CHAPTER III The Robin Moth: Cecropia
When only a little child, wandering alone among the fruits and flowers
of our country garden, on a dead peach limb beside the fence I found
it--my first Cecropia. I was the friend of every bird, flower, and
butterfly. I carried crumbs to the warblers in the sweetbrier; was
lifted for surreptitious peeps at the hummingbird nesting in the
honeysuckle; sat within a few feet of the robin in the catalpa;
bugged the currant bushes for the phoebe that had built for years
under the roof of the corn bin; and fed young blackbirds in the
hemlock with worms gathered from the cabbages. I knew how to insinuate
myself into the private life of each bird that homed on our farm,
and they were many, for we valiantly battled for their protection
with every kind of intruder. There were wrens in the knot holes,
chippies in the fences, thrushes in the brush heaps, bluebirds in
the hollow apple trees, cardinals in the bushes, tanagers in the
saplings, fly-catchers in the trees, larks in the wheat, bobolinks
in the clover, killdeers beside the creeks, swallows in the chimneys,
and martins under the barn eaves. My love encompassed all feathered
and furred creatures.
Every day visits were paid flowers I cared for most. I had been
taught not to break the garden blooms, and if a very few of the
wild ones were taken, I gathered them carefully, and explained to
the plants that I wanted them for my mother because she was so ill
she could not come to them any more, and only a few touching her
lips or lying on her pillow helped her to rest, and made vivid the
fields and woods when the pain was severe.
My love for the butterflies took on the form of adoration. There
was not a delicate, gaudy, winged creature of day that did not make
so strong an appeal to my heart as to be almost painful. It seemed
to me that the most exquisite thoughts of God for our pleasure were
materialized in their beauty. My soul always craved colour, and
more brilliancy could be found on one butterfly wing than on many
flower faces. I liked to slip along the bloom-bordered walks of
that garden and stand spell-bound, watching a black velvet butterfly,
which trailed wings painted in white, red, and green, as it clambered
over a clump of sweet-williams, and indeed, the flowers appeared
plain compared with it! Butterflies have changed their habits since
then. They fly so high! They are all among the treetops now. They
used to flit around the cinnamon pinks, larkspur, ragged-robins
and tiger lilies, within easy reach of little fingers, every day.
I called them `flying flowers,' and it was a pretty conceit, for
they really were more delicate in texture and brighter in colouring
than the garden blooms.
Having been taught that God created the heavens, earth and all things
therein, I understood it to mean a literal creation of each separate
thing and creature, as when my father cut down a tree and hewed
it into a beam. I would spend hours sitting so immovably among the
flowers of our garden that the butterflies would mistake me for
a plant and alight on my head and hands, while I strove to conceive
the greatness of a Being who could devise and colour all those different
butterfly wings. I would try to decide whether He created the birds,
flowers, or butterflies first; ultimately coming to the conclusion
that He put His most exquisite material into the butterflies, and
then did the best He could with what remained, on the birds and
flowers.
In my home there was a cellar window on the south, covered with
wire screening, that was my individual property. Father placed a
box beneath it so that I could reach the sill easily, and there
were very few butterflies or insects common to eastern North America
a specimen of which had not spent some days on that screen, feasted
on leaves and flowers, drunk from saucers of sweetened water, been
admired and studied in minutest detail, and then set free to enjoy
life as before. With Whitman, "I never was possessed with a
mania for killing things." I had no idea of what families they
were, and I supplied my own names. The Monarch was the Brown Velvet;
the Viceroy was his Cousin; the Argynnis was the Silver Spotted;
and the Papilio Ajax was the Ribbon butterfly, in my category. There
was some thought of naming Ajax, Dolly Varden; but on close inspection
it seemed most to resemble the gayly striped ribbons my sisters
wore.
I was far afield as to names, but in later years with only a glance
at any specimen I could say, "Oh, yes! I always have known
that. It has buff-coloured legs, clubbed antennae with buff tips,
wings of purplish brown velvet with escalloped margins, a deep band
of buff lightly traced with black bordering them, and a pronounced
point close the apex of the front pair. When it came to books, all
they had to teach me were the names. I had captured and studied
butterflies, big, little, and with every conceivable variety of
marking, until it was seldom one was found whose least peculiarity
was not familiar to me as my own face; but what could this be?
