Coming from a drive one rare June evening, I found Mr. William
Pettis, a shooter of oil wells, whom I frequently met while at my
work, sitting on the veranda in an animated business discussion
with the Deacon.
"I brought you a pair of big moths that I found this morning on
some bushes beside the road," said Mr. Pettis. "I went to give
Mr. Porter a peep to see if he thought you'd want them, and they
both got away. He was quicker than I, and caught the larger one,
but mine sailed over the top of that tree." He indicated an elm
not far away.
"Did you know them?" I asked the Deacon.
"No," he answered. "You have none of the kind. They are big as
birds and a beautiful yellow.'
"Yellow!" No doubt I was unduly emphatic. "Yellow! Didn't you
know better than to open a box with moths in it outdoors at night?"
"It was my fault," interposed Mr. Pettis. "He told me not to
open the box, but I had shown them a dozen times to-day and they
never moved. I didn't think about night being their time to fly.
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