MOTHS OF THE LIMBERLOST
A book about Limberlost Cabin
by
Gene Stratton-Porter
T o
Neltje Degraff Doubleday
"All diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains, and splendid dyes,
As are the Tiger Moth's deep damask wings."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I Moths of the Limberlost
CHAPTER II Moths, eggs, caterpillars, winter quarters
CHAPTER III The Robin Moth
CHAPTER IV The Yellow Emperor
CHAPTER V The Lady Bird
CHAPTER VI Moths of the moon
CHAPTER VII King of the hollyhocks
CHAPTER VIII Hera of the corn
CHAPTER IX The Sweetheart and the Bride
CHAPTER X The Giant Gamin
CHAPTER XI The Garden Fly
CHAPTER XII Bloody-Nose of Sunshine Hill
CHAPTER XIII The Modest Moth
CHAPTER XIV The Pride of the Lilacs
CHAPTER XV The King of the Poets
CHAPTER I Moths of the Limberlost
To me the Limberlost is a word with which to conjure; a spot wherein
to revel. The swamp lies in north-eastern Indiana, nearly one hundred
miles south of the Michigan line and ten west of the Ohio. In its
day it covered a large area. When I arrived; there were miles of
unbroken forest, lakes provided with boats for navigation, streams
of running water, the roads around the edges corduroy, made by felling
and sinking large trees in the muck. Then the Winter Swamp had all
the lacy exquisite beauty of such locations when snow and frost
draped, while from May until October it was practically tropical
jungle. From it I have sent to scientists flowers and vines not
then classified and illustrated in our botanies.
It was a piece of forethought to work unceasingly at that time,
for soon commerce attacked the swamp and began its usual process
of devastation. Canadian lumbermen came seeking tall straight timber
for ship masts and tough heavy trees for beams. Grand Rapids followed
and stripped the forest of hard wood for fine furniture, and through
my experience with the lumber men "Freckles"' story was
written. Afterward hoop and stave men and local mills took the best
of the soft wood. Then a ditch, in reality a canal, was dredged
across the north end through, my best territory, and that carried
the water to the Wabash River until oil men could enter the swamp.
From that time the wealth they drew to the surface constantly materialized
in macadamized roads, cosy homes, and big farms of unsurpassed richness,
suitable for growing onions, celery, sugar beets, corn and potatoes,
as repeatedly has been explained in everything I have written of
the place. Now, the Limberlost exists only in ragged spots and patches,
but so rich was it in the beginning that there is yet a wealth of
work for a lifetime remaining to me in these, and river thickets.
I ask no better hunting grounds for birds, moths, and flowers. The
fine roads are a convenience, and settled farms a protection, to
be taken into consideration, when bewailing its dismantling.
It is quite true that "One man's meat is another's poison."
When poor Limber, lost and starving in the fastnesses of the swamp,
gave to it a name, afterward to be on the lips of millions; to him
it was deadly poison. To me it has been of unspeakable interest,
unceasing work of joyous nature, and meat in full measure, with
occasional sweetbreads by way of a treat.
Primarily, I went to the swamp to study and reproduce the birds.
I never thought they could have a rival in my heart. But these fragile
night wanderers, these moonflowers of June's darkness, literally
"thrust themselves upon me." When my cameras were placed
before the home of a pair of birds, the bushes parted to admit light,
and clinging to them I found a creature, often having the bird's
sweep of wing, of colour pale green with decorations of lavender
and yellow or running the gamut from palest tans darkest browns,
with markings, of pink or dozens of other irresistible combinations
of colour, the feathered folk found a competitor that often outdistanced
them in my affections, for I am captivated easily by colour, and
beauty of form.
At first, these moths made studies of exquisite beauty, I merely
stopped a few seconds to reproduce them, before proceeding with
my work. Soon I found myself filling the waiting time, when birds
were slow in coming before the cameras, when clouds obscured the
light too much for fast exposures, or on grey days, by searching
for moths. Then in collecting abandoned nests, cocoons were found
on limbs, inside stumps, among leaves when gathering nuts, or queer
shining pupae-cases came to light as I lifted wild flowers in the
fall. All these were carried to my little conservatory, placed in
as natural conditions as possible, and studies were made from the
moths that emerged the following spring. I am not sure but that
"Moths of Limberlost Cabin" would be the most appropriate
title for this book.
