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.