XVI 



THE MAY -FLY'S MOLTING 



"WHY, look, look! It's changing right here in 

 my hand!" exclaimed my neighbor, Miss Barron. 



We were sitting on the veranda of a hotel 

 which stood but a stone's throw from the bank of 

 the St. Lawrence. It was the second week in 

 July, and the night before the air had been alive 

 with dancing, whirling May-flies, and now every- 

 thing was covered with the creatures, the walks, 

 the sides of the building, the very floor at our 

 feet. We had been trying to catch one in the act 

 of casting its skin in the final molt, as yet without 

 success. But for this Miss Barren's words would 

 have meant nothing. 



As it was, we crowded around her and breath- 

 lessly watched the transformation. It was soon ac- 

 complished. A few moments of struggle, a weak 

 straining of untried muscles, a final pull, and out 

 walked a perfect May-fly. For a few minutes only 

 it rested, the sun playing on its glistening wings. 

 Strength came to the limp sinews, and with no 

 farewell word to those who had watched it so 

 anxiously, the creature took wing and faded into 

 the distance. Behind, in the palm of my friend's 

 hand, lay the cast-off garment, a forlorn little 

 heap, still retaining some slight resemblance to 

 the brilliant gauzy May -fly, but useless now. I 



(77) 