Sometimes, before I had finished with them, they paired, mated,
and dotted everything with fertile eggs, from which tiny caterpillars
soon would emerge. It became a matter of intense interest to provide
their natural foods and raise them. That started me to watching
for caterpillars and eggs out of doors, and friends of my work began
carrying them to me. Repeatedly, I have gone through the entire
life process, from mating newly emerged moths, the egg period, caterpillar
life, with its complicated moults and changes, the spinning of the
cocoons, the miraculous winter sleep, to the spring appearance;
and with my cameras recorded each stage of development. Then on
platinum paper, printed so lightly from these negatives as to give
only an exact reproduction of forms, and with water colour medium
copied each mark, line and colour gradation in most cases from the
living moth at its prime. Never was the study of birds so interesting.
The illustration of every moth book I ever have seen, that attempted
coloured reproduction, proved by the shrivelled bodies and unnatural
position of the wings, that it had been painted from objects mounted
from weeks to years in private collections or museums. A lifeless
moth fades rapidly under the most favourable conditions. A moth
at eight days of age, in the last stages of decline, is from four
to six distinct shades lighter in colour than at six hours from
the cocoon, when it is dry, and ready for flight. As soon as circulation
stops, and the life juices evaporate from the wings and body, the
colour grows many shades paler. If exposed to light, moths soon
fade almost beyond recognition.
I make no claim to being an entomologist; I quite agree with the
"Autocrat of the Breakfast Table*", that "the subject
is too vast for any single human intelligence to grasp." If
my life depended upon it I could not give the scientific name of
every least organ and nerve of a moth, and as for wrestling with
the thousands of tiny species of day and night or even attempting
all the ramifications of--say the alluringly beautiful Catocalae
family-- life is too short, unless devoted to this purpose alone.
But if I frankly confess my limitations, and offer the book to my
nature-loving friends merely as an introduction to the most exquisite
creation of the swamp; and the outside history, as it were, of the
evolution of these creatures from moth to moth again, surely no
one can feel defrauded. Since the publication of "A Girl of
the Limberlost"**, I have received hundreds of letters asking
me to write of my experiences with the lepidoptera of the swamp.
This book professes to be nothing more.
<<*Dec 1996 [aofbtxxx.xxx]751 Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,
Oliver Wendell Holmes>>
<<**April 1994 [limbr10x.xxx] 125 A Girl of the Limberlost,
by Gene Stratton-Porter>>
Because so many enemies prey upon the large night moths in all stages,
they are nowhere sufficiently numerous to be pests, or common enough
to be given local names, as have the birds. I have been compelled
to use their scientific names to assist in identification, and at
times I have had to resort to technical terms, because there were
no other. Frequently I have written of them under the names by which
I knew them in childhood, or that we of Limberlost Cabin have bestowed
upon them.
There is a wide gulf between a Naturalist and a Nature Lover. A
Naturalist devotes his life to delving into stiff scientific problems
concerning everything in nature from her greatest to her most minute
forms. A Nature Lover works at any occupation and finds recreation
in being out of doors and appreciating the common things of life
as they appeal to his senses.
The Naturalist always begins at the beginning and traces family,
sub-family, genus and species. He deals in Latin and Greek terms
of resounding and disheartening combinations. At his hands anatomy
and markings become lost in a scientific jargon of patagia, jugum,
discocellulars, phagocytes, and so on to the end of the volume.
For one who would be a Naturalist, a rare specimen indeed, there
are many volumes on the market. The list of pioneer lepidopterists
begins authoritatively with Linnaeus and since his time you can
make your selection from the works of Druce, Grote, Strecker, Boisduval,
Robinson, Smith, Butler, Fernald, Beutenmuller, Hicks, Rothschild,
Hampson, Stretch, Lyman, or any of a dozen others. Possessing such
an imposing array of names there should be no necessity to add to
them. These men have impaled moths and dissected, magnified and
located brain, heart and nerves. After finishing the interior they
have given to the most minute exterior organ from two to three inches
of Latin name. From them we learn that it requires a coxa, trochanter,
femur, tibia, tarsus, ungues, pulvillus, and anterior, medial and
posterior spurs to provide a leg for a moth. I dislike to weaken
my argument that more work along these lines is not required, by
recording that after all this, no one seems to have located the
ears definitely. Some believe hearing lies in the antennae. Hicks
has made an especial study of a fluid filled cavity closed by a
membrane that he thinks he has demonstrated to be the seat of hearing.
