CHAPTER VIII Hera of the Corn: Hyperchira Io
At the same time he gave me the Eacles Imperialis moths, Mr. Eisen
presented me with a pair of Hyperchiria Io. They were nicely mounted
on the black velvet lining of a large case in my room, but I did
not care for them in the least. A picture I would use could not
be made from dead, dried specimens, and history learned from books
is not worth knowing, in comparison with going afield and threshing
it out for yourself in your own way. Because the Io was yellow,
I wanted it-- more than several specimens I had not found as yet,
for yellow, be it on the face of a flower, on the breast of a bird,
or in the gold of sunshine, always warms the depths of my heart.
One night in June, sitting with a party of friends in the library,
a shadow seemed to sweep across a large window in front. I glanced
up, and arose with a cry that must have made those present doubt
my sanity. A perfect and beautiful Io was walking leisurely across
the glass.
"A moth!" I cried. "I have none like it! Deacon,
get the net!"
I caught a hat from the couch, and ran to the veranda. The Deacon
followed with the net.
"I was afraid to wait," I explained. "Please bring
a piece of pasteboard, the size of this brim.'
I held the hat while the Deacon brought the board. Then with trembling
care we slipped it under, and carefully carried the moth into the
conservatory. First we turned on the light, and made sure that every
ventilator was closed; then we released the Io for the night. In
the morning we found a female clinging to a shelf, dotting it with
little top-shaped eggs. I was delighted, for I thought this meant
the complete history of a beautiful moth. So exquisite was the living,
breathing creature, she put to shame the form and colouring of the
mounted specimens. No wonder I had not cared for them!
Her fore-wings were a strong purplish brown in general effect, but
on close examination one found the purplish tinge a commingling
of every delicate tint of lavender and heliotrope imaginable. They
were crossed by escalloped bands of greyish white, and flecked with
touches of the same, seeming as if they had been placed with a brush.
The back wings were a strong yellow. Each had, for its size, an
immense black eye-spot, with a blue pupil covering three-fourths
of it, crossed by a perfect comma of white, the heads toward the
front wings and the curves bending outward. Each eye-spot was in
a yellow field, strongly circled with a sharp black line; then a
quarter of an inch band of yellow; next a heliotrope circle of equal
width; yellow again twice as wide; then a faint heliotrope line;
and last a very narrow edging of white. Both wings joined the body
under a covering of long, silky, purple-brown hairs.
She was very busy with egg depositing, and climbed to the twig held
before her without offering to fly. The camera was carried to the
open, set up and focused on a favourable spot, while Molly-Cotton
walked beside me holding a net over the moth in case she took flight
in outer air. The twig was placed where she would be in the deepest
shade possible while I worked rapidly with the camera.
By this time experience had taught me that these creatures of moonlight
and darkness dislike the open glare of day, and if placed in sunlight
will take flight in search of shade more quickly than they will
move if touched. So until my Io settled where I wanted her with
the wings open, she was kept in the shadow. Only when I grasped
the bulb and stood ready to snap, was the covering lifted, and for
the smallest fraction of a second the full light fell on her; then
darkness again.
In three days it began to be apparent there was something wrong
with the eggs. In four it was evident, and by five I was not expecting
the little caterpillars to emerge, and they did not. The moth had
not mated and the eggs were not fertile. Then I saw my mistake.
Instead of shutting the female in the conservatory at night, I should
have tied a soft cotton string firmly around her body, and fastened
it to some of the vines on the veranda. Beyond all doubt, before
morning, a male of her kind would have been attracted to her.
One learns almost as much by his mistakes as he profits by his successes
in this world. Writing of this piece of stupidity, at a time in
my work with moths when a little thought would have taught me better,
reminds me of an experience I had with a caterpillar, the first
one I ever carried home and tried to feed. I had an order to fill
for some swamp pictures, and was working almost waist deep in a
pool in the Limberlost, when on a wild grape-vine swinging close
to my face, I noticed a big caterpillar placidly eating his way
around a grape leaf. The caterpillar was over four inches long,
had no horn, and was of a clear red wine colour, that was beautiful
in the sunlight. I never before had seen a moth caterpillar that
was red and I decided it must be rare. As there was a wild grapevine
growing over the east side of the Cabin, and another on the windmill,
food of the right kind would be plentiful, so I instantly decided
to take the caterpillar home. It was of the specimens that I consider
have almost `thrust themselves upon me.'
When the pictures were finished and my camera carried from the swamp,
I returned with the clippers and cut off vine and caterpillar, to
carry with me. On arrival I placed it in a large box with sand on
the bottom, and every few hours took out the wilted leaves, put
in fresh ones, and sprinkled them to insure crispness, and to give
a touch of moisture to the atmosphere in the box, that would make
it seem more like the swamp.
