"Oh, look, papa!" did Susan cry,
"What lies here in my hand!
A lovely moth with spotted wings,
Are not his colors grand?"
Her father bent his learned head;
Indulgently he smiled,
For Susan was, as you perceive,
A nature-loving child.
"And may I keep him in the house
And learn his every trait?"
"You may, my child," her father said,
"Your taste 't will cultivate."
For many a week did Susan play
And study with her pet;
But oh, alack! one hapless hour
Brought tears and sore regret.
This moth one vicious habit had
Which casts this tale in gloom.
One day in blundering, playful mood
He entered Susan's room;
And climbing through a tiny crack
Of Susan's shining trunk,
From her new blouse he chewed, alas!
A large white flannel chunk.
"Oh, father dear, come here and see!"
Cried Sue. "The lunar moth
My kindness basely has repaid;
Behold this blemished cloth.
What shall we do? What shall we do?"
The father wiped his eye.
"I hate to break your comradeship,
But your dear pet must die."
Next day the father took his gun
With courage resolute,
Intending for his daughter's good
That lunar moth to shoot.
Within the attic's deepest gloom
Poor Susan hid her head
And sobbed but harder when she heard
Her lovely moth was dead.