 splendid firework, with cracklings and a blaze 

 of sparks and a cloud of rust that tarnishes the 

 jar. From the end of the fiery coil a red drop 

 breaks off at intervals, shoots quivering 

 through the layer of water left at the bottom 

 of the vessel and embeds itself in the glass 

 which has suddenly grown soft. This metallic 

 tear, with its indomitable heat, makes every 

 one of us shudder. All stamp and cheer and 

 applaud. The timid ones place their hands 



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