It clung to the rough bark, slowly opening and closing large wings
of grey velvet down, margined with bands made of shades of grey,
tan, and black; banded with a broad stripe of red terra cotta colour
with an inside margin of white, widest on the back pair. Both pairs
of wings were decorated with half-moons of white, outlined in black
and strongly flushed with terra cotta; the front pair near the outer
margin had oval markings of blue-black, shaded with grey, outlined
with half circles of white, and secondary circles of black. When
the wings were raised I could see a face of terra cotta, with small
eyes, a broad band of white across the forehead, and an abdomen
of terra cotta banded with snowy white above, and spotted with white
beneath. Its legs were hairy, and the antennae antlered like small
branching ferns. Of course I thought it was a butterfly, and for
a time was too filled with wonder to move. Then creeping close,
the next time the wings were raised above its body, with the nerveless
touch of a robust child I captured it.
I was ten miles from home, but I had spent all my life until the
last year on that farm, and I knew and loved every foot of it. To
leave it for a city home and the confinement of school almost had
broken my heart, but it really was time for me to be having some
formal education. It had been the greatest possible treat to be
allowed to return to the country for a week, but now my one idea
was to go home with my treasure. None of my people had seen a sight
like that. If they had, they would have told me.
Borrowing a two-gallon stone jar from the tenant's wife, I searched
the garden for flowers sufficiently rare for lining. Nothing so
pleased me as some gorgeous deep red peony blooms. Never having
been allowed to break the flowers when that was my mother's home,
I did not think of doing it because she was not there to know. I
knelt and gathered all the fallen petals that were fresh, and then
spreading my apron on the ground, jarred the plant, not harder than
a light wind might, and all that fell in this manner it seemed right
to take. The selection was very pleasing, for the yellow glaze of
the jar, the rich red of the petals, and the grey velvet of my prize
made a picture over which I stood trembling in delight. The moth
was promptly christened the Half-luna, because my father had taught
me that luna was the moon, and the half moons on the wings were
its most prominent markings.
The tenant's wife wanted me to put it in a pasteboard box, but I
stubbornly insisted on having the jar, why, I do not know, but I
suppose it was because my father's word was gospel to me, and he
had said that the best place to keep my specimens was the cellar
window, and I must have thought the jar the nearest equivalent to
the cellar. The Half-luna did not mind in the least, but went on
lazily opening and closing its wings, yet making no attempt to fly.
If I had known what it was, or anything of its condition, I would
have understood that it had emerged from the cocoon that morning,
and never had flown, but was establishing circulation preparatory
to taking wing. Being only a small, very ignorant girl, the greatest
thing I knew for sure was what I loved.
Tying my sunbonnet over the top of the jar, I stationed myself on
the horse block at the front gate. Every passing team was hailed
with lifted hand, just as I had seen my father do, and in as perfect
an imitation of his voice as a scared little girl making her first
venture alone in the big world could muster, I asked, "Which
way, Friend?"
For several long, hot hours people went to every point of the compass,
but at last a bony young farmer, with a fat wife, and a fatter baby,
in a big wagon, were going to my city, and they said I might ride.
With quaking heart I handed up my jar, and climbed in, covering
all those ten miles in the June sunshine, on a board laid across
e wagon bed, tightly clasping the two-gallon jar in my aching arms.
The farmer's wife was quite concerned about me. She asked if I had
butter, and I said, "Yes, the kind that flies."
I slipped the bonnet enough to let them peep. She did not seem to
think much of it, but the farmer laughed until his tanned face was
red as an Indian's. His wife insisted on me putting down the jar,
and offered to set her foot on it so that it would not `jounce'
much, but I did not propose to risk it 'jouncing' at all, and clung
to it persistently. Then she offered to tie her apron over the top
of the jar if I would put my bonnet on my head, but I was afraid
to attempt the exchange for fear my butterfly would try to escape,
and I might crush it, a thing I almost never had allowed to happen.
