The Life of the Fly 



instal my bird is none other than my study. 

 It is as cold in there, or nearly, as outside, so 

 much so that the water in the aquarium in 

 which I used to rear Caddis-worms has frozen 

 into a solid block of ice. Under these condi- 

 tions of temperature, the Owl's eyes keep their 

 white veil of germs unchanged. Nothing 

 stirs, nothing swarms. Weary of waiting, I 

 pay no more attention to the carcass; I leave 

 the future to decide whether the cold has ex- 

 terminated the Fly's family or not. 



Before the end of March, the packets of 

 eggs have disappeared, I know not how long. 

 The bird, for that matter, seems to be intact. 

 On the ventral surface, which is turned to the 

 air, the feathers keep their smooth arrange- 

 ment and their fresh colouring. I lift the 

 thing. It is light, very dry and gives a hard 

 sound, like an old shoe tanned by the summer 

 sun in the fields. There is no smell. The 

 dryness has vanquished the stench, which, in 

 any case, was never offensive during that time 

 of frost. On the other hand, the back, which 

 touched the sand, is a loathsome wreck, partly 

 deprived of its feathers. The quills of the 

 tail are bare-barrelled; a few whitened bones 

 show, deprived of their muscles. The skin 

 has turned into a dark leather, pierced with 



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