My specimen was readily identified as Philampelus Pandorus, of which
I had no moth, so I took extra care of it in the hope of a new picture
in the spring. It had a little flat head that could be drawn inside
the body like a turtle, and on the sides were oblique touches of
salmon. Something that appeared to be a place for a horn could be
seen, and a yellow tubercle was surrounded by a black line. It ate
for three days, and then began racing so frantically around the
box, I thought confinement must be harmful, so I gave it the freedom
of the Cabin, warning all my family to `look well to their footsteps.'
It stopped travelling after a day or two at a screen covering the
music-room window, and there I found it one morning lying still,
a shrivelled, shrunken thing; only half the former length, so it
was carefully picked up, and thrown away!
Of course the caterpillar was in the process of changing into the
pupa, and if I had known enough to lay it on the sand in my box,
and wait a few days, without doubt a fine pupa would have emerged
from that shrunken skin, from which, in the spring, I could have
secured an exquisite moth, with shades of olive green, flushed with
pink. The thought of it makes me want to hide my head. It was six
years before I found a living moth, or saw another caterpillar of
that species.
A few days later, while watching with a camera focused on the nest
of a blackbird in Mrs. Corson's woods east of town, Raymond, who
was assisting me, crept to my side and asked if it would do any
harm for him to go specimen hunting. The long waits with set cameras
were extremely tedious to the restless spirits of the boy, and the
birds were quite tame, the light was under a cloud, and the woods
were so deep that after he had gone a few rods he was from sight,
and under cover; besides it was great hunting ground, so I gladly
told him to go.
The place was almost `virgin,' much of it impassable and fully half
of it was under water that lay in deep, murky pools throughout summer.
In the heat of late June everything was steaming; insect life of
all kinds was swarming; not far away I could hear sounds of trouble
between the crow and hawk tribes; and overhead a pair of black vultures,
whose young lay in a big stump in the interior, were searching for
signs of food. If ever there was a likely place for specimens it
was here; Raymond was an expert at locating them, and fearless to
foolhardiness. He had been gone only a short time when I heard a
cry, and I knew it must mean something, in his opinion, of more
importance than blackbirds.
I answered "Coming," and hastily winding the long hose,
I started in the direction Raymond had taken, calling occasionally
to make sure I was going the right way. When I found him, the boy
was standing beside a stout weed, hat in hand, intently watching
something. As I leaned forward I saw that it was a Hyperchiria Io
that just had emerged from the cocoon, and as yet was resting with
wings untried. It differed so widely from my moth of a few days
before, I knew it must be a male.
This was only three-fourths as large as mine, but infinitely surpassed
it in beauty. Its front wings were orange-yellow, flushed with red-purple
at the base, and had a small irregular brown spot near the costa.
Contrary to all precedent, the under side of these wings were the
most beautiful, and bore the decorations that, in all previous experience
with moths, had been on the upper surface, faintly showing on the
under. For instance, this irregular brown marking on the upper side
proved to be a good-sized black spot with with white dot in the
middle on the under; and there was a curved line of red-purple from
the apex of the wing sloping to the lower edge, nearly half an inch
from the margin. The space from this line to the base of the wing
was covered with red-purple down. The back wings were similar to
the female's, only of stronger colour, and more distinct markings;
the eye-spot and lining appeared as if they had been tinted with
strong fresh paint, while the edges of the wings lying beside the
abdomen had the long, silken hairs of a pure, beautiful red their
entire length:
A few rods away men were ploughing in the adjoining corn field,
and I remembered that the caterpillar of this moth liked to feed
on corn blades, and last summer undoubtedly lived in that very field.
When I studied Io history in my moth books, I learned these caterpillars
ate willow, wild cherry, hickory, plum, oak, sassafras, ash, and
poplar. The caterpillar was green, more like the spiny butterfly
caterpillars than any moth one I know. It had brown and white bands,
brown patches, and was covered with tufts of stiff upstanding spines
that pierced like sharp needles. This was not because the caterpillar
tried to hurt you, but because the spines were on it, and so arranged
that if pressed against, an acid secretion sprang from their base.
This spread over the flesh the spines touched, stinging for an hour
like smartweed, or nettles.
When I identified this caterpillar in my books, it came to me that
I had known and experienced its touch. But it did not forcibly impress
me until that instant that I knew it best of all, and that it was
my childhood enemy of the corn. Its habit was to feed on the young
blades, and cling to them with all its might. If I was playing Indian
among the rows, or hunting an ear with especially long, fine 'silk'
for a make-believe doll, or helping the cook select ears of Jersey
Sweet to boil for dinner, and accidentally brushed one of these
caterpillars with cheek or hand, I felt its burning sting long afterward.
So I disliked those caterpillars.
