MOTHS OF THE LIMBERLOST
A book about Limberlost Cabin
by
Gene Stratton-Porter
To
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.
CHAPTER II MOTHS, EGGS, CATERPILLARS, WINTER QUARTERS
If you are too fastidious to read this chapter, it will be your
permanent loss, for it contains the life history, the evolution
of one of the most amazingly complicated and delicately beautiful
creatures in existence. There are moths that come into the world,
accomplish the functions that perpetuate their kind, and go out,
without having taken any nourishment. There are others that feed
and live for a season. Some fly in the morning, others in the
glare of noon, more in the evening, and the most important class
of big, exquisitely lovely ones only at night. This explains why
so many people never have seen them, and it is a great pity, for
the nocturnal, non-feeding moths are birdlike in size, flower-like
in rare and complicated colouring, and of downy, silent wing.
The moths that fly by day and feed are of the Sphinginae group,
Celeus and Carolina, or Choerocampinae, which includes the exquisite
Deilephila Lineata, and its cousins; also Sphingidae, which cover
the clear-winged Hemaris diffinis and Thysbe. Among those that
fly at night only and take no food are the members of what is
called the Attacine group, comprising our largest and commonest
moth, Cecropia; also its near relative Gloveri, smaller than Cecropia
and oflovely rosy wine-colour; Angulifera, the male greyish brown,
the female yellowish red; Promethea, the male resembling a monster
Mourning Cloak butterfly and the female bearing exquisite red-wine
flushings; Cynthia, beautiful in shades of olive green, sprinkled
with black, crossed by bands of pinkish lilac and bearing crescents
partly yellow, the remainder transparent. There are also the deep
yellow Io, pale blue-green Luna, and Polyphemus, brown with pink
bands of the Saturniidae; and light yellow, red-brown and grey
Regalis, and lavender and yellow Imperialis of the Ceratocampidae,
and their relatives. Modest and lovely Modesta belongs with the
Smerinthinae group; and there are others, feeders and non-feeders,
forming a list too long to irncorporate, for I have not mentioned
the Catocalae family, the fore-wings of which resemble those of
several members of the Sphinginae, in colour, and when they take
flight, the back ones flash out colours that run the gamut from
palest to deepest reds, yellows, and browns, crossed by wide circling
bands of black; with these, occasionally the black so predominates
that it appears as if the wing were black and the bands of other
colour. All of them are so exquisitely beautiful that neither
the most exacting descriptions, nor photographs from life, nor
water colours faithfully copied from living subjects can do them
justice. They must be seen alive, newly emerged, down intact,
colours at their most brilliant shadings, to be appreciated fully.
With the exception of feeding or refraining from eating, the life
processes of all these are very similar.
Moths are divided into three parts, the head, thorax, and abdomen,
with the different organs of each. The head carries the source
of sight, scent, and the mouth parts, if the moth feeds, while
the location of the ears is not yet settled definitely. Some scientists
place hearing in the antennae, others in a little organ on each
side the base of the abdomen. Packard writes: "The eyes are
large and globose and vary in the distance apart in different
families": but fails to tell what I want to know most: the
range and sharpness of their vision. Another writer states that
the eyes are so incomplete in development that a moth only can
distinguish light from darkness and cannot discern your approach
at over five feet.
This accords with my experience with Cecropia, Polyphemus, Regalis,
and Imperialis. Luna either can see better, hear acutely, or is
naturally of more active habit. It is difficult to capture by
hand in daytime; and Promethea acts as if its vision were even
clearer. This may be the case, as it flies earlier in the day
than any of the others named, being almost impossible to take
by hand unless it is bound to a given spot by sex attraction.
Unquestionably the day fliers that feed--the Sphinginae and Choerocampinae
groups--have fairly good vision, as also the little "Clear-wings"
tribe, for they fly straight to the nectar-giving flowers and
fruits they like best to feed upon, and it is extra good luck
if you capture one by hand or even with a net. It must be remembered
that all of them see and go to a bright light at night from long
distances.
Holland writes: "The eyes of moths are often greatly developed,"
but makes no definite statements as to their range of vision,
until he reaches the Catocalae family, of which he records: "The
hind wings are, however, most brilliantly coloured. In some species
they are banded with pink, in others with crimson; still others
have markings of yellow, orange, or snowy white on a background
of jet black. These colours are distinctive of the species to
a greater or less extent. They are only displayed at night. The
conclusion is irresistibly forced upon us that the eyes of these
creatures are capable of discriminating these colours in the darkness.
We cannot do it. No human eye in the blackness of the night can
distinguish red from orange or crimson from yellow. The human
eye is the greatest of all anatomical marvels, and the most wonderful
piece of animal mechanism in the world, but not all of power is
lodged within it. There are other allied mechanisms which have
the power of responding to certain forms of radiant energy to
a degiee which it does not possess."
This conclusion is not "irresistibly forced" upon me.
I do believe, know in fact, that all day-flying, feeding moths
have keener sight and longer range of vision than non-feeders;
but I do not believe the differing branches of the Catocalae group,
or moths of any family, locate each other "in the blackness
of night," by seeing markings distinctly. I can think of
no proof that moths, butterflies or any insects recognize or appreciate
colour. Male moths mate with females of their kind distinctly
different from them in colour, and male butterflies pair with
albinos of their species, when these differ widely from the usual
colouring.
A few moths are also provided with small simple eyes called ocelli;
these are placed on top of the head and are so covered with down
they cannot be distinguished save by experts. Mueller believes
that these are for the perception of objects close to a moth while
the compound eyes see farther, but he does not prove it.
If the moth does not feed, the mouth parts are scarcely developed.
If a feeder, it has a long tongue that can be coiled in a cleft
in the face between the palpi, which Packard thinks were originally
the feelers. This tongue is formed of two grooved parts so fastened
together as to make a tube through which it takes flower and fruit
nectar and the juices of decaying animal matter.
What are thought by some to be small organs of touch lie on either
side the face, but the exact use of these is yet under discussion,
It is wofully difficult to learn some of these things.
In my experience the antennae, are the most sensitive, and therefore
the most important organs of the head--to me. In the Attacine
group these stand out like delicately cut tiny fern fronds or
feathers, always being broader and more prominent on the male.
Other families are very similar and again they differ widely.
You will find moths having pointed hair-like antennae; others
heaviest at the tip in club shape, or they may be of even proportion
but flat, or round, or a feathered shaft so fine as to be unnoticed
as it lies pressed against the face. Some writers say the antennae
are the seat of scent, touch, and hearing. I had not thought nature
so impoverished in evolving her forms as to overwork one delicate
little organ for three distinct purposes. The antennae are situated
close where the nose is, in almost every form of life, and I would
prefer to believe that they are the organs of scent and feeling.
I know a moth suffers most over any injury to them; but one takes
flight no quicker or more precipitately at a touch on the antennae
than on the head, wing, leg, or abdomen.
We are safe in laying down a law that antennae are homologous
organs and used for identical purposes on all forms of life carrying
them. The short antennae of grasshoppers appear to be organs of
scent. The long hair-fine ones of katydids and crickets may be
also, but repeatedly I have seen these used to explore the way
ahead over leaves and limbs, the insect feeling its path and stepping
where a touch assures it there is safe footing. Katydids, crickets,
and grasshoppers all have antennae, and all of these have ears
definitely located; hence their feelers are not for auricular
purposes. According to my logic those of the moth cannot be either.
I am quite sure that primarily they serve the purpose of a nose,
as they are too short in most cases to be of much use as `feelers,'
although that is undoubtedly their secondary office. If this be
true, it explains the larger organs ofthe male. The female emerges
from winter quarters so weighted with carrying from two to six
hundred eggs, that she usually remains and develops where she
is. This throws the business of finding her location on the male.
He is compelled to take wing and hunt until he discovers her;
hence his need of more acute sense of scent and touch. The organ
that is used most is the one that develops in the evolution of
any form of life.
I can well believe that the antennae are most important to a moth,
for a broken one means a spoiled study for me. It starts the moth
tremulously shivering, aimlessly beating, crazy, in fact, and
there is no hope of it posing for a picture. Doctor Clemens records
that Cecropia could neither, walk nor fly, but wheeled in a senseless,
manner when deprived of its antennae. This makes me sure that
they are the seat of highest sensibility, for I have known in
one or two cases of chloroformed moths reviving and without struggle
or apparent discomfort, depositing eggs in a circle around them,
while impaled to a setting board with a pin thrust through the
thorax where it of necessity must have passed through or very
close the nervous cord and heart.
The moth is covered completely with silken down like tiny scales,
coloured and marked according to species, and so lightly attached
that it adheres to the cocoon on emergence and clings to the fingers
at the lightest touch. From the examination of specimens I have
taken that had disfigured themselves, it appears that a moth rubbed
bare of down would seem as if covered with thinly cut, highly
polished horn, fastened together in divisions. This is called
`chitine' by scientists.
The thorax bears four wings, and six legs, each having five joints
and ending in tiny claws. The wings are many-veined membranous
sacs, covered with scales that are coloured according to species
and arranged to form characteristic family markings. They are
a framework usually of twelve hollow tubes or veins that are so
connected with the respiratory organs as to be pneumatic. These
tubes support double membranes covered above and below with down.
At the bases of the wings lie their nerves. The fore-wings each
have a heavy rib running from the base and gradually decreasing
to the tip. This is called the costa. Its purpose is to bear the
brunt of air-pressure in flight. On account of being compelled
to fly so much more than the females, the back wings of the males
of many species have developed a secondary rib that fits under
and supports the front, also causing both to work together with
the same impulse to flight. A stiff bunch of bristles serves the
same purpose in most females, while some have a lobe extending
from the fore-wing. As long as the costa remains unbroken to preserve
balance, a moth that has become entangled in bushes or suffered
rough treatment from birds can fly with badly damaged wing surfaces.
