itself to the dry land, or to the slip of cork placed in the jar for its use. There, the apparently painful process of its unfolding takes place, and the fly slowly emerges. The envelope bursts asunder, and the head of the lovely, but blood-thirsty damsel, emerges to the light. Next appear the legs, not in action, but gathered up to the breast, as if in spasm, and, for a time, the effort is suspended, and the helpless, half-formed beauty hangs back her head, as if languid with the exhaustion of pain. Once more she pants for freedom, sighing to sun herself in the blue ether, and another struggle is made. This time she clutches at the pupa case with a convulsive grasp, and drags forth the whole of her delicate body from the grave, and there remains motionless, still clinging to it, as if contemplating the baseness of her origin—for beauty is ever the offspring of the dust. She is free at last—but, ah! how helpless. Her wings are damp, and closely folded, and would not yield to the wish for flight, even were she already possessed of the power to stir them into action. She is on the threshold of a new world—a creature born of the dust, just escaped from the dust; and now as we watch her wings dry and expand, away she goes—a thing of light and loveliness soaring heavenward. Like the mortal ark, out of which the spirit of man escapes, we may, without losing sight of the disparity of the subjects, speak of the chrysalis of the dragon fly as—
“A worn-out fetter, which the soul
Has broken, and thrown away.”