For I always had played among the corn. Untold miles I have ridden
the plough horses across the spring fields, where mellow mould rolled
black from the shining shares, and the perfumed air made me feel
so near flying that all I seemed to need was a high start to be
able to sail with the sentinel blackbird, that perched on the big
oak, and with one sharp 'T'check!' warned his feeding flock, surely
and truly, whether a passing man carried a gun or a hoe. Then came
the planting, when bare feet loved the cool earth, and trotted over
other untold miles, while little fingers carefully counted out seven
grains from the store carried in my apron skirt, as I chanted:
"One for the blackbird, one for the crow; One for the cutworm
and four to grow."
Then father covered them to the right depth, and stamped each hill
with the flat of the hoe, while we talked of golden corn bread,
and slices of mush, fried to a crisp brown that cook would make
in the fall. We had to plant enough more to feed all the horses,
cattle, pigs, turkeys, geese, and chickens, during the long winter,
even if the sun grew uncomfortably warm, and the dinner bell was
slow about ringing.
Then there were the Indian days in the field, when a fallen eagle
feather stuck in a braid, and some pokeberry juice on the face,
transformed me into the Indian Big Foot, and I fled down green aisles
of the corn before the wrath of the mighty Adam Poe. At times Big
Foot grew tired fleeing, and said so in remarkably distinct English,
and then to keep the game going, my sister Ada, who played Adam
Poe, had to turn and do the fleeing or be tomahawked with a stick.
When the milk was in the ears, they were delicious steamed over
salted water, or better yet roasted before coals at the front of
qthe cooking stove, and eaten with butter and salt, if you have
missed the flavour of it in that form, really you never have known
corn!
Next came the cutting days. These were after all the caterpillars
had climbed down, and travelled across the fence to spin their cocoons
among the leaves of the woods; as if some instinct warned them that
they would be ploughed up too early to emerge, if they remained
in the field. The boys bent four hills, lashed the tassels together
for a foundation, and then with one sweep of their knives, they
cut a hill at a time, and stacked it in large shocks, that lined
the field like rows of sentinels, guarding the gold of pumpkin and
squash lying all around. While the shocks were drying, the squirrels,
crows, and quail took possession, and fattened their sides against
snow time.
Then the gathering days of October--they were the best days of all!
Like a bloom-outlined vegetable bed, the goldenrod and ironwort,
in gaudy border, filled the fence corners of the big fields. A misty
haze hung in the air, because the Indians were burning the prairies
to round up game for winter. The cawing of the crows, the chatter
of blackbirds, and the piping bob-whites, sounded so close and so
natural out there, while the crowing cocks of the barnyard seemed
miles away and slightly unreal. Grown up and important, I sat on
a board laid across the wagon bed, and guided the team of matched
greys between the rows of shocks, and around the 'pie-timber' as
my brother Leander called the pumpkins while father and the boys
opened the shocks and husked the ears. How the squirrels scampered
to the woods and to the business of storing away the hickory nuts
that we could hear rattling down every frosty morning! We hurried
with the corn; because as soon as the last shock was in, we might
take the horses, wagon, and our dinner, and go all day to the woods,
where we gathered our winter store of nuts. Leander would take a
gun along, and shoot one of those saucy squirrels for the little
sick mother.
Last came the November night, when the cold had shut us in. Then
selected ears that had been dried in the garret were brought down,
white for `rivel' and to roll things in to fry, and yellow for corn
bread and mush. A tub full of each was shelled, and sacked to carry
to the mill the following day. I sat on the floor while father and
the boys worked, listening to their talk, as I built corncob castles
so high they toppled from their many stories. Sometimes father made
cornstock fiddles that would play a real tune. Oh! the pity of it
that every little child cannot grow, live, learn and love among
the corn. For the caterpillars never stopped the fun, even the years
when they were most numerous.
The eggs laid by my female never hatched, so I do not know this
caterpillar in its early stages from experience, but I had enough
experience with it in my early stages, that I do not care if I never
raise one. No doubt it attains maturity by the same series of moults
as the others, and its life history is quite similar. The full-fed
caterpillars spin among the leaves on the ground, and with their
spines in mind, I would much prefer finding a cocoon, and producing
a moth from that stage of its evolution.
The following season I had the good fortune to secure a male and
female Io at the same time and by persistence induced them to pose
for me on an apple branch. There was no trouble in securing the
male as I desired him, with wings folded showing the spots, lining
and flushing of colour. But the female was a perverse little body
and though I tried patiently and repeatedly she would not lower
her wings full width. She climbed around with them three-fourths
spread, producing the most beautiful effect of life, but failing
to display her striking markings. This is the one disadvantage in
photographing moths from life. You secure lifelike effects but sometimes
you are forced to sacrifice their wonderful decorations.