In some species, notably the Attacine group and all non-feeding,
night-flying moths, the legs are short, closely covered with long
down of the most delicate colours of the moth, and sometimes decorated
with different shades. Luna has beautiful lavender legs, Imperialis
yellow, and Regalis red-brown. The day-flying, feeding group have
longer, slenderer legs, covered with shorter down, and carry more
elaborate markings. This provision is to enable them to cling
firmly to flower or twig while feeding, to help them to lift the
body higher, and walk dextrously in searching for food. It is
also noticeable that these moths have, for their size, comparatively
much longer, slenderer wings than the non-feeders, and they can
turn them back and fold them together in the fly position, thus
enabling them to force their way into nectar-bearing flowers of
trumpet shape.
The abdomen is velvet soft to the touch, and divided into rings
called segments, these being so joined that this member can be
turned and twisted at will. In all cases the last ring contains
the sex organs. The large abdomen of the female carries several
hundred embryo eggs, and that of the male the seminal fluid.
Much has been written of moths being able to produce odours that
attract the sexes, and that are so objectionable as to protect
them from birds, mice, and bats. Some believe there are scent
glands in a few species under the wing scales. I have critically
examined scores of wings as to colour markings, but never noticed
or smelled these. On some, tufts of bristlelike hairs can be thrust
out, that give a discernible odour; but that this carries any
distance or is a large factor in attracting the sexes I do not
believe so firmly, after years of practical experience, as I did
in the days when I had most of my moth history from books. I have
seen this theory confounded so often in practice.
In June of 1911, close six o'clock in the evening, I sat on the
front veranda of the Cabin, in company with my family, and watched
three moths sail past us and around the corner, before I remembered
that on the screen of the music-room window to the east there
was a solitary female Promethea moth, that day emerged from a
cocoon sent me by Professor Rowley. I hurried to the room and
found five male moths fluttering before the screen or clinging
to the wild grape and sweet brier vines covering it. I opened
the adjoining window and picked up three of the handsomest with
my fingers, placing them inside the screen. Then I returned to
the veranda.
Moths kept coming. We began studying the conditions. The female
had emerged in the diningroom on the west side of the cabin. On
account of the intense heat of the afternoon sun, that side of
the building had been tightly closed all day. At four o'clock
the moth was placed on the east window, because it was sheltered
with vines. How soon the first male found her, I do not know.
There was quite a stiff evening breeze blowing from the west,
so that any odour from her would have been carried on east. We
sat there and watched and counted six more moths, every one of
which came down wind from the west, flying high, above the treetops
in fact, and from the direction of a little tree-filled plot called
Studabaker's woods. Some of them we could distinguish almost a
block away coming straight toward the Cabin, and sailing around
the eastern corner with the precision of hounds on a hot trail.
How they knew, the Almighty knows; I do not pretend to; but that
there was odour distilled by that one female, practically imperceptible
to us (she merely smelled like a moth), yet of such strength as
to penetrate screen, vines, and roses and reach her kind a block
away, against considerable breeze, I never shall believe.
The fact is, that moths smell like other moths of the same species,
and within a reasonable radius they undoubtedly attract each other.
In the same manner birds carry a birdlike odour, and snakes, frogs,
fish, bees, and all animals have a scent peculiar to themselves.
No dog mistakes the odour of a cat for that of another dog. A
cow does not follow the scent of horses to find other cattle.
No moth hunts a dragon-fly, a butterfly, or in my experience,
even a moth of another species in its search for a mate. How male
moths work the miracles I have seen them accomplish in locating
females, I cannot explain. As the result of acts we see them perform,
we credit some forms of life with much keener scent than others,
and many with having the power more highly developed than people.
The only standard by which we can determine the effect that the
odour of one insect, bird, or animal has upon another is by the
effect it has upon us. That a male moth can smell a female a block
away, against the wind, when I can detect only a faint musky odour
within a foot of her, I do not credit.
Primarily the business of moths is to meet, mate, and deposit
eggs that will produce more moths. This is all of life with those
that do not take food. That they add the completing touch and
most beautiful form of life to a few exquisite May and June nights
is their extra good fortune, not any part of the affair of living.
With moths that feed and live after reproduction, mating and egg
placing comes first. In all cases the rule is much, the same.
The moths emerge, dry their wings, and reach full development
the first day. In freedom, the females being weighted with eggs
seldom attempt to fly. They remain where they are, thrust out
the egg placer from the last ring of the abdomen and wait. By
ten o'clock the males, in such numbers as to amaze a watcher,
find them and remain until almost morning. Broad antennae, slenderer
abdomen, and the claspers used in holding the female in mating,
smaller wings and more brilliant markings are the signs by which
the male can be told in most cases. In several of the Attacine
group, notably Promethea, the male and female differ widely in
markings and colour. Among the other non-feeders the difference
is slight. The male Regalis has the longest, most gracefully curved
abdomen and the most prominent claspers of any moth I ever examined;
but the antennae are so delicate and closely pressed against the
face most of the time as to be concealed until especially examined.
I have noticed that among the moths bearing large, outstanding
antennae, the claspers are less prominent than with those having
small, inconspicuous head parts. A fine pair of antennae, carried
forward as by a big, fully developed Cecropia, are as ornamental
to the moth as splendidly branching antlers are to the head of
a deer.
The female now begins egg placing. This requires time, as one
of these big night moths deposits from three hundred and fifty
to over six hundred eggs. These lie in embryonic state in the
abdomen of the female. At her maturity they ripen rapidly. When
they are ready to deposit, she is forced to place them whether
she has mated or not. In case a mate has found her, a small pouch
near the end of her abdomen is filled with a fluid that touches
each egg in passing and renders it fertile. The eggs differ with
species and are placed according to family characteristics. They
may be pure white, pearl-coloured, grey, greenish, or yellow.
There are round, flat, and oblong eggs. These are placed differently
in freedom and captivity. A moth in a natural location glues her
eggs, often one at a time, on the under or upper side of leaves.
Sometimes she dots several in a row, or again makes a number of
rows, like a little beaded mat. One authority I have consulted
states that "The eggs are always laid by the female in a
state of freedom upon the food-plant which is most congenial to
the larvae." This has not 'always' been the case in my experience.
I have found eggs on stone walls, boards, fences, outbuildings,
and on the bark of dead trees and stumps as well as living, even
on the ground. This also, has been the case with the women who
wrote "Caterpillars and their Moths", the most invaluable
work on the subject ever compiled.
A captive moth feels and resents her limitations. I cannot force
one to mate even in a large box. I must free her in the conservatory,
in a room, or put her on an outside window br door screen. Under
these conditions one will place her eggs more nearly as in freedom;
but this makes them difficult to find and preserve. Placed in
a box and forced by nature to deposit her eggs, as a rule, she
will remain in one spot and heap them up until she is forced to
move to make room for more. One big female Regalis of the last
chapter of this book placed them a thimbleful at a time; but the
little caterpillars came rolling out in all directions when due.
In my experience, they finish in four or five nights, although
I have read of moths having lived and placed eggs for ten, some
species being said to have deposited over a thousand. Seven days
is usually the limit of life for these big night moths with me;
they merely grow inactive and sluggish until the very last, when
almost invariably they are seized with a muscular attack, in which
they beat themselves to rags and fringes, as if resisting the
overcoming lethargy. It is because of this that I have been forced
to resort to the gasoline bottle a few times when I found it impossible
to paint from the living moth; but I do not put one to sleep unless
I am compelled.
I never have been able to induce a female to mate after confinement
had driven her to begin depositing her eggs, not even under the
most favourable conditions I could offer, although others record
that they have been so fortunate. Repeatedly I have experimented
with males and females of different species, but with no success.
I have not seem a polygamous moth; but have read of experiences
with them.
Sometimes the eggs have a smooth surface, again they may be ridged
or like hammered brass or silver. The shells are very thin and
break easily. At one side a place can be detected where the fertilizing
fluid enters. The coming caterpillar begins to develop at once
and emerges in from six to thirty days, with the exception of
a few eggs placed in the fall that produce during the following
spring. The length of the egg period differs with species and
somewhat with the same moths, according to suitable or unfavourable
placing, and climatic conditions. Do not accept the experience
of any one if you have eggs you very much desire to be productive
of the caterpillars of rare moths; after six days take a peep
every day if you would be on the safe side. With many species
the shells are transparent, and for the last few days before emergence
the growth of the little caterpillars can be watched through them.
When matured they break or eat a hole in their shells and emerge,
seeming much too large for the space they occupied. Family characteristics
show at once. Many of them immediately turn and eat their shells
as if starving; others are more deliberate. Some grace around
for a time as if exercising and then return and eat their shells;
others walk briskly away and do not dine on shell for the first
meal. Usually all of them rest close twenty-four hours before
beginning on leaves. Once they commence feeding in favourable
conditions they eat enormously and grow so rapidly they soon become
too large for their skins to hold them another instant; so they
pause and stop eating for a day or two while new skin forms. Then
the old is discarded and eaten for a first meal, with the exception
of the face covering. At the same time the outer skin is cast
the intestinal lining is thrown off, and practically a new caterpillar,
often bearing different markings, begins to feed again.
These moults occur from four to six times in the development of
the caterpillar; at each it emerges larger, brighter, often with
other changes of colour, and eats more voraciously as it grows.
With me, in handling caterpillars about which I am anxious, their
moulting time is critical. I lost many until I learned to clean
their boxes thoroughly the instant they stopped eating and leave
them alone until they exhibited hunger signs again. They eat greedily
of the leaves preferred by each species, doing best when the foliage
is washed and drops of water left for them to drink as they would
find dew and rain out of doors. Professor Thomson, of the chair
of Natural History of the University of Aberdeen, makes this statement
in his "Biology of the Seasons", "Another feature
in the life of caterpillars is their enormous appetite. Some of
them seem never to stop eating, and a species of Polyphemus is
said to eat eighty-six thousand times its own weight in a day."
