io8 THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT 



They have become not decomposed, but mummified. 



I expected to see them putrefying, running into sanies, 

 like corpses left to rot in the open air. On the contrary, 

 the birds have dried and hardened, without undergoing 

 any change. What did they want for their putrefaction? 

 Simply the intervention of the Fly. The maggot, there- 

 fore, is the primary cause of dissolution after death; it 

 is, above all, the putrefactive chemist. 



A conclusion not devoid of value may be drawn from 

 my paper game-bags. In our markets, especially in those 

 of the South, the game is hung unprotected from the 

 hooks on the stalls. Larks strung up by the dozen with 

 a wire through their nostrils, Thrushes, Plovers, Teal, 

 Partridges, Snipe, in short, all the glories of the spit 

 which the autumn migration brings us, remain for days 

 and weeks at the mercy of the Flies. The buyer allows 

 himself to be tempted by a goodly exterior; he makes his 

 purchase and, back at home, just when the bird is being 

 prepared for roasting, he discovers that the promised 

 dainty is alive with' worms. O horror! There is 

 nothing for it but to throw the loathsome, verminous 

 thing away. 



The Bluebottle is the culprit here. Everybody knows 

 it and nobody thinks seriously of shaking off her tyranny: 

 not the retailer, nor the wholesale dealer, nor the killer 

 of the game. What is wanted to keep the maggots out? 

 Hardly anything: to slip each bird into a paper sheath. 

 If this precaution were taken at the start, before the Flies 

 arrive, any game would be safe and could be left indefi- 



