The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there?Presumably it was midday, and work in the felds had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animations. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings；nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs futtered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One's sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, whenthere was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth；against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignifcant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist flled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O, yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.