Then one night, in his solitude, he came across a little book, a simple and innocent little book, and this book told him of an entirely new way to tackle the question of how life arises. The fellow who wrote the book didn’t argue with words--he just made experiments--and God! thought Spallanzani, how clear are the facts he demonstrates. He stopped being sleepy and forgot the dawn was coming, and read on.... The book told him of the superstition about the generation of maggots and flies, it told of how even the most intelligent men believed that maggots and flies could arise out of putrid meat. Then--and Spallanzani’s eyes nearly popped out with wonder, with excitement, as he read of a little experiment that blew up this nonsense, once and for always. “A great man, this fellow Redi, who wrote this book,” thought Spallanzani, as he took off his coat and bent his thick neck toward the light of the candle. “See how easy he settles it! He takes two jars and puts some meat in each one. He leaves one jar open and then puts a light veil over the other one. He watches--and sees flies go down into the meat in the open pot--and in a little while there are maggots there, and then new flies. He looks at the jar that has the veil over it--and there are no maggots or flies in that one at all. How easy! It is just a matter of the veil keeping the mother flies from getting at the meat.... But how clever, because for a thousand years people have been getting out of breath arguing about the question--and not one of them thought of doing this simple experiment that settles it in a moment.” Next morning it was one jump from the inspiring book to tackling this same question, not with flies, but with the microscopic animals. For all the professors were saying just then that though maybe flies had to come from eggs, little sub-visible animals certainly could rise by themselves. Spallanzani began fumblingly to learn how to grow wee beasts, and how to use a microscope. He cut his hands and broke large expensive flasks. He forgot to clean his lenses and sometimes saw his little animals dimly through his fogged glasses--just as you can faintly make out minnows in the water riled up by your net. He raved at his blunders; he was not the dogged worker that Leeuwenhoek had been--but despite his impetuousness he was persistent--he must prove that these yarns about the animalcules were yarns, nothing more. But wait! “If I set out to prove something I am no real scientist--I have to learn to follow where the _facts_ lead me--I have to learn to whip my prejudices....” And he kept on learning to study little animals, and to observe with a patient, if not an unprejudiced eye, and gradually he taught the vanity of his ideas to bow to the hard clearness of his facts.