The Bluebottle : The Grub 



round holes like those of a sieve. It is all 

 hideously ugly, but most instructive. 



The wretched Owl, with his shattered back- 

 bone, teaches us, first of all, that a temperature 

 of twelve degrees of frost does not endanger 

 the existence of the Bluebottle's germs. The 

 worms were born without accident, despite the 

 rude blast; they feasted copiously on extract of 

 meat; then, growing big and fat, they de- 

 scended into the earth by piercing round holes 

 in the bird's skin. Their pupa? must now be 

 in the sand of the pan. 



They are, in point of fact, and in such num- 

 bers that I have to resort to sifting in order to 

 collect them. If I used the forceps, I should 

 never have done sorting so great a quantity. 

 The sand passes through the meshes of the 

 sieve, the pupa? remain above. To count them 

 would wear out my patience. I measure them 

 by the bushel, that is to say, with a thimble of 

 which I know the holding-capacity in pupae. 

 The result of my calculation is not far short 

 of nine hundred. 



Does this family proceed from one mother? 

 I am quite ready to admit it, so unlikely is it 

 that the Bluebottle, who is so rare inside our 

 houses during the severe cold of winter, should 

 be frequent enough outside to form into 



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