Comale knew what this bundle was, well enough, for many a time he had found this kind of a nest of the larva of a moth.

He knew it was lined with fine spun silk, and that the heathen people said that the moth used once to be a real person who stole wood, and who, having died, came back to earth again in the form of a moth, condemned, for the former theft, to make little bunches of firewood.

Comale sighed as he touched the little bundle hanging from the tree.
He thought of the "good" butterflies that he had that morning seen going on "pilgrimage." "Some people are good, and some people are bad," thought Comale sadly.

"The butterflies go on pilgrimage, but the bad moth's little bundle of firewood hangs in the tree.

I wish I did not always do something bad!" Ordinarily he would not have cared for the acts of either moth or butterfly, but to-day there was in Comale's heart a sense of guilt that found accusation from unwonted sources.
"Comale!" warned his father again, "another false cut!" Tears of mortification sprang to the lad's eyes.