The Proper Care of Flies

"The Proper Care of Flies" by Charles Battell Loomis is a whimsical and insightful exploration of the human experience through the lens of a fictional guidebook on the care of flies. Blending humor and philosophical musings, Loomis delves into the absurdities of life, drawing parallels between the fragility of insect existence and the complexities of human relationships. The book invites readers to reflect on themes of mortality, purpose, and the often overlooked details of everyday life, all while presenting a delightful narrative filled with clever observations and unexpected wisdom.

• Short story

								
It is a fact beyond cavil that ninety-nine flies out of a hundred
perish every year for lack of proper care on the part of housewives;
that the attention that is lavished upon the house-cat, if expended
upon the house-fly, would cause him to stay with us throughout the
twelvemonth.

I have devoted years of patient study to the busy buzzers, and I
speak as one having authority. Flies need warmth as much as humans
do--nay, more than their biped brethren, for we can stand the early
autumn frosts without a fire, but it is those few days that kill
off the little fellows that have been our winged companions through
the summer season, singing in the new day, sampling our butter and
meats, and tickling us half to death with their erratic pilgrimages
and divagations. A little forethought on our part, a speedier
lighting of the furnace fires, and flies in midwinter would no longer
be a rarity.

This well-nigh universal carelessness is due to a woeful ignorance
as to the habits of the fly, and not to intentional cruelty. Why,
we know more about the ways of the wapiti than of the most common
occupant of our houses. To give an instance, most people refer to the
fly as a scavenger, a lover of tainted meats and vegetables. This is
only because he is so often forced to eat tainted meat or go without
altogether. There are fresh milk and fish for the cat, dainty tidbits
for the dog, millet and rape for the canary; yet how many Christian
people think to provide something tempting for the flies? But too
often we begrudge them the crumbs that fall from the table.

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.

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.

The nineteenth century is nearing its close, and the house-fly is not
a perfect insect; but, housekeeper, it lies with you to improve the
breed. Exercise a little care in the choice of their food, and when
the biting days of early fall come upon the land, make provision for
warming your little guests of the summer days, and if the winds of
winter whistle sharp they will be answered by the hot little buzz of
myriads of flies.
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