The farmer's wife stuck her elbow into his ribs, and said, "How's
that for the queerest spec'men ye ever see?" The farmer answered,
"I never saw nothin' like it before." Then she said, "Aw
pshaw! I didn't mean in the jar!" Then they both laughed. I
thought they were amused at me, but I had no intention of risking
an injury to my Half-luna, for there had been one black day on which
I had such a terrible experience that it entailed a lifetime of
caution.
I had captured what I afterward learned was an Asterias, that seemed
slightly different from any previous specimen, and a yellow swallow-tail,
my first Papilio Turnus. The yellow one was the largest, most beautiful
butterfly I ever had seen. I was carrying them, one between each
thumb and forefinger, and running with all possible speed to reach
the screen before my touch could soil the down on their exquisite
wings. I stumbled, and fell, so suddenly, there was no time to release
them. The black one sailed away with a ragged wing, and the yellow
was crushed into a shapeless mass in my hand. I was accustomed to
falling off fences, from trees, and into the creek, and because
my mother was an invalid I had learned to doctor my own bruises
and uncomplainingly go my way. My reputation was that of a very
brave little girl; but when I opened my hand and saw that broken
butterfly, and my down-painted fingers, I was never more afraid
in my life. I screamed aloud in panic, and ran for my mother with
all my might. Heartbroken, I could not control my voice to explain
as I threw myself on her couch, and before I knew what they were
doing, I was surrounded by sisters and the cook with hot water,
bandages and camphor.
My mother clasped me in her arms, and rocked me on her breast. "There,
there, my poor child," she said, "I know it hurts dreadfully!'
And to the cook she commanded, "Pour on camphor quickly! She
is half killed, or she never would come to me like this." I
found my voice. "Camphor won't do any good," I wailed.
"It was the most beautiful butterfly, and I've broken it all
to pieces. It must have taken God hours studying how to make it
different from all the others, and I know He never will forgive
me!' I began sobbing worse than ever. The cook on her knees before
me sat on her heels suddenly. "Great Heavens! She's screechin'
about breakin' a butterfly, and not her poor fut, at all!"
Then I looked down and discovered that I had stubbed my toe in falling,
and had left a bloody trail behind me. "Of course I am! "
I sobbed indignantly. "Couldn't I wash off a little blood in
the creek, and tie up my toe with a dock leaf and some grass? I've
killed the most beautiful butterfly, and I know I won't be forgiven!"
I opened my tightly clenched hand and showed it to prove my words.
The sight was so terrible to me that I jerked my foot from the cook,
and thrust my hand into the water, screaming, "Wash it! Wash
it! Wash the velvet from my hand! Oh! make it white again!"
Before the cook bathed and bandaged my foot, she washed and dried
my hand; and my mother whispered, "God knows you never meant
to do it, and He is sorry as mother is." So my mother and the
cook comforted me. The remainder scattered suddenly. It was years
before I knew why, and I was a Shakespearean student before I caught
the point to their frequently calling me `Little Lady Macbeth!'
After such an experience, it was not probable that I would risk
crushing a butterfly to tie a bonnet on my head. It probably would
be down my back half the time anyway. It usually was. As we neared
the city I heard the farmer's wife tell him that he must take me
to my home. He said he would not do any such a thing, but she said
he must. She explained that she knew me, and it would not be decent
to put me down where they were going, and leave me to walk home
and carry that heavy jar. So the farmer took me to our gate. I thanked
him as politely as I knew how, and kissed his wife and the fat baby
in payment for their kindness, for I was very grateful. I was so
tired I scarcely could set down the jar and straighten my cramped
arms when I had the opportunity. I had expected my family to be
delighted over my treasure, but they exhibited an astonishing indifference,
and were far more concerned over the state of my blistered face.
I would not hear of putting my Half-luna on the basement screen
as they suggested, but enthroned it in state on the best lace curtains
at a parlour window, covered the sill with leaves and flowers, and
went to bed happy. The following morning my sisters said a curtain
was ruined, and when they removed it to attempt restoration, the
general consensus of opinion seemed to be that something was a nuisance,
I could not tell whether it was I, or the Half-luna. On coming to
the parlour a little later, ladened with leaves and flowers, my
treasure was gone. The cook was sure it had flown from the door
over some one's head, and she said very tersely that it was a burning
shame, and if such carelessness as that ever occurred again she
would quit her job. Such is the confidence of a child that I accepted
my loss as an inevitable accident, and tried to be brave to comfort
her, although my heart was almost broken. Of course they freed my
moth. They never would have dared but that the little mother's couch
stood all day empty now, and her chair unused beside it. My disappointment
was so deep and far- reaching it made me ill then they scolded me,
and said I had half killed myself carrying that heavy jar in the
hot sunshine, although the pain from which I suffered was neither
in my arms nor sunburned face.