Leydig, Gerstaecker, and others believe this same organ to be olfactory.
Perhaps, after all, there is room for only one more doctor of science
who will permanently settle this and a few other vexing questions
for us.
But what of the millons of Nature Lovers, who each year snatch only
a brief time afield, for rest and recreation? What of the masses
of men and women whose daily application to the work of life makes
vacation study a burden, or whose business has so broken the habit
of study that concentration is distasteful if not impossible? These
people number in the ratio of a million to one Naturalist. They
would be delighted to learn the simplest name possible for the creatures
they or their friends find afield, and the markings, habits, and
characteristics by which they can be identified. They do not care
in the least for species and minute detail concerning anatomy, couched
in resounding Latin and Greek terms they cannot possibly remember.
I never have seen or heard of any person who on being shown any
one of ten of our most beautiful moths, did not consider and promptly
pronounce it the most exquisite creation he ever had seen, and evince
a lively interest in its history. But when he found it necessary
to purchase a text-book, devoid of all human interest or literary
possibility, and wade through pages of scientific dissertation,
all the time having the feeling that perhaps through his lack of
experience his identification was not aright, he usually preferred
to remain in ignorance. It is in the belief that all Nature Lovers,
afield for entertainment or instruction, will be thankful for a
simplification of any method now existing for becoming acquainted
with moths, that this book is written and illustrated.
In gathering the material used I think it is quite true that I have
lost as many good subjects as I have secured, in my efforts to follow
the teachings of scientific writers. My complaint against them is
that they neglect essential detail and are not always rightly informed.
They confuse one with a flood of scientific terms describing minute
anatomical parts and fail to explain the simple yet absolutely essential
points over which an amateur has trouble, wheat often only a few
words would suffice.
For example, any one of half a dozen writers tells us that when
a caterpillar finishes eating and is ready to go into winter quarters
it crawls rapidly around for a time, empties the intestines, and
transformation takes place. Why do not some of them explain further
that a caterpillar of, say, six inches in length will shrink to
THREE, its skin become loosened, the horns drop limp, and the,creature
appear dead and disintegrating? Because no one mentioned these things,
I concluded that the first caterpillar I found in this state was
lost to me and threw it away. A few words would have saved the complete
history of a beautiful moth, to secure which no second opportunity
was presented for five years.
Several works I consulted united in the simple statement that certain
caterpillars pupate in the ground.
In Packard's "Guide", you will find this--"Lepidopterous
pupae should be...kept moist in mould until the image appears."
I followed this direction, even taking the precaution to bake the
earth used, because I was very anxious about some rare moths. When
they failed to emerge in season I dug them out, only to find that
those not moulded had been held fast by the damp, packed earth,
and all were ruined. I learned by investigation that pupation takes
place in a hole worked out by the caterpillar, so earth must touch
these cases only as they lie upon it. The one word 'hole' would
have saved all those moths for me.
One writer stated that the tongue cases of some pupae turn over
and fasten on the back between the wing shields, and others were
strangely silent on the subject. So for ten months I kept some cases
lying on their backs with the feet up and photographed them in that
position. I had to discover for myself that caterpillars that pupate
in the ground change to the moth form with the feet and legs folded
around the under side of the thorax, the wings wrap over them, and
the tongue case bends UNDER and is fastened between the wings.
For years I could find nothing on the subject of how a moth from
a burrowing caterpillar made its appearance. In two recent works
I find the statement that the pupa cases come to the surface before
the moths leave them, but how the operation is performed is not
described or explained. Pupa cases from earth consist of two principal
parts: the blunt head and thorax covering, and the ringed abdominal
sections. With many feeders there is a long, fragile tongue shield.
The head is rounded and immovable of its own volition. The abdominal
part is in rings that can be turned and twisted; on the tip are
two tiny, needlesharp points, and on each of three rings of the
abdominal shield there are in many cases a pair of tiny hooks, very
slight projections, yet enough to be of use. Some lepidopterists
think the pupa works head first to the surface, pushing with the
abdomen. To me this seems impossible. The more one forced the blunt
head against the earth the closer it would pack, and the delicate
tongue shield surely would break. There is no projection on the
head that would loosen or lift the earth.
One prominent lepidopterist I know, believes the moth emerges underground,
and works its way to the surface as it fights to escape a cocoon.
