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THE EARLY HISTORY OF THE FEY THAT 
WAS INVITED INTO THE PARLOR. 
What a wealth of associations clusters around that 
well-known fable. Which of us, as a child, has not 
listened with flushed cheeks, bated breath, and eager 
eyes, while a loving mother, an indulgent grandma, 
or a kind, elder sister told in the gathering twilight 
about the silly fly that was invited into that curious 
parlor by the cunning old spider. 
As we grew older, we found history but repeating 
itself. Samson carefully guarded his secret, until De¬ 
lilah won it from him by persistent, artful flattery. 
Ulysses, listening to the blandishments of Calypso, re¬ 
mained her guest for ten long years, while the faithful 
Penelope waited and watched at home. Even Antony, 
the great triumvir, disregarded the glory of Rome, neg¬ 
lected his noble wife Octavia, slighted the warning 
voices of his generals, forgot his love of conquest, and 
abandoned himself to the luxurious, enervating life of 
an Eastern court, when Cleopatra, the starry-eyed 
Egyptian queen, captivated both mind and heart by 
the subtle charm of a flattery that was couched in all 
the glowing metaphor of an Oriental language. 
In the rythmical fable of “ The Spider and the Fly,” 
the poet has chosen to describe merely the artful 
temptation and the final surrender; but who has writ¬ 
ten the childhood of that too-confiding fly ? A silence 
as profound, as unbroken as that of the Sphinx, or the 
death-like stillness that reigns in the desert near 
Gila Bend, where the stone face believed by the 
Mexican Indians to be that of Montezuma, day after 
day, year after year, century after century, has rested 
in a long, unending sleep. The writer of the “Junius 
Letters” may never be discovered; the original of 
“The Man with the Iron Mask” will never now be 
known, and the “ Mystery of Edwin Drood ” must ever 
remain a mystery; but, for me has been reserved the 
pleasing task of drawing aside the thick veil, of reveal¬ 
ing what has so long been a secret—the early history 
of the fly that was invited into the parlor. 
Down in a beautiful valley, through which mean¬ 
dered a bright stream, grew a mighty oak. On 
one of the topmost branches of this giant tree, our 
friend, the fly, first opened her eyes to the sunshine 
of this great, round world. You may think it a very 
little thing—this coming to life of a fly; but in this 
instance it made quite a buzz in the insect world, for 
Mrs. Hop-in-the-air, a wise, old grasshopper that 
lived at the foot of the tree, gave it as her opinion 
that the new-comer was a genius and destined to ac¬ 
complish great things. Old Yellowback, a bumble¬ 
bee of undoubted taste, praised the fly’s bright eyes 
and gossamer wings, and gave it as his opinion that 
she would most certainly be a belle and a leader of 
fashion. Now, the fly was not naturally vain; but 
being young, her head was quite turned by these com¬ 
pliments, and she began to long for a sight of all her 
charms. 
Accordingly, when her wings grew strong, she flew 
down to the babbling stream, and lighting on a stone, 
gazed eagerly into the dancing waters, in the hope of 
seeing herself mirrored there ; but the stream was such 
a noisy little thing, and dashed itself with such force 
over the stones, that its whole surface was covered 
with ripples and foam, and the image it gave back 
was blurred and imperfect. While the fly was search¬ 
ing disconsolately for a smooth sheet of water in 
which to see herself, a beautiful butterfly came flitting 
by. It settled for a moment on a pure white anemone, 
and seeing the fly, called out pleasantly: 
“ Good morning, pretty Fly, whither away so fast ? ” 
The fly, ashamed to confess the real object of her 
pursuit, alighted on a blade of grass, and answered: 
“ I brushed against a spring-beauty, and shook a 
drop of dew on my wings; so I’m flying about in the 
sun to dry them.” 
“ Ah ! ” exclaimed the butterfly, fluttering her gor¬ 
geous wings fast enough to make the flower on which 
she rested sway gently back and forth, “Ah! for¬ 
tunate creature, Nature has given you wings that 
neither rain nor dew can injure; but every drop of 
moisture spoils mine, and even the lightest touch 
brushes off some of my tiny scales.” 
“But,” responded the fly, hoping to elicit further 
praise, “ your wings are far more beautiful than mine.” 
The butterfly smiled as she replied: “Only a dif¬ 
ferent style of beauty, my dear Fly; your wings have 
the delicate tints of an opal, and your eyes are far 
brighter than mine.” 
Just then a plump swallow alighted on a branch 
just above then- heads. The butterfly, much alarmed, 
bid the fly a hasty farewell, and lost no time in flut 
tering beyond the reach of the swallow. 
Left to herself, the fly crept under a broad leaf to 
rest and think over the flattering words of the butter¬ 
fly. To be sure, she had always been taught to con¬ 
sider the butterflies as being very worldly people, liv 
ing very frivolous lives; still they went into the very 
best society, and always dressed with exquisite taste 
themselves; should not their praise, then, have its just 
weight ? While she was thinking of all this, a mos¬ 
quito alighted on the same leaf with herself. 