So I lost my first Cecropia, and from that day until a woman grown
and much of this material secured, in all my field work among the
birds, flowers, and animals, I never had seen another. They had
taunted me in museums, and been my envy in private collections,
but find one, I could not. When in my field work among the birds,
so many moths of other families almost had thrust themselves upon
me that I began a collection of reproductions of them, I found little
difficulty in securing almost anything else. I could picture Sphinx
Moths in any position I chose, and Lunas seemed eager to pose for
me. A friend carried to me a beautiful tan-coloured Polyphemus with
transparent moons like isinglass set in its wings of softest velvet
down, and as for butterflies, it was not necessary to go afield
for them; they came to me. I could pick a Papilio Aj ax, that some
of my friends were years in securing, from the pinks in my garden.
A pair of Antiopas spent a night, and waited to be pictured in the
morning, among the leaves of my passion vine. Painted Beauties swayed
along my flowered walks, and in September a Viceroy reigned in state
on every chrysanthemum, and a Monarch was enthroned on every sunbeam.
No luck was too good for me, no butterfly or moth too rare, except
forever and always the coveted Cecropia, and by this time I had
learned to my disgust that it was one of the commonest of all.
Then one summer, late in June, a small boy, having an earnest, eager
little face, came to me tugging a large box. He said he had something
for me. He said "they called it a butterfly, but he was sure
it never was." He was eminently correct. He had a splendid
big Cecropia. I was delighted. Of course to have found one myself
would have filled my cup to overflowing, but to secure a perfect,
living specimen was good enough. For the first time my childish
loss seemed in a measure compensated. Then, I only could study a
moth to my satisfaction and set it free; now, I could make reproductions
so perfect that every antler of its antennae could be counted with
the naked eye, and copy its colours accurately, before giving back
its liberty.
I asked him whether he wanted money or a picture of it, and as I
expected, he said `money,' so he was paid. An hour later he came
back and said he wanted the picture. On being questioned as to his
change of heart, he said "mamma told him to say he wanted the
picture, and she would give him the money." My sympathy was
with her. I wanted the studies I intended to make of that Cecropia
myself, and I wanted them very badly.
I opened the box to examine the moth, and found it so numb with
the cold over night, and so worn and helpless, that it could not
cling to a leaf or twig. I tried repeatedly, and fearing that it
had been subjected to rough treatment, and soon would be lifeless,
for these moths live only a short time, I hastily set up a camera
focusing on a branch. Then I tried posing my specimen. Until the
third time it fell, but the fourth it clung, and crept down a twig,
settling at last in a position that far, surpassed any posing that
I could do. I was very pleased, and yet it made a complication.
It had gone so far that it might be off the plate and from focus.
It seemed so stupid and helpless that I decided to risk a peep at
the glass, and hastily removing the plate and changing the shutter,
a slight but most essential alteration was made, everything replaced,
and the bulb caught up. There was only a breath of sound as I turned,
and then I stood horrified, for my Cecropia was sailing over a large
elm tree in a corner of the orchard, and for a block my gaze followed
it skyward, flying like a bird before it vanished in the distance,
so quickly had it recovered in fresh air and sunshine.
I have undertaken to describe some very difficult things, but I
would not attempt to portray my feelings, and three days later there
was no change. It was in the height of my season of field work,
and I had several extremely interesting series of bird studies on
hand, and many miscellaneous subjects. In those days some pictures
were secured that I then thought, and yet feel, will live, but nothing
mattered to me. There was a standing joke among my friends that
I never would be satisfied with my field work until I had made a
study of a 'Ha-ha bird,' but I doubt if even that specimen would
have lifted the gloom of those days. Everything was a drag, and
frequently I would think over it all in detail, and roundly bless
myself for taking a prize so rare, to me at least, into the open.