I notice Doctor Thomson does not say that he knows this, but uses
the convenient phrase, "it is said." This is an utter
impossibility. The skin of no living creature will contain eighty-six
thousand times its own weight in a day. I have raised enough caterpillars
to know that if one ate three times its own weight in a day it
would have performed a skin- stretching feat. Long after writing
this, but before the manuscript left my hands, I found that the
origin of this statement lies in a table compiled by Trouvelot,
in which he estimates that a Polyphemus caterpillar ten days old
weighs one half grain, or ten times its original weight; at twenty
days three grains, or sixty times its first weight; and so on
until at fifty-six days it weighs two hundred and seven grains,
or four thousand one hundred and forty times its first weight.
To this he adds one half ounce of water and concludes: "So
the food taken by a single silkworm in fifty-six days equals in
weight eighty-six thousand times the primitive weight of the worm."
This is a far cry from eating eighty-six thousand times its own
weight in a day and upholds in part my contention in the first
chapter, that people attempting to write upon these subjects "are
not always rightly informed."
When the feeding period is finished in freedom, the caterpillar,
if hairless, must be ready to evolve from its interior, the principal
part of the winter quarters characteristic of its species while
changing to the moth form, and in the case of non-feeders, sustenance
for the lifetime of the moth also. Similar to the moth, the caterpillar
is made up of three parts, head, thorax, and abdomen, with the
organs and appendages of each. Immediately after moulting the
head appears very large, and seems much too heavy for the size
of the body. At the end of a feeding period and just previous
to another moult the body has grown until the head is almost lost
from sight, and it now seems small and insignificant; so that
the appearance of a caterpillar depends on whether you examine
it before or after moulting.
The head is made up of rings or segments, the same as the body,
but they are so closely set that it seems to be a flat, round,
or pointed formation with discernible rings on the face before
casting time. The eyes are of so simple form that they are supposed
only to distinguish light from darkness. The complicated mouth
is at the lower part of the head. It carries a heavy pair of cutters
with which the caterpillar bites off large pieces of leaf, a first
pair of grinders with which it macerates the food, and a second
pair that join in forming the under lip. There is also the tube
that connects with the silk glands and ends in the spinneret.
Through this tube a fluid is forced that by movements of the head
the caterpillar attaches where it will and draws into fine threads
that at once harden in silk. This organism is sufficiently developed
for use in a newly emerged caterpillar, for it can spin threads
by which to drop from leaf to leaf or to guide it back to a starting
point.
The thorax is covered by the first three rings behind the head,
and on it are six legs, two on each segment. The remainder of
the caterpillar is abdominal and carries small pro-legs with which
to help it cling to twigs and leaves, and the heavy anal props
that support the vent. By using these and several of the pro-legs
immediately before them, the caterpillar can cling and erect the
front part of the body so that it can strike from side to side
when disturbed. In the case of caterpillars that have a horn,
as Celeus, or sets of them as Regalis, in this attitude they really
appear quite formidable, and often I have seen them drive away
small birds, while many people flee shrieking.
There are little tubes that carry air to the trachea, as caterpillars
have no lungs and can live with a very small amount of air.
The skin may be rough, granulated, or soft and fine as silk, and
in almost every instance of exquisite colour: bluish green, greenish
blue, wonderful yellows and from pale to deep wine red, many species
having oblique touches of contrasting colours on the abdominal
rings. Others are marked with small projections of bright colours
from which tufts of hair or bristles may grow. In some, as Io,
these bristles are charged with an irritating acid that will sting
for an hour after coming in contact with the skin, but does no
permanent injury. On a few there are what seem to be small pockets
of acid that can be ejected with a jerk, and on some a sort of
filament that is supposed to distil a disagreeable odour. As the
caterpillar only uses these when disturbed, it is safe to presume
that they are placed for defence, but as in the case of moths
I doubt their efficacy.
Some lepidopterists have thought the sex of a moth could be regulated
by the amount of food given the caterpillar; but with my numerous
other doubts I include this. It is all of a piece with any attempt
at sex regulation. I regard it as morally certain that sex goes
back to the ovary and that the egg produced yields a male or female
caterpillar in the beginning. I am becoming convinced that caterpillars
recognize sex in each other, basing the theory on the facts that
in half a dozen instances I have found cocoons, spun only a few
inches apart. One pair brought to me as interwoven. Two of these
are shown in the following chapter. In all cases a male and female
emerged within a few minutes of each other and mated as soon as
possible. If a single pair of these cocoons ever had produced
two of a kind, it would give rise to doubts. When all of them
proved to be male and female that paired, it seems to me to furnish
conclusive evidence that the caterpillars knew what they were
doing, and spun in the same place for the purpose of appearing
together.
At maturity, usually near five weeks, the full-fed caterpillar
rests a day, empties the intestines, and races around searching
for a suitable place to locate winter quarters. With burrowing
caterpillars that winter in pupa cases, soft earth or rotting
wood is found and entered by working their way with the heads
and closing it with the hind parts. At the desired depth they
push in all directions with such force that a hollow larger, but
shaped as a hen's egg, is worked out; usually this is six or more
inches below the surface. So compactly is the earth forced back,
that fall rains, winter's alternate freezing and thawing, always
a mellowing process, and spring downpours do not break up the
big ball, often larger than a quart bowl, that surrounds the case
of the pupa. It has been thought by some and recorded, that this
ball is held in place by spinning or an acid ejected by the caterpillar.
I never have heard of any one else who has had my luck in lifting
these earth balls intact, opening, and photographing them and
their contents. I have examined them repeatedly and carefully.
I can find not the slightest trace of spinning or adhesion other
than by force.
With one of these balls lifted and divided, we decided what happened
underground by detaining a caterpillar on the surface and forcing
it to transform before us, for this change is not optional. When
the time comes the pupa must evolve. So the caterpillar lies on
the earth, gradually growing shorter, the skin appearing dry and
the horns drooping. There never is a trace of spinning or acid
ejected in the sand buckets. When the change is completed there
begins a violent twisting and squirming. The caterpillar skin
opens in a straight line just behind the head on the back, and
by working with the pointed abdomen the pupa case emerges. The
cast skin rapidly darkens, and as I never have found a trace of
it in an opened earth ball in the spring, I suppose it disintegrates
rapidly, or what is more possible, is eaten by small borers that
swarm through the top six inches of the earth's crust.
The pupa is thickly coated with a sticky substance that seems
to serve the double purpose of facilitating its exit from the
caterpillar skin and to dry over it in a glossy waterproof coating.
At first the pupa is brownish green and flattened, but as it dries
it rapidly darkens in colour and assumes the shape of a perfect
specimen. Concerning this stage of the evolution of a moth the
doctors disagree.
The emergence I have watched repeatedly, studied photographically,
and recorded in the tabulated records from which I wrote the following
life histories. At time to appear I believe the pupa bores its
way with the sharp point of the abdomen; at least I have seen
Celeus, and Carolina, Regalis and Imperialis coming through the
surface, abdomen tip first. Once free, they press with the feet
against the wing shields, burst them away and leave the case at
the thorax. Each moth I ever have seen emerge has been wet and
the empty case damp inside. I have poured three large drops of
pinkish liquid the consistency of thin cream from the abdominal
rings of a Regalis case. Undoubtedly this liquid is ejected by
the moth to enable it to break loose from and leave the case with
its delicate down intact. The furry scales of its covering are
so loosely set that any violent struggle with dry down would disfigure
the moth.
Among Cecropia and its Attacine cousins, also Luna, Polyphemus,
and all other spinners the process is practically the same, save
that it is much more elaborate; most of all with Cecropia, that
spins the largest cocoon I ever have seen, and it varies its work
more than any of the others. Lengthwise of a slender twig it spins
a long, slim cocoon; on a board or wall, roomier and wider at
the bottom, and inside hollow trees, and under bridges, big baggy
quarters of exquisite reddish tan colours that do not fade as
do those exposed to the weather. The typical cocoon of the species
is that spun on a fence or outbuilding, not the slender work on
the alders or the elaborate quarters of the bridge. On a board
the process is to cover the space required with a fine spinning
that glues firmly to the wood. Then the worker takes a firm grip
with the anal props and lateral feet and begins drawing out long
threads that start at the top, reach down one side, across the
bottom and back to the top again, where each thread is cut and
another begun. As long as the caterpillar can be seen through
its work, it remains in the same position and throws the head
back and around to carry the threads. I never thought of counting
these movements while watching a working spinner, but some one
who has, estimates that Polyphemus, that spins a cocoon not one
fourth the size of Cecropia, moves the head a quarter of a million
times in guiding the silk thread. When a thin webbing is spun
and securely attached all around the edges it is pushed out in
the middle and gummed all over the inside with a liquid glue that
oozes through, coalesces and hardens in a waterproof covering.
Then a big nest of crinkly silk threads averaging from three to
four inches in length are spun, running from the top down one
side, up the other, and the cut ends drawn closely together. One
writer states that this silk has no commercial value; while Packard
thinks it has. I attach greater weight to his opinion. Next comes
the inner case. For this the caterpillar loosens its hold and
completely surrounds itself with a small case of compact work.
This in turn is saturated with the glue and forms in a thick,
tough case, rough on the outside, the top not so solidly spun
as the other walls; inside dark brown and worn so smooth it seems
as if oiled, from the turning of the caterpillar. In this little
chamber close the length and circumference of an average sized
woman's two top joints of the first finger, the caterpillar transforms
to the pupa stage, crowding its cast skin in a wad at the bottom.
At time for emergence the moth bursts the pupa case, which is
extremely thin and papery compared with the cases of burrowing
species. We know by the wet moth that liquid is ejected, although
we cannot see the wet spot on the top of the inner case of Cecropia
as we can with Polyphemus, that does not spin the loose outer
case and silk nest. From here on the moths emerge according to
species. Some work with their mouths and fore feet. Some have
rough projections on the top of the head, and others little sawlike
arrangements at the bases of the wings. In whatever manner they
free themselves, all of them are wet when they leave their quarters.
