April 6 + 

For weeks past we have all been in a terrible flutter scarcely paralleled by the outbreak of Armageddon in August, 1914. The spark which fired almost the whole building was a letter to the Times written by Dr. ⸻, making public an ignominious confession of ignorance on the part of Entomologists as to how the Housefly passed the winter. In reply, many correspondents wrote to say they hibernated, and one man was even so temerarious as to quote to us Entomologists the exact Latin name of the Housefly: viz., Musca domestica. We asked for specimens and enormous numbers of flies at once began to arrive at the Museum, alive and dead⁠—and not a Housefly among them! So there was a terrible howdedo. + 

One of the correspondents was named “Masefield.” “Not Masefield the poet?” an excited dipterist asked. I reassured him. + 

“I’ve a good mind,” said Dr. ⸻, “to reply to this chap who’s so emphatic and give him a whigging⁠—only he’s climbing down a bit in this second letter in today’s issue.” I strongly advocated clemency. + 

But still the affair goes on. Every morning sees more letters and more flies sent by all sorts of persons⁠—we seem to have set the whole world searching for Houseflies⁠—Duchesses, signalmen, farmers, footmen. Every morning each fresh batch of flies is mounted on pins by experts in the Setting Room, and an Assistant’s whole time is devoted to identifying, arranging, listing and reporting upon the new arrivals. At the last meeting of the Trustees a sample collection was displayed to show indubitably that the insects which hibernate in houses are not Musca domestica but Pollenia rudis. I understand the Trustees were appreciative. + 

An observant eye can now discover state visits to our dipterists from interested persons carrying their flies with them, animated discussions in the corridor, knots of excited enthusiasts in the Lavatory, in the Library, everywhere⁠—and everywhere the subject discussed is the same: How does the Housefly pass the winter? As one passes one catches: “In Bakehouses certainly they are to be found but.⁠ ⁠…” or a wistful voice, “I wish I had caught that one in my bathroom three winters ago⁠—I am certain it was a Housefly.” The Doctor himself⁠—a gallant Captain⁠—wanders from room to room stimulating his lieutenants to make suggestions, and examining every answer to the great interrogative on its merits, no matter how humble or insignificant the person who makes it. Then of an afternoon he will entirely disappear, and word goes round that he has set forth to examine a rubbish heap in Soho or Pimlico. As the afternoon draws to its close someone enquires if he has come back yet; next morning a second asks if I had seen him, then a third announces mournfully that he has just been holding conversation with him, but that nothing at all was found in the rubbish heap. + 

The great sensation of all occurred last week when somebody ran along the corridor crying that Mr. ⸻ had just found a Housefly in his room. We were all soon agog with the news, and the excited Captain was presently espied setting out for the scene of operations with a killing bottle and net. The insect was promptly impounded and identified as a veritable Musca domestica. A consultation being held to sit on the body, a lady finally laid information that two “forced Houseflies” hatched the day before had escaped from her possession. She suggested Mr. ⸻’s specimen was one of them. + 

“How would it get from your room to Mr. ⸻’s?” she was immediately asked. And breathless, we all heard her answer deliberately and quite audibly that the fugitive may have gone out of her window, up the garden and in by Mr. ⸻’s window, or it may have gone out of her door, up the corridor and in by his door. I wanted to know why it should have entered Mr. ⸻’s room as he is not a dipterist but a microlepidopterist. They looked at me sternly and we slowly dispersed. + 

This morning, the Dr. came to me with a newspaper cutting in his hand, saying, “The Times is behindhand.” He handed me the slip. It was a clipping from today’s Times about a sackful of flies which had been taken from Wandsworth Clock Tower in a state of hibernation. + 

“Behindhand?” I asked timidly, for I felt that all the story was not in front of me. + 

“Why, yes. Don’t you know?” + 

I knew nothing, but was prepared for anything. + 

“The Star, two days ago,” he informed me, “had a paragraph about this⁠—headed ‘Tempus fugit’ ”⁠—this last in a resentful tone as though the frivolous reporter were attempting to discredit our mystery. + 

There was a long pause. Neither of us spoke. Then he slowly said: + 

“I wonder why The Times is so behindhand. This is two days late.” + 