After
the snow passed away he seemed to get settled, and at night would sit
on a match box staring for hours at the lamp, as one who should say,
"Well, I understand the medicine vials, and the blisters, and the
inkstand, and all that, but this great bright thing is quite beyond
me." He never once thought of flying into it to see how it was done,
and I thought of writing to the Bug Professor at the Smithsonian that
here was a species of moth that light did not attract. But what will
not bad company do? After the warm weather came and the windows were
open, what should come in but other moths, of little character I think,
who commenced pranks of humming and buzzing and butting the lamp. My
Moth watched it with deep interest for two nights, but on the second
night, I saw from his rubbing his nose with his paws that he was getting
excited. Sure enough on the third night he remarked, "Well, I guess
I'll try a little of that myself," and hopping back to the mucilage
bottle for a start he took a header at the lamp. Except that his silver
wings trembled, and his velvet legs drew up, he never moved again. I
had lost a good friend whose innocent ramblings I had watched for hours
and whose antics, when he tasted the ink or got a sniff of the ammonia,
had much amused me.
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