Sometimes the gathered silk ends comb sufficient down from an
emerging Cecropia to leave a terra cotta rim around the opening
from which it came; but I never saw one lose enough at this time
to disfigure it. On very rare occasions a deformed moth appears.
I had a Cecropia with one wing no larger than my thumb nail, and
it never developed. This is caused by the moth sustaining an injury
to the wing in emergence. If the membrane is slightly punctured
the liquid forced into the wing for its development escapes and
there is no enlargement.
Also, in rare instances, a moth is unable to escape at all and
is lost if it is not assisted; but this is precarious business
and should not be attempted unless you are positive the moth will
die if you do not interfere. The struggle it takes to emerge is
a part of the life process of the moth and quickens its circulation
and develops its strength for the affairs of life afterward. If
the feet have a steady pull to drag forth the body, they will
be strong enough to bear its weight while the wings dry and develop.
All lepidopterists mention the wet condition of the moths when
they emerge. Some explain that an acid is ejected to soften the
pupa case so that the moth can cut its way out; others go a step
farther and state that the acid is from the mouth. I am extremely
curious about this. I want to know just what this acid is and
where it comes from. I know of no part of the thorax provided
with a receptacle for the amount of liquid used to flood a case,
dampen a moth, and leave several drops in the shell.
As soon as a moth can find a suitable place to cling after it
is out, it hangs by the feet and dries the wings and down. Long
before it is dry if you try to move a moth or cause disturbance,
it will eject several copious jets of a spray from the abdomen
that appears, smells and tastes precisely like the liquid found
in the abandoned case. If protected from the lightest touch it
will do the same. It appeals to me that this liquid is abdominal,
partly thrown off to assist the moth in emergence; something very
like that bath of birth which accompanies and facilitates human
entrance into the world. It helps the struggling moth in separating
from the case, wets the down so that it will pass the small opening,
reduces the large abdomen so that it will escape the exit, and
softens the case and silk where the moth is working. With either
male or female the increase in size is so rapid that neither could
be returned to their cases five minutes after they have left them.
It is generally supposed that the spray thrown by a developing
moth is for the purpose of attracting others of its kind. I have
my doubts. With moths that have been sheltered and not even touched
by a breath of wind, this spray is thrown very frequently before
the moth is entirely dry, long before it is able to fly and before
the ovipositor is thrust out. According to my sense of smell there
is very little odour to the spray and what there is would be dissipated
hours before night and time for the moths to fly and seek mates.
I do not think that the spray thrown so soon after escape from
cocoon or case is to attract the sexes, any farther than that
much of it in one place on something that it would saturate might
leave a general `mothy' odour. Some lepidopterists think this
spray a means of defence; if this is true I fail to see why it
should be thrown when there is nothing disturbing the moth.
Many of the spinning moths use leaves for their outer foundation.
Some appear as if snugly rolled in a leaf and hanging from a twig,
but examination will prove that the stem is silk covered to hold
the case when the leaf loosens. This is the rule with all Promethea
cocoons I ever have seen. Polyphemus selects a cluster of leaves
very frequently thorn, and weaves its cocoon against three, drawing
them together and spinning a support the length of the stems,
so that when the leaf is ready to fall the cocoon is safely anchored.
When the winter winds have beaten the edges from the leaves, the
cocoon appears as if it were brown, having three ribs with veins
running from them, and of triangular shape. Angulifera spins against
the leaves but provides no support and so drops to the ground.
Luna spins a comparatively thin white case, among the leaves under
the shelter of logs and stumps. Io spins so slightly in confinement
that the pupa case and cast skin show through. I never have found
a pupa out of doors, but this is a ground caterpillar.
Sometimes the caterpillar has been stung and bad an egg placed
in its skin by a parasite, before pupation. In such case the pupa
is destroyed by the developing fly. Throughout one winter I was
puzzled by the light weight of what appeared to be a good Polyphemus
cocoon, and at time for emergence amazed by the tearing and scratching
inside the cocoon, until what I think was an Ophion fly appeared.
It was honey yellow, had antennae long as its extremely long body,
the abdomen of which was curved and the segments set together
so as to appear notched. The wings were transparent and the insect
it seems is especially designed to attack Polyphemus caterpillars
and help check a progress that otherwise might become devastating.
Among the moths that do not feed, the year of their evolution
is divided into about seven days for the life of the moth, from
fifteen to thirty for the eggs, from five to six weeks for the
caterpillar and the remainder of the time in the pupa stage. The
rule differs with feeding moths only in that after mating and
egg placing they take food and live several months, often until
quite heavy frosts have fallen.
One can admire to fullest extent the complicated organism, wondrous
colouring, and miraculous life processes in the evolution of a
moth, but that is all. Their faces express nothing; their attitudes
tell no story. There is the marvellous instinct through which
the males locate the opposite sex of their species; but one cannot
see instinct in the face of any creature; it must develop in acts.
There is no part of their lives that makes such pictures of mother-love
as birds and animals afford. The male finds a mate and disappears.
The female places her eggs and goes out before her caterpillars
break their shells. The caterpillar transforms to the moth without
its consent, the matter in one upbuilding the other. The entire
process is utterly devoid of sentiment, attachment or volition
on the part of the creatures involved. They work out a law as
inevitable as that which swings suns, moons, and planets in their
courses. They are the most fragile and beautiful result of natural
law with which I am acquainted.
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.
CHAPTER IV The Yellow Emperor: Eacles Imperialis
Several years ago, Mr. A. Eisen, a German, of Coldwater, Michigan,
who devotes his leisure to collecting moths, gave me as pinned
specimens a pair of Eacles Imperialis, and their full life history.
Any intimate friend of mine can testify that yellow is my favourite
colour, with shades of lavender running into purple, second choice.
When I found a yellow moth, liberally decorated with lavender,
the combination was irresistible. Mr. Eisen said the mounted specimens
were faded; but the living moths were beautiful beyond description.
Naturally I coveted life.
I was very particular to secure the history of the caterpillars
and their favourite foods. I learned from Mr. Eisen that they
were all of the same shape and habit, but some of them might be
green, with cream-coloured heads and feet, and black face lines,
the body covered sparsely with long hairs; or they might be brown,
with markings of darker brown and black with white hairs; but
they would be at least three inches long when full grown, and
would have a queer habit of rearing and drawing leaves to their
mouths when feeding. I was told I would find them in August, on
leaves of spruce, pine, cherry, birch, alder, sycamore, elm, or
maple; that they pupated in the ground; and the moths were common,
especially around lights in city parks, and at street crossings.
Coming from a drive one rare June evening, I found Mr. William
Pettis, a shooter of oil wells, whom I frequently met while at
my work, sitting on the veranda in an animated business discussion
with the Deacon.
"I brought you a pair of big moths that I found this morning
on some bushes beside the road," said Mr. Pettis. "I
went to give Mr. Porter a peep to see if he thought you'd want
them, and they both got away. He was quicker than I, and caught
the larger one, but mine sailed over the top of that tree."
He indicated an elm not far away.
"Did you know them?" I asked the Deacon.
"No," he answered. "You have none of the kind.
They are big as birds and a beautiful yellow.'
"Yellow!" No doubt I was unduly emphatic. "Yellow!
Didn't you know better than to open a box with moths in it outdoors
at night?"
"It was my fault," interposed Mr. Pettis. "He told
me not to open the box, but I had shown them a dozen times to-day
and they never moved. I didn't think about night being their time
to fly. I am very sorry."
So was I. Sorry enough to have cried, but I tried my best to conceal
it. Anyway, it might be Io, and I had that. On going inside to
examine the moth, I found a large female Eacles Imperialis, with
not a scale of down misplaced. Even by gas light I could see that
the yellow of the living moth was a warm canary colour, and the
lavender of the mounted specimen closer heliotrope on the living,
for there were pinkish tints that had faded from the pinned moth.
She was heavy with eggs, and made no attempt to fly, so I closed
the box and left her until the lights were out, and then removed
the lid. Every opening was tightly screened, and as she had mated,
I did not think she would fly. I hoped in the freedom of the Cabin
she would not break her wings, and ruin herself for a study.
There was much comfort in the thought that I could secure her
likeness; her eggs would be fertile, and I could raise a brood
the coming season, in which would be both male and female. When
life was over I could add her to my specimen case, for these are
of the moths that do not eat, and live only a few days after depositing
their eggs. So I went out and explained to Mr. Pettis what efforts
I had made to secure this yellow moth, comforted him for allowing
the male to escape by telling him I could raise all I wanted from
the eggs of the female, showed him my entire collection, and sent
him from the Cabin such a friend to my work, that it was he who
brought me an oil-coated lark a few days later.
On rising early the next morning, I found my moth had deposited
some eggs on the dining-room floor, before the conservatory doors,
more on the heavy tapestry that covered them, and she was clinging
to a velvet curtain at a library window, liberally dotting it
with eggs, almost as yellow as her body. I turned a tumbler over
those on the floor, pinned folds in the curtains, and as soon
as the light was good, set up a camera and focused on a suitable
location.
She climbed on my finger when it was held before her, and was
carried, with no effort to fly, to the place I had selected, though
Molly-Cotton walked close with a spread net, ready for the slightest
impulse toward movement. But female moths seldom fly until they
have finished egg depositing, and this one was transferred with
no trouble to the spot on which I had focused. On the back wall
of the Cabin, among some wild roses, she was placed on a log,
and immediately raised her wings, and started for the shade of
the vines. The picture made of her as she walked is beautiful.
After I had secured several studies she was returned to the library
curtain, where she resumed egg placing. These were not counted,
but there, were at least three hundred at a rough guess.
