The Life of the Fly 



ing fine discovery never fails to give. The 

 Mason's cocoons are taken from the cells, in- 

 spected without, opened and inspected within. 

 My lens explores their innermost recesses; 

 speck, by speck, it explores the Chalicodoma's 

 slumbering larva; it explores the inner walls 

 of the cells. Nothing, nothing, nothing ! For 

 a fortnight and more, nests were rejected and 

 heaped up in a corner; my study was crammed 

 with them. What hecatombs of unfortunate 

 sleepers removed from their silken bags and 

 doomed, for the most part, to a wretched end, 

 despite the care which I took to put them in a 

 place of safety, where the work of the trans- 

 formation might be pursued ! Curiosity makes 

 us cruel. I continue to rip up cocoons. And 

 nothing, nothing! It needed the sturdiest 

 faith to make me persevere. That faith I 

 possessed ; and well for me that I did. 



On the 25th of July — the date deserves to 

 be recorded — I saw, or rather seemed to see, 

 something move on the Chalicodoma's larva. 

 Was it an illusion born of my hopes? Was it 

 a bit of diaphanous down stirred by my 

 breath? It was not an illusion, it was not a 

 bit of down, it was really and truly a grub. 

 What a moment, followed by what perplexi- 

 ties ! The thing has nothing in common with 



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