Tawny ribbons hung on the door. The sun beat straight upon them.

The upper wings of the moth which Jacob held were undoubtedly marked
with kidney-shaped spots of a fulvous hue. But there was no crescent
upon the underwing. The tree had fallen the night he caught it. There
had been a volley of pistol-shots suddenly in the depths of the wood.
And his mother had taken him for a burglar when he came home late. The
only one of her sons who never obeyed her, she said.

Morris called it "an extremely local insect found in damp or marshy
places." But Morris is sometimes wrong. Sometimes Jacob, choosing a very
fine pen, made a correction in the margin.

The tree had fallen, though it was a windless night, and the lantern,
stood upon the ground, had lit up the still green leaves and the dead
beech leaves. It was a dry place. A toad was there. And the red
underwing had circled round the light and flashed and gone. The red
underwing had never come back, though Jacob had waited. It was after
twelve when he crossed the lawn and saw his mother in the bright room,
playing patience, sitting up.

"How you frightened me!" she had cried. She thought something dreadful
had happened. And he woke Rebecca, who had to be up so early.

There he stood pale, come out of the depths of darkness, in the hot
room, blinking at the light.

No, it could not be a straw-bordered underwing.

The mowing-machine always wanted oiling. Barnet turned it under Jacob's