The third day stands lurid in my memory. It was the hottest, most
difficult day of all my years of experience afield. The temperature
ranged from 104 to 108 in the village, and in quarries open to the
east, flat fields, and steaming swamps it certainly could have been
no cooler. With set cameras I was working for a shot at a hawk that
was feeding on all the young birds and rabbits in the vicinity of
its nest. I also wanted a number of studies to fill a commission
that was pressing me. Subjects for several pictures had been found,
and exposures made on them when the weather was so hot that the
rubber slide of a plate holder would curl like a horseshoe if not
laid on a case, and held flat by a camera while I worked. Perspiration
dried, and the landscape took on a sombre black velvet hue, with
a liberal sprinkling of gold stars. I sank into a stupor going home,
and an old farmer aroused me, and disentangled my horse from a thicket
of wild briers into which it had strayed. He said most emphatically
that if I did not know enough to remain indoors weather like that,
my friends should appoint me a `guardeen.'
I reached the village more worn in body and spirit than I ever had
been. I felt that I could not endure another degree of heat on the
back of my head, and I was much discouraged concerning my work.
Why not drop it all, and go where there were cool forests and breezes
sighing? Perhaps my studies were not half so good as I thought!
Perhaps people would not care for them! For that matter, perhaps
the editors and publishers never would give the public an opportunity
to see my work at all!
I dragged a heavy load up the steps and swung it to the veranda,
and there stood almost paralysed. On the top step, where I could
not reach the Cabin door without seeing it, newly emerged, and slowly
exercising a pair of big wings, with every gaudy marking fresh with
new life, was the finest Cecropia I ever had seen anywhere. Recovering
myself with a start, I had it under my net that had waited twenty
years to cover it! Inside the door I dropped the net, and the moth
crept on my fingers. What luck! What extra golden luck! I almost
felt that God had been sorry for me, and sent it there to encourage
me to keep on picturing the beauties and wonders of His creations
for people who could not go afield to see for themselves, and to
teach those who could to protect helpless, harmless things for their
use and beauty.
I walked down the hall, and vaguely scanned the solid rows of books
and specimens lining the library walls. I scarcely realized the
thought that was in my mind, but what I was looking for was not
there. The dining-room then, with panelled walls and curtains of
tapestry? It was not there! Straight to the white and gold music
room I went. Then a realizing sense came to me. It was BRUSSELS
LACE for which I was searching! On the most delicate, snowiest place
possible, on the finest curtain there, I placed my Cecropia, and
then stepped back and gazed at it with a sort of "Touch it
over my dead body" sentiment in my heart. An effort was required
to arouse myself, to realize that I was not dreaming. To search
the fields and woods for twenty years, and then find the specimen
I had sought awaiting me at my own door! Well might it have been
a dream, but that the Cecropia, clinging to the meshes of the lace,
slowly opening and closing its wings to strengthen them for flight,
could be nothing but a delightful reality.
A few days later, in the valley of the Wood Robin, while searching
for its nest I found a large cocoon. It was above my head, but afterward
I secured it by means of a ladder, and carried it home. Shortly
there emerged a yet larger Cecropia, and luck seemed with me. I
could find them everywhere through June, the time of their emergence,
later their eggs, and the tiny caterpillars that hatched from them.
During the summer I found these caterpillars, in different stages
of growth, until fall, when after their last moult and casting of
skin, they reached the final period of feeding; some were over four
inches in length, a beautiful shade of greenish blue, with red and
yellow warty projections--tubercles, according to scientific works.
It is easy to find the cocoons these caterpillars spin, because
they are the largest woven by any moth, and placed in such a variety
of accessible spots. They can be found in orchards, high on branches,
and on water sprouts at the base of trees. Frequently they are spun
on swamp willows, box-elder, maple, or wild cherry. Mr. Black once
found for me the largest cocoon I ever have seen; a pale tan colour
with silvery lights, woven against the inside of a hollow log. Perhaps
the most beautiful of all, a dull red, was found under the flooring
of an old bridge crossing a stream in the heart of the swamp, by
a girl not unknown to fiction, who brought it to me. In a deserted
orchard close the Wabash, Raymond once found a pair of empty cocoons
at the foot of a big apple tree, fastened to the same twigs, and
within two inches of each other.
