Chapter II

The summer was hot. Each day brought more and more flies. They fell into the milk, crawled into the soup and into the ink-well, they buzzed and they whirled and annoyed everyone. Our Little Fly grew up into a big fly. On several occasions she almost perished. The first time her legs stuck in jam and she was just able to free herself. The second time she flew sleepily against a burning lamp and almost scorched her wings. The third time she was almost crushed by a closing window. On the whole, she had many adventures.

"There is no living with these flies about," complained Cook. "They act like mad--crawling into everything. They must be done away with."

Even our Fly decided that there were altogether too many flies, especially in the kitchen. At night the ceiling was black with them. They seemed like a moving net. When the provisions were brought, the flies threw themselves upon them--a live mass, pushing, jostling, quarrelling. The best morsels fell to the lot of the bold and the strong. The rest had the remains.

Pascha, the cook, was right. There were too many flies. Then something horrible happened. One morning, Pascha brought along with the provisions a package of very tasty papers--that is, she made them tasty, when she spread them out on plates, by moistening them with warm water and sprinkling sugar over them.

"There is a fine treat for the flies," said Pascha, putting the plates where they could be seen. Without Pascha's saying anything, the flies knew at once that this was a special treat for them. Buzzing gaily, they threw themselves upon the new dainty. Our Fly tried to get into a plate, but she was pushed rudely aside.

"No pushing, please," said she, offended, "I'm not one of those greedy ones, you know. You are quite rude."

Then something quite terrible happened. Thousands of flies died. The greediest were the first to succumb. They crawled about as if drunk and then fell to the ground, dead. In the morning, Pascha swept up a large plate full of dead flies. Only the most sensible ones remained alive. Among these was our Fly.

"No papers for us," buzzed the surviving flies. "We don't want them."

The next day the same thing happened. Of all the sensible flies only the most sensible remained alive. But Pascha still complained, "There is no living with these flies about."

Then the gentleman they called Papa brought home three very pretty glass bowls and filled them with beer. This time even the most sensible flies were caught. It turned out that these bowls were nothing but fly-catchers. The flies, attracted by the smell of beer, were caught in the bowls and perished.

"That's good," said Pascha approvingly. She had turned out to be the most heartless of women, rejoicing at others' misfortunes.

"There isn't anything good about that," said Little Fly. "If people had wings like flies and someone were to set a fly-catcher as big as a house, they, too, would be caught."

Our Fly, learning from the bitter experiences of the sensible flies, ceased to trust people. They only seem kind, these people; while, in reality, they are busy with just one thing--to cheat poor trusting flies. To tell the truth, human beings are the slyest and crudest of animals.

Through all these misfortunes the number of flies decreased considerably. Then followed another calamity. Suddenly summer was gone. Rains began to fall. Cold winds blew. The weather was very disagreeable.

"Is summer really gone?" asked the few remaining flies. "How could it have passed so quickly. It doesn't seem quite fair. We have hardly had time to live and autumn is already upon us."

This was worse than poison paper or glass fly-catchers. There was only one escape from the coming bad weather--to seek shelter with one's bitterest enemy, Master Man. Alas, now the windows were closed all day long and only the ventilators were occasionally open! The very sun seemed to shine just to deceive the trustful house flies.

For instance, what do you think of this picture? It is morning. The sun is gaily peeping into all the windows as if inviting the flies into the garden. You would think summer was returning. And what happens? The trustful flies fly through the ventilator into the garden. True, the sun is shining, but it gives no heat. They try to return to the house but the ventilator has been closed. Thus many flies perished in the cold autumn nights.

"No, I no longer believe," said our Little Fly, "I have no faith in anything. Since even the sun deceives me, I believe in nothing."

It is understood that with the coming of the fall all flies experienced the same unhappy moods. They became very disagreeable. Not a sign of their former gayety remained. They became gloomy, indolent and dissatisfied. Some of them even began to bite, which they had never been known to do before.

Our Fly's disposition became so bad she didn't know herself. She had always been so sorry for other flies. Now when they perished, she thought only of herself. She was even ashamed to speak the thoughts that were in her mind, "Let them perish, then there will be more left for me." In the first place, there were not many warm corners where a decent fly could spend the winter. In the second place, the other flies were very annoying, always in the way, snatching from under her nose the very best tidbits, and behaving badly in general. Besides, it was time for them to rest.

The flies seemed to understand the cruel thoughts of our Fly and they fell by the hundreds. They didn't seem to die--just to fall asleep. With each day their number grew smaller and smaller. There was no longer any need of poison paper or glass fly-catchers. But all this was not enough to satisfy our Fly. She wanted to be the only fly left in the world.