I had thought her lovely in gas light, but day brought forth marvels
and wonders. When a child, I used to gather cowslips in a bed
of lush swale, beside a little creek at the foot of a big hill
on our farm. At the summit was an old orchard, and in a brush-heap
a brown thrush nested. From a red winter pearmain the singer poured
out his own heart in song, and then reproduced the love ecstasy
of every other bird of the orchard. That moth's wings were so
exactly the warm though delicate yellow of the flowers I loved,
that as I looked at it I could feel my bare feet sinking in the
damp ooze, smell the fragrance of the buttercups, and hear again
the ripple of the water and the mating exultation of the brown
thrush.
In the name--Eacles Imperialis--there is no meaning or appropriateness
to "Eacles"; "Imperialis"--of course, translates
imperial--which seems most fitting, for the moth is close the
size of Cecropia, and of truly royal beauty. We called it the
Yellow Emperor. Her Imperial Golden Majesty had a wing sweep of
six and a quarter inches. From the shoulders spreading in an irregular
patch over front and back wings, most on the front, were markings
of heliotrope, quite dark in colour: Near the costa of the front
wings were two almost circular dots of slightly paler heliotrope,
the one nearest the edge about half the size of the other. On
the back wings, halfway from each edge, and half an inch from
the marking at the base, was one round spot of the same colour.
Beginning at the apex of the front pair, and running to half an
inch from the lower edge, was a band of escalloped heliotrope.
On the back pair this band began half an inch from the edge and
ran straight across, so that at the outer curve of the wing it
was an inch higher. The front wing surface and the space above
this marking on the back were liberally sprinkled with little
oblong touches of heliotrope; but from the curved line to the
bases of the back pair, the colouring was pure canary yellow.
The top of the head was covered with long, silken hairs of heliotrope,
then a band of yellow; the upper abdomen was strongly shaded with
heliotrope almost to the extreme tip. The lower sides of the wings
were yellow at the base, the spots showing through, but not the
bands, and only the faintest touches of the mottling. The thorax
and abdomen were yellow, and the legs heliotrope. The antennae
were heliotrope, fine, threadlike, and closely pressed to the
head. The eyes were smaller than those of Cecropia, and very close
together.
Compared with Cecropia these moths were very easy to paint. Their
markings were elaborate, but they could be followed accurately,
and the ground work of colour was warm cowslip yellow. The only
difficulty was to make the almost threadlike antennae show, and
to blend the faint touches of heliotrope on the upper wings with
the yellow.
The eggs on the floor and curtains were guarded with care. They
were dotted around promiscuously, and at first were clear and
of amber colour, but as the little caterpillars grew in them,
they showed a red line three fourths of the way around the rim,
and became slightly depressed in the middle. The young emerged
in thirteen days. They were nearly half an inch long, and were
yellow with black lines. They began the task of eating until they
reached the pupa state, by turning on their shells and devouring
all of them to the glue by which they were fastened.
They were given their choice of oak, alder, sumac, elm, cherry,
and hickory. The majority of them seemed to prefer the hickory.
They moulted on the fifth day for the first time, and changed
to a brown colour. Every five or six days they repeated the process,
growing larger and of stronger colour with each moult, and developing
a covering of long white hairs. Part of these moulted four times,
others five.
At past six weeks of age they were exactly as Mr. Eisen had described
them to me. Those I kept in confinement pupated on a bed of baked
gravel, in a tin bucket. It is imperative to bake any earth or
sand used for them to kill pests invisible to the eye, that might
bore into the pupa cases and destroy the moths.
I watched the transformation with intense interest. After the
caterpillars had finished eating they travelled in search of a
place to burrow for a day or two. Then they gave up, and lay quietly
on the sand. The colour darkened hourly, the feet and claspers
seemed to draw inside, and one morning on going to look there
were some greenish brown pupae. They shone as if freshly varnished,
as indeed they were, for the substance provided to facilitate
the emergence of the pupae from the caterpillar skins dries in
a coating, that helps to harden the cases and protect them. These
pupae had burst the skins at the thorax, and escaped by working
the abdomen until they lay an inch or so from the skins.
What a "cast off garment" those skins were! Only the
frailest outside covering, complete in all parts, and rapidly
turning to a dirty brown. The pupae were laid away in a large
box having a glass lid. It was filled with baked sand, covered
with sphagnum moss, slightly dampened occasionally, and placed
where it was cool, but never at actual freezing point. The following
spring after the delight of seeing them emerge, they were released,
for I secured a male to complete my collection a few days later,
and only grew the caterpillars to prove it possible.
There was a carnival in the village, and, for three nights the
streets were illuminated brightly from end to end, to the height
of Ferris wheels and diving towers. The lights must have shone
against the sky for miles around, for they drew from the Limberlost,
from the Canoper, from Rainbow Bottom, and the Valley of the Wood
Robin, their winged creatures of night.
I know Emperors appear in these places in my locality, for the
caterpillars feed on leaves found there, and enter the ground
to pupate; so of course the moth of June begins its life in the
same location. Mr. Pettis found the mated pair he brought to me,
on a bush at the edge of a swamp. They also emerge in cities under
any tree on which their caterpillars feed. Once late in May, in
the corner of a lichen-covered, old snake fence beside the Wabash
on the Shimp farm, I made a series of studies of the home life
of a pair of ground sparrows. They had chosen for a location a
slight depression covered with a rank growth of meadow grass.
Overhead wild plum and thorn in full bloom lay white-sheeted against
the blue sky; red bud spread its purple haze, and at a curve,
the breast of the river gleamed white as ever woman's; while underfoot
the grass was obscured with masses of wild flowers.
An unusually fine cluster of white violets attracted me as I worked
around the birds, so on packing at the close of the day I lifted
the plant to carry home for my wild flower bed. Below a few inches
of rotting leaves and black mould I found a lively pupa of the
Yellow Emperor.
So these moths emerge and deposit their eggs in the swamps, forests,
beside the river and wherever the trees on which they feed grow.
When the serious business of life is over, attracted by strong
lights, they go with other pleasure seeking company, and grace
society by their royal presence.
I could have had half a dozen fine Imperialis moths during the
three nights of the carnival, and fluttering above buildings many
more could be seen that did not descend to our reach. Raymond
had such a busy time capturing moths he missed most of the joys
of the carnival, but I truly think he liked the chase better.
One he brought me, a female, was so especially large that I took
her to the Cabin to be measured, and found her to be six and three
quarter inches, and of the lightest yellow of any specimen I have
seen. Her wings were quite ragged. I imagined she had finished
laying her eggs, and was nearing the end of life, hence she was
not so brilliant as a newly emerged specimen. The moth proved
this theory correct by soon going out naturally.
Choice could be made in all that plethora, and a male and female
of most perfect colouring and markings were selected, for my studies
of a pair. One male was mounted and a very large female on account
of her size. That completed my Imperialis records from eggs to
caterpillars, pupae and moths.
The necessity for a book on this subject; made simple to the understanding,
and attractive to the eye of the masses, never was so deeply impressed
upon me as in an experience with Imperialis. Molly-Cotton was
attending a house-party, and her host had chartered a pavilion
at a city park for a summer night dance. At the close of one of
the numbers; over the heads of the laughing crowd, there swept
toward the light a large yellow moth.
With one dexterous sweep the host caught it, and while the dancers
crowded around him with exclamations of wonder and delight, he
presented it to Molly-Cotton and asked, "Do you know what
it is?"
She laughingly answered, "Yes. But you don't!"
" Guilty!" he responded. "Name it."
For one fleeting instant Molly-Cotton measured the company. There
was no one present who was not the graduate of a commissioned
high school. There were girls who were students at The Castle,
Smith, Vassar, and Bryn Mawr. The host was a Cornell junior, and
there were men from Harvard and Yale.
"It is an Eacles Imperialis Io Polyphemus Cecropia Regalis,"
she said. Then in breathless suspense she waited.
"Shades of Homer!" cried the host. "Where did you
learn it?"
"They are flying all through the Cabin at home," she
replied. "There was a tumbler turned over their eggs on the
dining-room floor, and you dared not sit on the right side of
the library window seat because of them when I left."
"What do you want with their eggs?" asked a girl.
"Want to hatch their caterpillars, and raise them until they
transform into these moths," answered poor Molly-Cotton,
who had been taught to fear so few living things that at the age
of four she had carried a garter snake into the house for a playmate.
"Caterpillars!" The chorus arose to a shriek. "Don't
they sting you? Don't they bite you?"
"No, they don't!" replied Molly-Cotton. "They don't
bite anything except leaves; they are fine big fellows; their
colouring is exquisite; and they evolve these beautiful moths.
I invite all of you to visit us, and see for yourselves how intensely
interesting they are."
There was a murmur of polite thanks from the girls, but one man
measured Molly-Cotton from the top curl of her head to the tip
of her slippers, and answered, " I accept the invitation.
When may I come?" He came, and left as great a moth enthusiast
as any of us. This incident will be recognized as furnishing the
basis on which to build the ballroom scene in "A Girl of
the Limberlost*", in which Philip and Edith quarrel over
the capture of a yellow Emperor. But what of these students from
the great representative colleges of the United States, to whom
a jumbled string made from the names, of half a dozen moths answered
for one of the commonest of all?
<<*April 1994 [limbr10x.xxx] 125 A Girl of the Limberlost,
by Gene Stratton-Porter>>
CHAPTER V The Lady Bird: Deilephila Lineata
In that same country garden where my first Cecropia was found,
Deilephila Lineata was one of my earliest recollections. This
moth flew among the flowers of especial sweetness all day long,
just as did the hummingbirds; and I was taught that it was a bird
also--the Lady Bird. The little tan and grey thing hovering in
air before the flowers was almost as large as the humming-birds,
sipping honey as they did, swift in flight as they; and both my
parents thought it a bird.