But the most wonderful thing of all occurred when Wallace Hardison,
a faithful friend to my work, sawed a board from the roof of his
chicken house and carried to me twin Cecropia cocoons, spun so closely
together they were touching, and slightly interwoven. By the closest
examination I could discover slight difference between them. The
one on the right was a trifle fuller in the body, wider at the top,
a shade lighter in colour, and the inner case seemed heavier.
All winter those cocoons occupied the place of state in my collection.
Every few days I tried them to see if they gave the solid thump
indicating healthy pupae, and listened to learn if they were moving.
By May they were under constant surveillance. On the fourteenth
I was called from home a few hours to attend the funeral of a friend.
I think nothing short of a funeral would have taken me, for the
moth from a single cocoon had emerged on the eleventh. I hurried
home near noon, only to find that I was late, for one was out, and
the top of the other cocoon heaving with the movements of the second.
The moth that had escaped was a male. It clung to the side of the
board, wings limp, its abdomen damp. The opening from which it came
was so covered with terra cotta coloured down that I thought at
first it must have disfigured itself; but full development proved
it could spare that much and yet appear all right.
In the fall I had driven a nail through one corner of the board,
and tacked it against the south side of the Cabin, where I made
reproductions of the cocoons. The nail had been left, and now it
suggested the same place. A light stroke on the head of the nail,
covered with cloth to prevent jarring, fastened the board on a log.
Never in all my life did I hurry as on that day, and I called my
entire family into service. The Deacon stood at one elbow, Molly-Cotton
at the other, and the gardener in the rear. There was not a second
to be lost, and no time for an unnecessary movement; for in the
heat and bright sunshine those moths would emerge and develop with
amazing rapidity.
Molly-Cotton held an umbrella over them to prevent this as much
as possible; the Deacon handed plate holders, and Brenner ran errands.
Working as fast as I could make my fingers fly in setting up the
camera, and getting a focus, the second moth's head was out, its
front feet struggling to pull up the body; and its antennae beginning
to lift, when I was ready for the first snap at half-past eleven.
By the time I inserted the slide, turned the plate holder and removed
another slide, the first moth to appear had climbed up the board
a few steps, and the second was halfway out. Its antennae were nearly
horizontal now, and from its position I decided that the wings as
they lay in the pupa case were folded neither to the back nor to
the front, but pressed against the body in a lengthwise crumpled
mass, the heavy front rib, or costa, on top.
Again I changed plates with all speed. By the time I was ready for
the third snap the male had reached the top of the board, its wings
opened for the first time, and began a queer trembling motion. The
second one had emerged and was running into the first, so I held
my finger in the line of its advance, and when it climbed on I lowered
it to the edge to the board beside the cocoons. It immediately clung
to the wood. The big pursy abdomen and smaller antennae, that now
turned forward in position, proved this a female. The exposure was
made not ten seconds after she cleared the case, and with her back
to the lens, so the position and condition of the wings and antennae
on emergence can be seen clearly.
Quickly as possible I changed the plates again; the time that elapsed
could not have been over half a minute. The male was trying to creep
up the wall, and the increase in the length and expansion of the
female's wings could be seen. The colours on both were exquisite,
but they grew a trifle less brilliant as the moths became dry.
Again I turned to the business of plate changing. The heat was intense,
and perspiration was streaming from my face. I called to Molly-Cotton
to shield the moths while I made the change. "Drat the moths!"
cried the Deacon. "Shade your mother!" Being an obedient
girl, she shifted the umbrella, and by the time I was ready for
business, the male was on the logs and travelling up the side of
the Cabin. The female was climbing toward the logs also, so that
a side view showed her wings already beginning to lift above her
back.
I had only five snapshot plates in my holders, so I was compelled
to stop. It was as well, for surely the record was complete, and
I was almost prostrate with excitement and heat. Several days later
I opened each of the cocoons and made interior studies. The one
on the right was split down the left side and turned back to shpw
the bed of spun silk of exquisite colour that covers the inner case.
Some say this silk has no commercial value, as it is cut in lengths
reaching from the top around the inner case and back to the top
again; others think it can be used. The one on the left was opened
down the front of the outer case, the silk parted and the heavy
inner case cut from top to bottom to show the smooth interior wall,
the thin pupa case burst by the exit of the moth, and the cast caterpillar
skin crowded at the bottom.
