"But people aren't at all as kind as you think," remarked an old fly who liked to grumble occasionally. "It only seems so to you. Have you ever noticed the man they call Papa?"
"Oh, yes. He is a very strange gentleman. You are perfectly right, good old fly. Why does he smoke that pipe? He knows very well I do not like tobacco smoke. It seems to me sometimes that he does it just to spite me. And he doesn't like to do anything for flies. You know, once I tasted that ink with which he is forever writing, and I almost died. It was awful. I once saw with my own eyes two pretty, inexperienced young flies drown in his ink. It was a dreadful sight to see how he pulled them out with his pen, put them on his paper, making a splendid blot. Just think of it! Then he blames us and not himself. Where is justice?"
"I think this Papa has no sense of justice, although he has one good quality," answered the old, experienced fly. "He drinks beer after dinner. That isn't at all a bad habit. To tell the truth, I like a taste of beer myself, though it does make me dizzy."
"I also like beer," confessed Little Fly, blushing slightly. "I become quite gay after having some, although my head aches the next day. Perhaps Papa does not do anything for flies because he does not care for jam and puts all of his sugar into his tea. One really cannot expect much of a man who does not eat jam. There is nothing left for him but his pipe."
The flies knew people very well, although they interpreted them in their own fashion.
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.