They did not know the humming-birds were feasting on small insects
attracted by the sweets, quite as often as on honey, for they
never had examined closely. They had been taught, as I was, that
this other constant visitor to the flowers was a bird. When a
child, a humming-bird nested in a honeysuckle climbing over my
mother's bedroom window. My father lifted me, with his handkerchief
bound across my nose, on the supposition that the bird was so
delicate it would desert its nest and eggs if they were breathed
upon, to see the tiny cup of lichens, with a brown finish so fine
it resembled the lining of a chestnut burr, and two tiny eggs.
I well remember he told me that I now had seen the nest and eggs
of the smallest feathered creature except the Lady Bird, and he
never had found its cradle himself.
Every summer I discovered nests by the dozen, and for several
years a systematic search was made for the home of a Lady Bird.
One of the unfailing methods of finding locations was to climb
a large Bartlett pear tree that stood beside the garden fence,
and from an overhanging bough watch where birds flew with bugs
and worms they collected. Lady Birds were spied upon, but when
they left our garden they arose high in air, and went straight
from sight toward every direction. So locating their nests as
those of other birds were found, seemed impossible.
Then I tried going close the sweetest flowers, those oftenest
visited, the petunias, yellow day lilies, and trumpet creepers,
and sitting so immovably I was not noticeable while I made a study
of the Lady Birds. My first discovery was that they had no tail.
One poised near enough to make sure of that, and I hurried to
my father with the startling news. He said it was nothing remarkable;
birds frequently lost their tails. He explained how a bird in
close quarters has power to relax its muscles, and let its tail
go in order to save its body, when under the paw of a cat, or
caught in a trap.
That was satisfactory, but I thought it must have been a spry
cat to get even a paw on the Lady Bird, for frequently humming-birds
could be seen perching, but never one of these. I watched the
tail question sharply, and soon learned the cats had been after
every Lady Bird that visited our garden, or any of our neighbours,
for not one of them had a tail. When this information was carried
my father, he became serious, but finally he said perhaps the
tail was very short; those of humming-birds or wrens were, and
apparently some water birds had no tail, or at least a very short
one.
That seemed plausible, but still I watched this small and most
interesting bird of all; this bird that no one ever had seen taking
a bath, or perching, and whose nest never had been found by a
person so familiar with all outdoors as my father. Then came a
second discovery: it could curl its beak in a little coil when
leaving a flower. A few days later I saw distinctly that it had
four wings but I could discover no feet. I became a rank doubter,
and when these convincing proofs were carried to my father, he
also grew dubious.
"I always have thought and been taught that it was a bird,"
he said, "but you see so clearly and report so accurately,
you almost convince me it is some large insect possibly of the
moth family."
When I carried this opinion to my mother and told her, no doubt
pompously, that `very possibly' I had discovered that the Lady
Bird was not a bird at all, she hailed it as high treason, and
said, "Of course it is a bird!" That forced me to action.
The desperate course of capturing one was resolved upon. If only
I could, surely its feet, legs, and wings would tell if it were
a bird. By the hour I slipped among those bloom-bordered walks
between the beds of flaming sweet-williams, buttercups, phlox,
tiger and day lilies, Job's tears, hollyhocks, petunias, poppies,
mignonette, and every dear old-fashioned flower that grows, and
followed around the flower-edged beds of lettuce, radishes, and
small vegetables, relentlessly trailing Lady Birds.
Pass after pass I made at them, but they always dived and escaped
me. At last, when I almost had given up the chase, one went nearly
from sight in a trumpet creeper. With a sweep the flower was closed
behind it, and I ran into the house crying that at last I had
caught a Lady Bird. Holding carefully, the trumpet was cut open
with a pin, and although the moth must have been slightly pinched,
and lacking in down when released, I clung to it until my mother
and every doubting member of my family was convinced that this
was no bird at all, for it lacked beak, tail, and feathers, while
it had six legs and four wings. Father was delighted that I had
learned something new, all by myself; but I really think it slightly
provoked my mother when thereafter I always refused to call it
a bird. This certainly was reprehensible. She should have known
all the time that it was a moth.
The other day a club woman of Chicago who never in her life has
considered money, who always has had unlimited opportunities for
culture both in America and Europe, who speaks half a dozen languages,
and has the care of but one child, came in her auto mobile to
investigate the Limberlost. Almost her first demand was to see
pictures. One bird study I handed her was of a brooding king rail,
over a foot tall, with a three-foot wing sweep, and a long curved
bill. She cried, "Oh! see the dear little hummingbird!"
If a woman of unlimited opportunity, in this day of the world,
does not know a rail from a humming-bird, what could you expect
of my little mother, who spoke only two languages, reared twelve
lusty children, and never saw an ocean.
So by degrees the Lady Bird of the garden resolved itself into
Deilephila Lineata. Deile--evening; phila--lover; lineata--lined;
the Lined Evening Lover. Why 'evening' is difficult to understand,
for all my life this moth occurs more frequently with me in the
fore and early afternoon than in the evening. So I agree with
those entomologists who call it the 'white-lined morning-sphinx.'
It is lovely in modest garb, delicately lined, but exceedingly
rich in colour. It has the long slender wings of the Sphingid
moths, and in grace and tirelessness of flight resembles Celeus,
the swallow of the moth family.
Its head is very small, and its thorax large. The eyes are big,
and appear bigger because set in so tiny a head. Under its tongue,
which is a full inch long, is a small white spot that divides,
spreads across each eye, and runs over the back until even with
the bases of the front wings. The top of the head and shoulders
are olive brown, decorated with one long white line dividing it
in the middle, and a shorter on each side. The abdomen is a pale
brown, has a straight line running down the middle of the back,
made up of small broken squares of very dark brown, touched with
a tiny mark of white. Down each side of this small line extends
a larger one, wider at the top and tapering, and this is composed
of squares of blackish brown alternating with white, the brown
being twice the size of the white. The sides of the abdomen are
flushed with beautiful rosy pink, and beneath it is tan colour.
The wings are works of art. The front are a rich olive brown,
marked the long way in the middle by a wide band of buff, shading
to lighter buff at the base. They are edged from the costa to
where they meet the back wings, with a line of almost equal width
of darker buff, the lower edge touched with white. Beginning at
the base, and running an equal distance apart from the costa to
this line, are fine markings of white, even and clear as if laid
on with a ruler.
The surprise comes in the back wings, that show almost entirely
when the moth is poised before a flower. These have a small triangle
of the rich dark brown, and a band of the same at the lower edge,
with a finish of olive, and a fine line of white as a marginal
decoration. Crossing each back wing is a broad band of lovely
pink of deeper shade than the colour on the sides. This pink,
combined with the olive, dark browns, and white lining, makes
the colour scheme of peculiar richness.
Its antennae are long, clubbed, and touched with white at the
tips. The legs and body are tan colour. The undersides of the
wings are the same as the upper, but the markings of brown and
buffish pink show through in lighter colour, while the white lining
resembles rows of tan ridges beneath. Its body is covered with
silky hairs, longest on the shoulders, and at the base of the
wings.
The eggs of the moth are laid on apple, plum, or woodbine leaves,
or on grape, currant, gooseberry, chickweed or dock. During May
and June around old log cabins in the country, with gardens that
contain many of these vines and bushes, and orchards of bloom
where the others can be foundthe Lined Evening Lover deposits
her eggs.
The caterpillars emerge in about six days. The tiny ovoid eggs
are a greenish yellow. The youngsters are pale green, and have
small horns. After a month spent in eating, and skin casting,
the full-grown caterpillar is over two inches long, and as a rule
a light green. There are on each segment black patches, that have
a touch of orange, and on that a hint of yellow. The horn increases
with the growth of the caterpillar, can be moved at will, and
seems as if it were a vicious `stinger.' But there is no sting,
or any other method of self-defence, unless the habit of raising
the head and throwing it from side to side could be so considered.
With many people, this movement, combined with the sharp horn,
is enough, but as is true of most caterpillars, they are perfectly
harmless. Some moth historians record a mustard yellow caterpillar
of this family, and I remember having seen some that answer the
description; but all I ever have known to be Lineata were green.
The pupae are nearly two inches long and are tan coloured. They
usually are found in the ground in freedom, or deep under old
logs among a mass of leaves spun together. In captivity the caterpillars
seem to thrive best on a diet of purslane, and they pupate perfectly
on dry sand in boxes.
These moths have more complete internal development than those
of night, for they feed and live throughout the summer. I photographed
a free one feasting on the sweets of petunias in a flower bed
at the Cabin, on the seventh of October.
CHAPTER VI Moths of the Moon: Actias Luna
One morning there was a tap at my door, and when I opened it I
found a tall, slender woman having big, soft brown eyes, and a
winning smile. In one hand she held a shoe-box, having many rough
perforations. I always have been glad that my eyes softened at
the touch of pleading on her face, and a smile sprang in answer
to hers before I saw what she carried. For confession must be
made that a perforated box is a passport to my good graces any
day.
The most wonderful things come from those that are brought to
my front door. Sometimes they contain a belated hummingbird, chilled
with the first heavy frost of autumn, or a wounded weasel caught
in a trap set for it near a chicken coop, or a family of baby
birds whose parents some vandal has killed. Again they carry a
sick or wounded bird that I am expected to doctor; and butterflies,
moths, insects, and caterpillars of every description.
"I guess I won't stop," said the woman in answer to
my invitation to enter the Cabin. "I found this creature
on my front porch early this morning, and I sort of wanted to
know what it was, for one thing, and I thought you might like
to have it, for another."
"Then of course you will come in, and we will see what it
is," I answered, leading the way into the library.
There I lifted the lid slightly to take a peep, and then with
a cry of joy, opened it wide. That particular shoe-box had brought
me an Actias Luna, newly emerged, and as yet unable to fly. I
held down my finger, it climbed on, and was lifted to the light.