The pair mated that same night, and the female began laying eggs
by noon the following day. She dotted them in lines over the inside
of her box, and on leaves placed in it, and at times piled them
in a heap instead of placing them as do these moths in freedom.
Having taken a picture of a full-grown caterpillar of this moth
brought to me by Mr. Andrew Idlewine, I now had a complete Cecropia
history; eggs, full-grown caterpillars, twin cocoons, and the story
of the emergence of the moths that wintered in them. I do not suppose
Mr. Hardison thought he was doing anything unusual when he brought
me those cocoons, yet by bringing them, he made it possible for
me to secure this series of twin Cecropia moths, male and female,
a thing never before recorded by lepidopterist or photographer so
far as I can learn.
The Cecropia is a moth whose acquaintance nature-loving city people
can cultivate. In December of 19o6, on a tree, maple I think, near
No. 2230 North Delaware Street, Indianapolis, I found four cocoons
of this moth, and on the next tree, save one, another. Then I began
watching, and in the coming days I counted them by the hundred through
the city. Several bushels of these cocoons could have been clipped
in Indianapolis alone, and there is no reason why any other city
that has maple, elm, catalpa, and other shade trees would not have
as many; so that any one who would like can find them easily.
Cecropia cocoons bewilder a beginner by their difference in shape.
You cannot determine the sex of the moth by the size of the cocoon.
In the case of the twins, the cocoon of the female was the larger;
but I have known male and female alike to emerge from large or small.
You are fairly sure of selecting a pair if you depend upon weight.
The females are heavier than the males, because they emerge with
quantities of eggs ready to deposit as soon as they have mated.
If any one wants to winter a pair of moths, they are reasonably
sure of doing so by selecting the heaviest and lightest cocoons
they can find.
In the selection of cocoons, hold them to the ear, and with a quick
motion reverse them end for end. If there is a dull, solid thump,
the moth is alive, and will emerge all right. If this thump is lacking,
and there is a rattle like a small seed shaking in a dry pod, it
means that the caterpillar has gone into the cocoon with one of
the tiny parasites that infest these worms, clinging to it, and
the pupa has been eaten by the parasite.
In fall and late summer are the best times to find cocoons, as birds
tear open many of them in winter; and when weatherbeaten they fade,
and do not show the exquisite shadings of silk of those newly spun.
When fresh, the colours range from almost white through lightest
tans and browns to a genuine red, and there is a silvery effect
that is lovely on some of the large, baggy ones, hidden under bridges.
Out of doors the moths emerge in middle May or June, but they are
earlier in the heat of a house. They are the largest of any species,
and exquisitely coloured, the shades being strongest on the upper
side of the wings. They differ greatly in size, most males having
an average wing sweep of five inches, and a female that emerged
in my conservatory from a cocoon that I wintered with particular
care had a spread of seven inches, the widest of which I have heard;
six and three quarters is a large female. The moth, on appearing,
seems all head and abdomen, the wings hanging limp and wet from
the shoulders. It at once creeps around until a place where it can
hang with the wings down is found, and soon there begins a sort
of pumping motion of the body. I imagine this is to start circulation,
to exercise parts, and force blood into the wings. They begin to
expand, to dry, to take on colour with amazing rapidity, and as
soon as they are full size and crisp, the moth commences raising
and lowering them slowly, as in flight. If a male, he emerges near
ten in the forenoon, and flies at dusk in search of a mate.
As the females are very heavy with eggs, they usually remain where
they are. After mating they begin almost at once to deposit their
eggs, and do not take flight until they have finished. The eggs
are round, having a flat top that becomes slightly depressed as
they dry. They are of pearl colour, with a touch of brown, changing
to greyish as the tiny caterpillars develop. Their outline can be
traced through the shell on which they make their first meal when
they emerge. Female Cecropas average about three hundred and fifty
eggs each, that they sometimes place singly, and again string in
rows, or in captivity pile in heaps. In freedom they deposit the
eggs mostly on leaves, sometimes the under, sometimes the upper,
sides or dot them on bark, boards or walls. The percentage of loss
of eggs and the young is large, for they are nowhere numerous enough
to become a pest, as they certainly would if three hundred caterpillars
survived to each female moth. The young feed on apple, willow, maple,
box-elder, or wild cherry leaves; and grow through a series of feeding
periods and moults, during which they rest for a few days, cast
the skin and intestinal lining and then feed for another period.
