THE MAY-FLY'S MOLTING 79 



their pale, colorless covering the wings shine and 

 glisten, giving out those rainbow colors seen on 

 the surface of a soap-bubble. 



After Miss Barron's good luck all of us were 

 eager to duplicate her experience. I wandered 

 from post to post of the broad veranda, seeking 

 for a promising specimen. I should never be sat- 

 isfied until I had seen the whole transformation. 

 I could not hope to feel that "inner impulse 

 break the spell of its old husk," but I wanted 

 at least to see the first break and to watch every 

 movement until the husk alone remained in my 

 hand while the free, winged May-fly flitted afar 

 "o'er crofts and pastures." 



I finally selected one whose dull color and 

 short, stout anal filaments suggested its imma- 

 turity, and gave it a comfortable seat on my 

 hand. There it sat and did nothing till my eyes 

 ached with watching. "Don't wait for it," they 

 all said. But I would not be persuaded to give it 

 up nor exchange my specimen for any others, 

 though the floor was fairly covered with promising- 

 looking specimens. Some were just dragging their 

 filaments out of the old skin, others had emerged 

 and stood sunning themselves beside their cast-off 

 clothes. Still my specimen "lay low," and "kep' 

 a-doin' nothin'." I was losing patience. My 

 companions called me to join in a boat-ride. 



"Fetch the bug along if you won't leave him," 

 one cried. 



Acting on the suggestion, I soon found myself 

 seated in the stern of a St. Lawrence river skifi, 