"Ain't it the prettiest thing?" asked the woman, with
stars sparkling in her dark eyes. "Did you ever see whiter
white?"
Together we studied that moth. Clinging to my finger, the living
creature was of such delicate beauty as to impoverish my stock
of adjectives at the beginning. Its big, pursy body was covered
with long, furry scales of the purest white imaginable. The wings
were of an exquisite light green colour; the front pair having
a heavy costa of light purple that reached across the back of
the head: the back pair ended in long artistic `trailers,' faintly
edged with light yellow. The front wing had an oval transparent
mark close the costa, attached to it with a purple line, and the
back had circles of the same. These decorations were bordered
with lines of white, black, and red. At the bases of the wings
were long, snowy silken hairs; the legs were purple, and the antennae
resembled small, tan-coloured ferns. That is the best I can do
at description. A living moth must be seen to form a realizing
sense of its shape and delicacy of colour. Luna is our only large
moth having trailers, and these are much longer in proportion
to size and of more graceful curves than our trailed butterflies.
The moth's wings were fully expanded, and it was beginning to
exercise, so a camera was set up hastily, and several pictures
of it secured. The woman helped me through the entire process,
and in talking with her, I learned that she was Mrs. McCollum,
from a village a mile and a half north of ours; that when she
reached home she would have walked three miles to make the trip;
and all her neighbours had advised her not to come, but she "had
a feeling that she would like to."
"Are you sorry?" I asked.
"Am I sorry!" she cried. "Why I never had a better
time in my life, and I can teach the children what you have told
me. I'll bring you everything I can get my fingers on that you
can use, and send for you when I find bird nests.'
Mrs. McCollum has kept that promise faithfully. Again and again
she trudged those three miles, bringing me small specimens of
many species or to let me know that she had found a nest.
A big oak tree in Mrs. McCollum's yard explained the presence
of a Luna there, as the caterpillars of this specie greatly prefer
these leaves. Because the oak is of such slow growth it is seldom
planted around residences for ornamental purposes; but is to be
found most frequently in the forest. For this reason Luna as a
rule is a moth of the deep wood, and so is seldom seen close a
residence, making people believe it quite rare. As a matter of
fact, it is as numerous where the trees its caterpillars frequent
are to be found, as any other moth in its natural location. Because
it is of the forest, the brightest light there is to attract it
is the glare of the moon as it is reflected on the face of a murky
pool, or on the breast of the stream rippling its way through
impassable thickets. There must be a self-satisfied smile on the
face of the man in the moon, in whose honour these delicate creatures
are named, when on fragile wing they hover above his mirrored
reflection; for of all the beauties of a June night in the forest,
these moths are most truly his.
In August of the same year, while driving on a corduroy road in
Michigan, I espied a Luna moth on the trunk of a walnut tree close
the road. The cold damp location must account for this late emergence;
for subsequent events proved that others of the family were as
slow in appearing. A storm of protest arose, when I stopped the
carriage and started to enter the swamp. The remaining occupants
put in their time telling blood-curdling experiences with `massaugers,'
that infested those marshes; and while I bent grasses and cattails
to make the best footing as I worked my way toward the moth, I
could hear a mixed chorus "brought up thirteen in the dredge
at the cement factory the other day," "killed nine in
a hayfield below the cemetery," "saw a buster crossing
the road before me, and my horse almost plunged into the swamp,"
"died of a bite from one that struck him while fixing a loose
board in his front walk."
I am dreadfully afraid of snakes, and when it seemed I could not
force myself to take another step, and I was clinging to a button
bush while the water arose above my low shoes, the moth lowered
its wings flat against the bark. From the size of the abdomen
I could see that it was a female heavily weighted with eggs. Possibly
she had mated the previous night, and if I could secure her, Luna
life history would be mine.
So I set my teeth and advanced. My shoes were spoiled, and my
skirts bedraggled, but I captured the moth and saw no indication
of snakes. Soon after she was placed in a big pasteboard box and
began dotting eggs in straight lines over the interior. They were
white but changed colour as the caterpillars approached time to
hatch. The little yellow-green creatures, nearly a quarter of
an inch long, with a black line across the head, emerged in about
sixteen days, and fed with most satisfaction on oak, but they
would take hickory, walnut or willow leaves also. When the weather
is cold the young develop slower, and I have had the egg period
stretched to three weeks at times. Every few days the young caterpillars
cast their skins and emerged in brighter colour and larger in
size. It is usually supposed they mature in four moults, and many
of them do, but some cast a fifth skin before transforming. When
between seven and eight weeks of age, they were three inches long,
and of strong blue-green colour. Most of them had tubercles of
yellow, tipped with blue, and some had red.
They spun a leaf-cover cocoon, much the size and shape of that
of Polyphemus, but whiter, very thin, with no inner case, and
against some solid surface whenever possible. Fearing I might
not handle them rightly, and lose some when ready to spin, I put
half on our walnut tree so they could weave their cocoons according
to characteristics.
They are fine, large, gaudy caterpillars. The handsomest one I
ever saw I found among some gifts offered by Molly-Cotton for
the celebration of my birthday. It had finished feeding, soon
pupated in a sand pail and the following spring a big female emerged
that attracted several males and they posed on a walnut trunk
for beautiful studies.
Once under the oak trees of a summer resort, Miss Katherine Howell,
of Philadelphia, intercepted a Luna caterpillar in the preliminary
race before pupation and brought it to me. We offered young oak
leaves, but they were refused, so it went before the camera. Behind
the hotel I found an empty hominy can in which it soon began spinning,
but it seemed to be difficult to fasten the threads to the tin,
so a piece of board was cut and firmly wedged inside. The caterpillar
clung to this and in the darkness of the can spun the largest
and handsomest Luna winter quarters of all my experience.
Luna hunters can secure material from which to learn this exquisite
creature of night, by searching for the moths on the trunks of
oak, walnut, hickory, birch or willow, during the month of June.
The moths emerge on the ground, and climb these trees to unfold
and harden their wings. The females usually remain where they
are, and the males are attracted to them. If undisturbed they
do not fly until after mating and egg depositing are accomplished.
The males take wing as soon as dusk of the first night arrives,
after their wings are matured. They usually find the females by
ten o'clock or midnight, and remain with them until morning. I
have found mated pairs as late as ten o'clock in the forenoon.
The moths do not eat, and after the affairs of life are accomplished,
they remain in the densest shade they can find for a few days,
and fly at night, ending their life period in from three days
to a week. Few of these gaudily painted ones have the chance to
die naturally, for both birds and squirrels prey upon them, tearing
away the delicate wings, and feasting on the big pulpy bodies.
White eggs on the upper side of leaves of the trees mentioned
are a sign of Luna caterpillars in deep woods, and full-grown
larvae can be found on these trees in August. By breaking off
a twig on which they are feeding, carrying them carefully, placing
them in a box where they cannot be preyed upon by flies and parasites,
and keeping a liberal supply of fresh damp leaves, they will finish
the feeding days, and weave their cocoons.
Or the cocoons frequently can be found already spun among the
leaves, by nutting parties later in the fall. There is small question
if Luna pupae be alive, for on touching the cocoons they squirm
and twist so vigorously that they can be heard plainly. There
is so little difference in the size of male and female Lunas,
that I am not sure of telling them apart in the cocoon, as I am
certain I can Cecropia.
Cocoon gathering in the fall is one of the most delightful occupations
imaginable. When flowers are gone; when birds have migrated; when
brilliant foliage piles knee deep underfoot; during those last
few days of summer, zest can be added to a ramble by a search
for cocoons. Carrying them home with extreme care not to jar or
dent them, they are placed in the conservatory among the flowers.
They hang from cacti spines and over thorns on the big century
plant and lemon tree. When sprinkling, the hose is turned on them,
as they would take the rain outside. Usually they are placed in
the coolest spots, where ventilation is good.
There is no harm whatever in taking them _if the work is carefully
and judiciously done_. With you they are safe. Outside they have
precarious chance for existence, for they are constantly sought
by hungry squirrels and field mice, while the sharp eyes and sharper
beaks of jays, and crows, are for ever searching for them. The
only danger is in keeping them too warm, and so causing their
emergence before they can be placed out safely at night, after
you have made yourself acquainted with Luna history.
If they are kept cool enough that they do not emerge until May
or June, then you have one of the most exquisite treats nature
has in store for you, in watching the damp spot spread on the
top of the cocoon where an acid is ejected that cuts and softens
the tough fibre, and allows the moth to come pushing through in
the full glory of its gorgeous birth. Nowhere in nature can you
find such delicate and daintily shaded markings or colours so
brilliant and fresh as on the wings of these creatures of night.
After you have learned the markings and colours, and secured pictures
if you desire, and they begin to exhibit a restlessness, as soon
as it is dusk, release them. They are as well prepared for all
life has for them as if they had emerged in the woods. The chances
are that they are surer of life at your hands than they would
have been if left afield, provided you keep them cool enough that
they do not emerge too soon. If you want to photograph them, do
it when the wings are fully developed, but before they have flown.
They need not be handled; their wings are unbroken; their down
covering in place to the last scale; their colours never so brilliant;
their markings the plainest they ever will be; their big pursy
bodies full of life; and they will climb with perfect confidence
on any stick, twig, or limb held before them. Reproductions of
them are even more beautiful than those of birds. By all means
photograph them out of doors on a twig or leaf that their caterpillars
will eat. Moths strengthen and dry very quickly outside in the
warm crisp air of May or June, so it is necessary to have some
one beside you with a spread net covering them, in case they want
to fly before you are ready to make an exposure. In painting this
moth the colours always should be copied from a living specimen
as soon as it is dry. No other moth of my acquaintance fades so
rapidly.