I consider this an utter impossibility. Remember the earth-encrusted
cicada cases you have seen clinging to the trunks of trees, after
the insect has reached the surface and abandoned them. Think what
would happen to the delicate moth head, wings, and downy covering!
I am willing to wager all I possess, that no lepidopterist, or any
amateur, ever found a freshly emerged moth from an underground case
with the faintest trace of soil on its head or feet, or a particle
of down missing; as there unquestionably must be, if it forced its
way to freedom through the damp spring earth with its mouth and
feet.
The point was settled for me when, while working in my garden, one
came through the surface within a few inches of my fingers, working
with the tip of the abdomen. It turned, twisted, dug away the dirt,
fastened the abdominal tip, pulled up the head, and then bored with
the tip again. Later I saw several others emerge in the same way,
and then made some experiments that forever convinced me that this
is the only manner in which ground pupae possibly could emerge.
One writer I had reason to suppose standard authority stated that
caterpillars from Citheronia Regalis eggs emerged in sixteen days.
So I boxed some eggs deposited on the eleventh, labelled them due
to produce caterpillars on the twenty-seventh and put away the box
to be attended on that date. Having occasion to move it on the twentyfourth,
I peeped in and found half my caterpillars out and starved, proving
that they had been hatched at least thirty-six hours or longer;
half the others so feeble they soon became inactive, and the remainder
survived and pupated. But if the time specified had been allowed
to elapse, every caterpillar would have starved.
One of the books I read preparatory to doing this work asserts concerning
spinners: "Most caterpillars make some sort of cocoon or shelter,
which may be of pure silk neatly wound, or of silk mixed with hair
and all manner of external things--such as pieces of leaf, bark,
moss, and lichen, and even grains of earth."
I have had caterpillars spin by the hundred, in boxes containing
most of these things, have gathered outdoor cocoons by the peck,
and microscopically examined dozens of them, and with the exception
of leaf, twig, bark, or some other foundation against which it was
spun, I never have seen a cocoon with shred, filament, or particle
of anything used in its composition that was not drawn from the
spinning tube or internal organism of the caterpillar, with the
possible exception of a few hairs from the tubercles. I have been
told by other workers that they have had captive caterpillars use
earth and excrement in their cocoons.
This same work, in an article on protective colouration, lays emphasis
on the statement that among pupa cases artificially fastened to
different objects out of doors, "the elimination was ninety-two
per cent on fences where pupae were conspicuous, as against fifty-two
per cent among nettles, where they were inconspicuous." This
statement is elaborated and commented upon as making a strong point
for colourative protection through inconspicuousness.
Personally, I think the nettles did the work, regardless of colour.
I have learned to much experience afield that a patch of nettles
or thistles afford splendid protection to any form of life that
can survive them. I have seen insects and nesting birds find a safety
in their shelter, unknown to their kind that home elsewhere. The
test is not fair enough to be worth consideration. If these same
pupae had been as conspicuously placed as on the fence, on any EDIBLE
GROWTH, in the same location as the fence, and then left to the
mercy of playing children, grazing stock, field mice, snakes, bats,
birds, insects and parasites, the story of what happened to them
would have been different. I doubt very seriously if it would have
proved the point those lepidopterists started out to make in these
conditions, which are the only fair ones under which such an experiment
could be made.
Many people mentioned in connexion with the specimens they brought
me have been more than kind in helping to collect the material this
volume contains; but its publication scarcely would have been possible
to me had it not been for the enthusiasm of one girl who prefers
not to be mentioned and the work of a seventeen-year-old boy, Raymond
Miller. He has been my sole helper in many difficult days of field
work among the birds, and for the moths his interest reached such
a pitch that he spent many hours afield in search of eggs, caterpillars,
cocoons, and moths, when my work confined me to the cabin. He has
carried to me many of my rarest cocoons, and found in their native
haunts several moths needed to complete the book. It is to be hoped
that these wonderful days afield have brought their own compensation,
for kindness such as his I never can reward adequately. The book
proves my indebtedness to the Deacon and to Molly-Cotton. I also
owe thanks to Bob Burdette Black, the oldest and warmest friend
of my bird work, for many fine moths and cocoons, and to Professor
R. R. Rowley for the laborious task of scientifically criticizing
this book and with unparalleled kindness lending a helping hand
where an amateur stumbled.