her neighbor's character unto its destruction, is not more full of
gossip than her brother Man, who knows better and yet cannot stand the
temptation of a sick man and a safe chance to chatter about matters
with which he has no business. I am afraid like the idea of original
sin we all have just a little spice of it.

* * * * *

A relief to this friend, and a friend I never saw before, was my Moth.
I think he came into the world about February, having been deceived
by the hot room into the belief that Spring had come. Many days after,
when snow could be seen on the ground, I have seen him feebly climbing
up the window pane and looking out with the air of one whose whole
life had been a dreadful mistake. The first time I saw him was one
night sitting in the light and heat of the lamp, his grey wing shining
like silver and his brown little body giving a soft, velvety light,
his face grave with owl-like stupidity, and two big black eyes. 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