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Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid-September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments, sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.

Yet it was not of that energy that the moth was made. The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window-pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, had a curious feeling about the creature. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it has a way of filling the fields and the trees with its own colouring; but watching it, one has a sense of the absurdity of it. Having had to abstain from judging by the standards of the human world because of the creature's small size, its minute scale, one had come to wonder whether there was any meaning in the thing at all. What was the good of the moth's life? It was a pathetic attempt on the part of the common sense of mankind to grant some interest to a specimen of the race which in the ordinary way would have no claim to existence beyond the pleasure of seeing it fluttering from side to side of the window.

Yet because it was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about it. The moth had chosen his window-pane not for its beauty but because of the light, and the warmth of the sun. He was fluttering about, sometimes trying to cross the pane, sometimes just hovering, as if uncertain what to do next. The morning was already much advanced. The fields were very quiet. The sun was shining full upon the window; the meadow was already full of the white berries of the blackthorn.

I looked at the moth. He was trying to get out of the window, and he was failing. Again and again he fell back from the pane. But he did not give up. He struggled on. He moved round the pane, and then again, as if trying to find a way through, he beat his wings against the glass. There was something very pathetic about it. He was so small, and so fragile, and yet so determined. It seemed to him that the only thing he could do was to go on trying. He did not know that it was impossible. He did not know that the window was sealed. He knew nothing but the pane of glass, and that it was his enemy.

I watched him. I watched him, and I thought of the meaning of life and death, and of the little creature's struggle. Then something happened. The moth seemed to be winning. He had got to the top of the pane, and was clinging there, his wings moving rapidly. I felt a sudden hope. Perhaps he would get out. But he did not. He fell. He fell back to the window-sill, and lay there, on his back, his wings beating feebly. I knew that it was the end. I knew that the moth was dying. I looked at him, and I felt a strange pity for him. He was so small, and so frail, and so helpless. He was fighting a battle that he could not win.

I watched him, as he lay there, his wings beating slower and slower. His legs were twitching. His body was stiffening. He was dying. And I could do nothing to help him. I could only watch. I could only watch, and think. I thought of the moth's life. It had been so short, and so pointless. It had been nothing but a struggle. It had been a struggle to live, and then a struggle to die. And now it was over. The moth was dead. He lay there, still and silent, on the window-sill. And I looked at him, and I thought: "That is death. That is the end." And I felt a great sadness. I felt a sadness for the moth, and for all the little creatures, and for everything that has to die.

I looked out of the window. The fields were still quiet. The sun was still shining. The rooks were still flying. Everything was the same as before. Nothing had changed. The moth was dead, but nothing had changed. And I thought: "That is the way of things. That is the way of the world. That is the way of life and death. And there is nothing to be done about it."

I looked at the moth again. He was lying there, on his back, his wings still. He was dead. And I felt a strange sense of peace. It was over. The struggle was over. And he was at rest. And I thought: "Maybe that's what death is. Maybe it's not a tragedy. Maybe it's just rest. Maybe it's the end of the struggle."