I. There'S A Bug At Night That Goes Drowsily Down The Garden Ways; Lumberingly Above The Rose, And Above The Jasmine Sprays; Bumping, Bungling, Buzzing By, Falling Finally, To Crawl Underneath The Rose And Lie Near Its Fairest Bud. That's All. And I Ask My Father Why This Old Bug Goes By That Way: This Is What He Has To Say: "That's Old Parson Beetle, Sonny; He's In Love With Some Rich Flower; After Her And All Her Honey And He'll Have Them In An Hour. He Is Awkward, But, I Say, With The Flowers He Has A Way; And, I Tell You, He's A Power; Never Fails To Get His Flower: He's A Great Old Beetle, Sonny." Ii. Then Again, When It Is Wet, And We Sit Around The Lamp, On The Screen, Near Which It's Set, Comes A Fluttering, Dim And Damp, Of White, Woolly Wings; And I Go To See What's There And Find Something Like A Butterfly, Beating At The Window-Blind. And I Ask My Father Why This Strange Creature Does That Way: This Is What He Has To Say: "Lady Moth That; SHe's The Fashion: Fall'S In Love With All Bright Things: She Has A Consuming Passion For This Light: Will Singe Her Wings. Once It Was A Star, You Know, That She Loved. I Told You So! Take Her Up. What Lovely Rings On Her Scorched And Dainty Wings! It's A Pity, But The Fashion."