46 POND LIFE 



pushes its way through the opening, and then the insect 

 rapidly draws its body out of the case and flies into the air. 

 Although the fly seems perfectly mature, yet it has one more 

 transformation to accomplish, for it is still shrouded in a thin, 

 transparent skin. But the insect seems to have little 

 patience for this operation, and often whilst casting this skin 

 flies into the air, carrying remnants of its garment with it. 

 It is a time of great excitement ; each little insect is only too 

 eager to escape into the air above. The warmth of the day, 

 the sun and blue sky, all add to the pleasure of the moment. 

 The adventures of their long life in the cool waters below are 

 forgotten, and now they are soaring in the free air, seemingly 

 overjoyed at the beauty of their surroundings. One wonders 

 that the may-flies do not hesitate, or stop to try their 

 wings before trusting to the element they have no know- 

 ledge of. 



Poor little may-fly ! apart from the shortness of your life 

 your lot is not a happy one, for everything eats you. To the 

 fish you are the food of all foods, the meal of the year. Birds, 

 bats, mice, and even snails are only too willing to digest your 

 frail body. Seagulls and terns join the swallows and other 

 insectivorous birds in your downfall. And it is a wonder that 

 you are not long ago a thing of the past, a thing remembered 

 but as an emblem of beauty. 



Those most responsible for the future of the race have by 

 far the greater risks to run. They fly to the water to lay their 

 ggs: a " phewop " and one is gone: phewop another vanishes, 

 and the nsh feed and feed, until they are gorged with fly. 

 And not far distant the males dance to and fro in the 

 twilight, soaring and kiting, unaware of the fate overtaking 

 their mates and of the doom awaiting them. Gradually they 

 "become weaker and weaker. 



A few days later the scene of so much beauty and grace 

 is horribly blank. The lover of nature stands at the spot 

 where he has witnessed the may-fly dance, and feels as if he 

 were in the city of the dead. For they are all gone not a 

 single one remains he may search for miles without success. 

 Yet only a short while ago the air was full of these beautiful 

 insects, and all along for miles the males were dancing above 

 the hedges. No wonder that the story of the may-fly 

 impressed both Greeks and Romans, and that even to-day in 

 these highly artificial times the poor little may-fly obtains 

 sympathy. 



Taking into consideration all the facts of the case, the 

 frailty and short life of the adult, the paucity of the females, 