After the females have finished depositing their eggs, they cling
to branches, vines or walls a few days, fly aimlessly at night and
then pass out without ever having taken food.
Cecropia has several `Cousins,' Promethea, Angulifera, Gloveri,
and Cynthia, that vary slightly in marking and more in colour. All
are smaller than Cecropia. The male of Promethea is the darkest
moth of the Limberlost. The male of Angulifera is a brownish grey,
the female reddish, with warm tan colours on her wing borders. She
is very beautiful. The markings on the wings of both are not half-moon
shaped, as Cecropia and Gloveri, but are oblong, and largest at
the point next the apex of the wing.
Gloveri could not be told from Cecropiain half-tone reproduction
by any save a scientist, so similar are the markings, but in colour
they are vastly different, and more beautiful. The only living Gloveri
I ever secured was almost done with life, and she was so badly battered
I could not think of making a picture of her. The wings are a lovely
red wine colour, with warm tan borders, and the crescents are white,
with a line of tan and then of black. The abdomen is white striped
with wine and black.
Cynthia has pale olive green shadings on both male and female. These
are imported moths brought here about 1861 in the hope that they
would prove valuable in silk culture. They occur mostly where the
ailanthus grows.
My heart goes out to Cecropia because it is such a noble, birdlike,
big fellow, and since it has decided to be rare with me no longer,
all that is necessary is to pick it up, either in caterpillar, cocoon,
or moth, at any season of the year, in almost any location. The
Cecropia moth resembles the robin among birds; not alone because
he is grey with red markings, but also he haunts the same localities.
The robin is the bird of the eaves, the back door, the yard and
orchard. Cecropia is the moth. My doorstep is not the only one they
grace; my friends have found them in like places. Cecropia cocoons
are attached to fences, chicken-coops, barns, houses, and all through
the orchards of old country places, so that their emergence at bloom
time adds to May and June one more beauty, and frequently I speak
of them as the Robin Moth.
In connexion with Cecropia there came to me the most delightful
experience of my life. One perfect night during the middle of May,
all the world white with tree bloom, touched to radiance with brilliant
moonlight; intoxicating with countless blending perfumes, I placed
a female Cecropia on the screen of my sleeping-room door and retired.
The lot on which the Cabin stands is sloping, so that, although
the front foundations are low, my door is at least five feet above
the ground, and opens on a circular porch, from which steps lead
down between two apple trees, at that time sheeted in bloom. Past
midnight I was awakened by soft touches on the screen, faint pullings
at the wire. I went to the door and found the porch, orchard, and
night-sky alive with Cecropias holding high carnival. I had not
supposed there were so many in all this world. From every direction
they came floating like birds down the moonbeams. I carefully removed
the female from the door to a window close beside, and stepped on
the porch. No doubt I was permeated with the odour of the moth.
As I advanced to the top step, that lay even with the middle branches
of the apple trees, the exquisite big creatures came swarming around
me. I could feel them on my hair, my shoulders, and see them settling
on my gown and outstretched hands.
Far as I could penetrate the night-sky more were coming. They settled
on the bloom-laden branches, on the porch pillars, on me indiscriminately.
I stepped inside the door with one on each hand and five clinging
to my gown. This experience, I am sure, suggested Mrs. Comstock's
moth hunting in the Limberlost. Then I went back to the veranda
and revelled with the moths until dawn drove them to shelter. One
magnificent specimen, birdlike above all the others, I followed
across the orchard and yard to a grape arbour, where I picked him
from the under side of a leaf after he had settled for the coming
day. Repeatedly I counted close to a hundred, and then they would
so confuse me by flight I could not be sure I was not numbering
the same one twice. With eight males, some of them fine large moths,
one superb, from which to choose, my female mated with an insistent,
frowsy little scrub lacking two feet and having torn and ragged
wings. I needed no surer proof that she had very dim vision.