“ Good morning, Miss Fly,” he called, checking 
himself in the midst of a song, when he saw that the 
leaf was already occupied ; “ this is a pleasant place 
to rest.” 
“Very pleasant, indeed,” replied the fly; “but 
what were you singing just now'’?” 
“Oh!” answered the mosquito, glancing critically 
at his feet to see that his boots w'ere not dusty, “ I 
was merely humming some snatches from the last 
opera. Are you fond of music ?” 
Now the fly did not really care a fig for music, but 
she was flattered at the notice and the deferential tone 
of the mosquito, because he and all his family were 
considered great wits, very sharp people, and all 
remarkable singers, so she answered, “ Indeed, Mr. 
Mosquito, I am very fond of music; the opera is my 
especial delight.” 
“ Then may I have the pleasure of your company 
this evening? I heard that the performance was 
expected to be very fine.” 
The fly eagerly accepted the invitation, and -waved 
her wrings gently to and fro to display their opaline 
tints. The mosquito thanked her for the promise of 
her company, and assured her, with an admiring glance, 
that she would be the observed of all observers, and 
he the happiest of mosquitoes; then he bow'ed anfl 
bid her good-bye until the evening. 
He had scarcely left her, w'hen a wasp hurriedly 
alighted. The fly would have hastened away because 
the wasp, who had been a great coquette in her time, 
but who, strange to say, W'as still unmarried, always 
managed to say something stinging and disagreeable, 
especially if she saw one of her own sex receiving any 
attention. 
“ Who was that with whom you was just talking?” 
she demanded of the fly, detaining her. 
“Mr. Sharpbill Mosquito,” answered the fly, very 
meekly, for she stood rather in awe of the wasp. 
“ And what did he want, pray?” 
11 He invited me to go with him to the opera, to-night.” 
“Well, really!” cried the w-asp, “I don’t know 
what the world is coming to; for an insect like Sharp- 
bill Mosquito to take a chit of a fly like you to the 
opera: For my part, I’d be ashamed to be seen in 
public with any one so plainly dressed!” And then, 
having made the fly perfectly miserable, she flew' away. 
The poor fly w r as quite down-hearted, and sat for 
some time lost in sad thoughts; at last she determined 
to seek once more for a pool of still, clear W'ater, in 
which she might see herself, and decide which was 
right, the wasp or the butterfly. 
Just then a little red ant crept up on the leaf in 
search of food. The fly, not noticing the little crea¬ 
ture, began trimming her wrings preparatory to flying 
away. The ant, being very timid, was about to run 
away, w'hen the fly saw' her and called out—- 
“ Stop, little ant; can you tell me where I can find 
a pool of still, clear water ?” 
“Yes, beautiful fly,” answered Mrs. Workwell, the 
ant, “ just beyond that ash tree yonder is a maple, and 
a little further on a chestnut tree * at the foot of the 
chestnut is a cool, clear spring.” 
“Thanks!” cried the fly, spreading her wrings. 
“But beware,” called the ant, “for a fierce and 
hungry spider lives in a hole in the trunk of the 
chestnut tree.” 
“I’m not afraid of spiders,” laughed the fly, as she 
disappeared from sight. She found the spring and 
was just bending over the brink, w'hen she heard a 
pleasant voice exclaiming: 
“ Will you walk into my parlor, for it’s the prettiest 
little parlor that ever you did spy?” 
“Ah! the cunning old spider,” thought the fly to 
herself. And we all know the very short answ'er she 
gave him. 
The spider, not a bit daunted, asked her to come 
and rest awhile on his bed; but the fly w'as too wise 
to accept his invitation. Just then the spider noticed 
that the fly kept glancing at herself in the spring, so 
he artfully mentioned that he had a nice little looking- 
glass, and then praised her bright eyes and her white 
and purple wings. 
The fly w r as entirely thrown off her guard by his 
friendly tone and wrinning flattery ; but true to her 
feminine instincts, she w'ould not admit that she wrished 
to see herself; so she bid him good-bye, promising to 
come another day, while she thought to herself, “ I’ll 
come back bye-and-bye when he’s forgotten that he 
mentioned the looking-glass, and he’ll never know' 
that that was the reason of my visit.” 
Then she thought of all she had heard of the 
cruelty of spiders, but she reassured herself by think¬ 
ing that there are exceptions to every-rule, and she 
did not believe that this spider was cruel at all. At 
any rate it would do no harm to pay him just a short 
call, take one look at herself in the mirror and then 
hasten away. Then she thought of the admiring 
glances Sharpbill Mosquito had given her. 
All this time she had been gradually approaching 
the chestnut tree. The wily old spider w'as watching 
for her return, and exclaimed as soon as he saw her: 
“Ah! here comes my beautiful fly. My dear, you 
make me feel quite ashamed beside you; for my eyes 
are as dull as lead, w'hile yours are as bright as 
diamonds.” ^ 
So the fly went into the spider’s sly, little den. 
With the poet, let me draw a veil over the tragic 
ending of this promising, though short-lived, career. 
We are told she ne’er came out again. Imagination 
only can picture w'hat her death must have been. 
Peace to her memory. My task is completed. 
A. E. I. 
