The Life of the Fly- 

 ling whiteness, which gives it the appearance 

 of a tiny snow-flake. But this elegance does 

 not last long: grown big and strong, the 

 Bumble-bee Fly's grub becomes soiled with 

 sanies, turns a russety-brown and crawls about 

 in the guise of a hulking porcupine. 



What becomes of it when it leaves the egg? 

 This my warehousing-jar tells me, partly. Un- 

 able to keep its balance on sloping surfaces, 

 it drops to the bottom of the receptacle, where 

 I find it, daily, as hatched, w r andering rest- 

 lessly. Things must happen likewise at the 

 Wasps'. Incapable of standing on the slant 

 of the paper wall, the new-born grubs slide to 

 the bottom of the underground cavity, which 

 contains, especially at the end of the summer, 

 a heaped-up provender of deceased Wasps and 

 dead larvse removed from the cells and flung 

 outside the house, all nice and gamy, as 

 proper maggot's food should be. 



The Volucella's offspring, themselves mag- 

 gots, notwithstanding their snowy apparel, 

 find in this charnel-house victuals to their lik- 

 ing, incessantly renewed. Their fall from the 

 high walls might well be not accidental, but 

 rather a means of reaching, quickly and with- 

 out searching, the good things down at the 

 bottom of the cavern. Perhaps, also, some of 



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