So far from flies loving “high” meat, it is an acquired taste with them. This had long been a theory with me, but it is only a year since I proved it by an interesting experiment. I secured a setting of flies’ eggs,--not thoroughbred eggs, but just the ordinary barn-yard variety,--and I set them under a motherly bluebottle fly, after I had made her a comfortable nest in a pill-box. I saw to it that she had the proper food for a setting fly--not mush and milk, but flakes of hominy and grains of sugar once a day. I also dusted her nest thoroughly with insecticide and covered her with a tea-strainer so that she would be secure from molestation from other flies. For three weeks she was faithful to her duties, and then, one morning, I saw that she had experienced the sweet joys of motherhood, for there, on the edge of her nest, sat thirteen--mark the number--cunning little flies, pluming and preening themselves with innate skill. I could scarce keep back the tears. [Illustration] For a few days I let the little flock follow their mother, and then I shut them up away from her in my guest-chamber and began their education. The sweetest milk was theirs from the start, and after a week of bread diet, that their feathers might be strengthened, I began to give them small scraps of porter-house steak and Southdown mutton. It was wonderful to see how the little beggars throve. One night I slept in the guest-chamber, and they awoke me before the robin’s matin song, although they were not three weeks old. Their tread had a firmness, a titillating power, that never comes to a tramp fly or to one improperly nurtured. Then, their buzzing was so sonorous that sleep was impossible once they tuned up, so I was in no danger of becoming a drowse-abed. When they were two months old I determined to test my theory. I procured some meat from the larder of a gormand friend of mine, and brought it into my guest-chamber in an air-tight box. Then I opened the box and awaited developments. If flies are natural-born birds of carrion, then they would rush upon this stuff with avidity. I hid behind the arras--if I am quite sure what arrases are--and watched my little pets with some concern. They flew over to the meat, sniffed it disdainfully, buzzed with ire for a few seconds, and then flew to the ceiling with every appearance of disgust. Then the largest one signaled to his fellows, and they flew down once more, lifted the “condemned beef” in their talons as firemen seize a life-preserving net, and sailed to the open window, where they dropped it. In five minutes’ time it was black with flies that had not received proper nurture. Was I pleased? I was delighted. I set forth a feast of sugar on top of my bald head, and sat in the guest-chamber until my pets had made an end of eating.