The Fly-hunt 



eyes, which shone like carbuncles under my 

 canopy; I loved to follow their solemn pro- 

 gress when some part of the ceiling became 

 too hot and obliged them to move a little 

 way on. 



One day, bang! The tight cover re- 

 sounded like the skin of a drum. Perhaps 

 an oak had dropped an acorn on the um- 

 brella. Presently, one after the other, bang, 

 bang, bang! Can some practical joker have 

 come to disturb my solitude and fling acorns 

 or little pebbles at my umbrella? I leave my 

 tent and inspect the neighbourhood: nothing! 

 The same sharp sound is repeated. I look 

 up at the ceiling and the mystery is explained. 

 The Bembex of the vicinity, who all consume 

 Gad-flies, had discovered the rich provender 

 that was keeping me company and were im- 

 pudently penetrating my shelter to seize the 

 Flies on the ceiling. Things were going to 

 perfection: I had only to sit still and look. 



Every moment, a Bembex would enter, 

 swift as lightning, and dart up to the silken 

 ceiling, which resounded with a sharp thud. 

 Some rumpus was going on aloft, where the 

 eye could no longer distinguish between at- 

 tacker and attacked, so lively was the fray. 

 The struggle did not last for an appreciable 

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