The Life of the Fly 



of mind; hunting for ideas troubles the brain 

 even more than hunting for the roots of an 

 equation. 



You would never recognize me, little 

 friend, if you could give a glance at my grey 

 mane. Where is the cheerful face of former 

 days, bright with enthusiasm and hope? I 

 have aged, I have aged. And you, what a 

 falling off, since you came to me from the 

 dealer's, gleaming and polished and smelling 

 so good with your bees-wax ! Like your mas- 

 ter, you have wrinkles, often my work, I 

 admit; for how many times, in my impa- 

 tience, have I not dug my pen into you, when, 

 after its dip in the muddy inkpot, the nib re- 

 fused to write decently ! 



One of your corners is broken off; the 

 boards are beginning to come loose. Inside 

 you, I hear, from time to time, the plane of 

 the Death-watch, who despoils old furniture. 

 From year to year, new galleries are exca- 

 vated, endangering your solidity. The old 

 ones show on the outside in the shape of tiny 

 round holes. A stranger has seized upon the 

 latter, excellent quarters, obtained without 

 trouble. I see the impudent intruder run nim- 

 bly under my elbow and penetrate forthwith 

 into the tunnel abandoned by the Death-watch. 



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