"The new skin they have just got, with the wings and everything?" asks Mary.
"Exactly; the new skin. It comes off of the wings, off of the long tails and the short feelers, and all the rest of the body. No other kind of insect but the May-fly casts its skin once its wings are outspread. But now the May-fly is ready for its dizzy dance. And as it has only a few hours to do it in, it usually starts as soon as there are any lights to dance about. Think of it, to come up from under the water, get your wings and be a real May-fly, not just a crawling thing on the bottom of a pond, and have only one evening to live in! Probably to dance the whole evening through is about the best thing to do under such circumstances."
"Don't any of the poor May-flies live for more than one evening?" asks Mary. "It does seem a shame to put in so long a time, one year, two years for some, getting ready to fly and then have only one evening or night for flying."
"Well, yes, some do, Mary. That is, there are many different kinds of May-flies; some large ones, some small ones, some kinds with four wings, some kinds with only two, and the length of the flying time is not the same for all these kinds. Some live a day, some two, some perhaps even three or four. But there are several kinds whose flying life is just a few hours; they are born, that is, as flying creatures, after sundown and they die before the next sunrise. The first kind of May-fly whose life was ever carefully studied—this was nearly two hundred and fifty years ago, by a famous naturalist of Holland—lives only five hours after it comes from the water. But remember what a fine long time they have being young! If we could be young—but there, that's foolish. Mary, the chimes in the tower-clock are sounding. Listen!"
And we sit perfectly still and hear the beautiful Haydn changes on the four bells, and then count twelve clear strokes of the big clock-bell that come all the way from the Quadrangle to us, softened and mellowed by the distance. We must go home to luncheon. And after luncheon I must go and lecture—Ugh! How sad!—sad for the students and sad for me. But that's the way we do it, and until we find the real way, we must all continue to suffer together.
"Come, Mary, we're off. How would you like to be a May-fly?"
"And have only one day to live when I'm all grown up?"
"You might be saved some troubles, Mary."