Repeatedly I am asked which I think the most beautiful of these
big night moths. I do not know. All of them are indescribably
attractive. Whether a pale green moth with purple markings is
lovelier than a light yellow moth with heliotrope decorations;
or a tan and brown one with pink lines, is a difficult thing to
determine. When their descriptions are mastered, and the colour
combinations understood, I fancy each person will find the one
bearing most of his favourite colour the loveliest. It may be
that on account of its artistically cut and coloured trailers,
Luna has a touch of grace above any.
CHAPTER VII King of the Hollyhocks: Protoparce Celeus
Protoparce Celeus was the companion of Deilephila Lineata in the
country garden where I first studied Nature. Why I was taught
that Lineata was a bird, and Celeus a moth, it is difficult to
understand, for they appear very similar when poising before flowers.
They visit the same blooms, and vary but little in size. The distinction
that must have made the difference was that while Lineata kept
company with the hummingbirds and fed all day, Celeus came forth
at dusk, and flew in the evening and at night. But that did not
conclusively prove it a moth, for nighthawks and whip-poor-wills
did the same; yet unquestionably they were birds.
Anyway, I always knew Celeus was a moth, and that every big, green
caterpillar killed on the tomato vines meant one less of its kind
among the flowers. I never saw one of these moths close a tomato
or potato vine, a jimson weed or ground cherry, but all my life
I have seen their eggs on these plants, first of a pale green
closely resembling the under side of the leaves, and if they had
been laid some time, a yellow colour. The eggs are not dotted
along in lines, or closely placed, but are deposited singly, or
by twos, at least very sparsely.
The little caterpillars emerge in about a week, and then comes
the process of eating until they grow into the large, green tomato
or tobacco worms that all of us have seen. When hatched the caterpillars
are green, and have grey caudal horns similar to Lineata. After
eating for four or five days, they cast their skins. This process
is repeated three or four times, when the full-grown caterpillars
are over four inches long, exactly the colour of a green tomato,
with pale blue and yellow markings of beautiful shades, the horns
blue-black; and appearing sharp enough to inflict a severe wound.
Like all sphinx caterpillars Celeus is perfectly harmless; but
this horn, in connexion with the habit the creatures have of clinging
to the vines with the back feet, raising the head and striking
from side to side, makes people very sure they can bite or sting,
or inflict some serious hurt. So very vigorous are they in self-defence
when disturbed, that robins and cuckoos are the only birds I ever
have seen brave enough to pick them until the caterpillars loosen
their hold and drop to the ground, where they are eaten with evident
relish.
One cuckoo of my experience that nested in an old orchard, adjoining
a potato patch, frequently went there caterpillar-hunting, and
played havoc with one wherever found. The shy, deep wood habits
of the cuckoo prevent it from coming close houses and into gardens,
but robins will take these big caterpillars from tomato vines.
However, they go about it rather gingerly, and the work of reducing
one to non-resistance does not seem to be at all coveted. Most
people exhibit symptoms of convulsions at sight of one. Yet it
is a matter of education. I have seen women kiss and fondle cats
and dogs, one snap from which would result in disfiguration or
horrible death, and seem not to be able to get enough of them.
But they were quite equal to a genuine faint if contact were suggested
with a perfectly harmless caterpillar, a creature lacking all
means of defence, save this demonstration of throwing the head.
When full-fed the caterpillars enter the earth to pupate, and
on the fifteenth of October, 1906, only the day before I began
this chapter, the Deacon, in digging worms for a fishing trip
to the river, found a pupa case a yard from the tomato vines,
and six inches below the surface. He came to my desk, carrying
on a spade a ball of damp earth larger than a quart bowl. With
all care we broke this as nearly in halves as possible and found
in the centre a firm, oval hole, the size and shape of a hen's
egg, and in the opening a fine fresh pupa case.
It was a beautiful red-brown in colour, long and slenderer than
a number of others in my box of sand, and had a long tongue case
turned under and fastened to the pupa between the wing shields.
The sides of the abdomen were pitted; the shape of the head, and
the eyes showed through the case, the wing shields were plainly
indicated, and the abdominal shield was in round sections so that
the pupa could twist from side to sid when touched, proving that
the developing moth inside was very much alive and in fine condition.
There were no traces of the cast skin. The caterpillar had been
so strong and had pushed so hard against the surrounding earth
that the direction from which it had entered was lost. The soil
was packed and crowded firmly for such a distance that this large
ball was forced together. Trembling with eagerness I hurriedly
set up a camera. This phase of moth life often has been described,
but I never before heard of any one having been able to reproduce
it, so my luck was glorious. A careful study of this ball of earth,
the opening in which the case lies, and the pupa, with its blunt
head and elaborate tongue shield, will convince any one that when
ready to emerge these moths must bore the six inches to the surface
with the point of the abdomen, and there burst the case, cling
to the first twig and develop and harden the wings. The abdominal
point is sharp, surprisingly strong, and the rings of the segments
enable it to turn in all directions, while the earth is mellow
and moist with spring rains. To force a way head first would be
impossible on account of the delicate tongue shield, and for the
moth to emerge underground and dig to the surface without displacing
a feather of down, either before or after wing expansion, is unthinkable.
Yet I always had been in doubt as to precisely how the exit of
a pupa case moth took place, until I actually saw the earth move
and the sharp abdominal point appear while working in my garden.
Living pupae can be had in the fall, by turning a few shovels
of soil close vegetables in any country garden. In the mellow
mould, among cabbages and tomato vines, around old log cabins
close the Limberlost swamp, they are numerous, and the emerging
moths haunt the sweet old-fashioned flowers.
The moth named Celeus, after a king of Eleusis, certainly has
kingly qualities to justify the appellation. The colouring is
all grey, black, brown, white and yellow, and the combinations
are most artistic. It is a relative of Lineata. It flies and feeds
by day, has nearly the same length of life, and is much the same
in shape.
The head is small and sharp, eyes very much larger than Lineata,
and tongue nearly four inches in length. The antennae are not
clubbed, but long and hairlike. It has the broad shoulders, the
long wings, and the same shape of abdomen. The wings, front and
back, are so mottled, lined, and touched with grey, black, brown
and white, as to be almost past definite description. The back
wings have the black and white markings more clearly defined.
The head meets the thorax with a black band. The back is covered
with long, grey down, and joins the abdomen, with a band of black
about a quarter of an inch wide, and then a white one of equal
width. The abdomen is the gaudiest part of the moth. In general
it is a soft grey. It is crossed by five narrow white lines the
length of the abdomen, and a narrow black one down the middle.
Along each side runs a band of white. On this are placed four
large yellow spots each circled by a band of black that joins
the black band of the spot next to it. The legs and under side
of the abdomen and wings are a light grey-tan, with the wing markings
showing faintly, and the abdomen below is decorated with two small
black dots.
My first Celeus, a very large and beautiful one, was brought to
me by Mr. Wallace Hardison, who has been an interested helper
with this book. The moth had a wing sweep of fully five and a
half inches, and its markings were unusually bright and strong.
No other Celeus quite so big and beautiful ever has come to my
notice. From four and a half to five inches is the average size.
There was something the matter with this moth. Not a scale of
down seemed to be missing, but it was torpid and would not fly.
Possibly it had been stung by some parasite before taking flight
at all, for it was very fresh. I just had returned from a trip
north, and there were some large pieces of birch bark lying on
the table on which the moth had been placed. It climbed on one
of these, and clung there, so I set up the bark, and made a time
exposure. It felt so badly it did not even close them when I took
a brush and spread its wings full width. Soon after it became
motionless. I had begun photographing moths recently; it was one
of my very first, and no thought of using it for natural history
purposes occurred at the time. I merely made what I considered
a beautiful likeness, and this was so appreciated whenever shown,
that I went further and painted it in water colours.
Since moth pictures have accumulated, and moth history has engrossed
me with its intense interest, I have been very careful in making
studies to give each one its proper environment when placing it
before my camera. Of all the flowers in our garden, Celeus prefers
the hollyhocks. At least it comes to them oftenest and remains
at them longest. But it moves continually and flies so late that
a picture of it has been a task. After years of fruitless effort,
I made one passable snapshot early in July, while the light was
sufficiently strong that a printable picture could be had by intensifying
the plate, and one good time exposure as a Celeus, with half-folded
wings, clambered over a hollyhock, possibly hunting a spot on
which to deposit an egg or two. The hollyhock painting of this
chapter is from this study. The flowers were easy but it required
a second trial to do justice to the complicated markings of the
moth.
This evening lover and strong flyer, with its swallow-like sweep
of wing, comes into the colour schemes of nature with the otter,
that at rare times thrusts a sleek grey head from the river, with
the grey-brown cotton-tails that bound across the stubble, and
the coots that herald dawn in the marshes. Exactly the shades,
and almost the markings ofits wings can be found on very old rail
fences. This lint shows lighter colour, and even grey when used
in the house building of wasps and orioles, but I know places
in the country where I could carve an almost perfectly shaded
Celeus wing from a weather- beaten old snake fence rail.
Celeus visits many flowers, almost all of the trumpet-shaped ones,
in fact, but if I were an artist I scarcely would think it right
to paint a hollyhock without putting King Celeus somewhere in
the picture, poised on his throne of air before a perfect bloom
as he feasts on pollen and honey. The holly-hock is a kingly flower,
with its regally lifted heads of bright bloom, and that the king
of moths should show his preference for it seems eminently fitting,
so we of the Cabin named him King of the Hollyhocks.
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.
CHAPTER IX The Sweetheart and the Bride: Catocala Amatyix-- Catocala
Neogama
There are no moths so common with us as these, for throughout
their season, at any time one is wanted, it is sure to be found
either on the sweetbrier clambering over the back wall, among
the morning- glories on one side, the wistaria and wild grape
on the other, or in the shade of the wild clematis in front. On
very sunny days, they leave the shelter of the vines, and rest
on the logs of the Cabin close the roof of the verandas. Clinging
there they appear like large grey flies, for they are of peculiar
shape, and the front wings completely cover the back when in repose.
A third or a half of the back wings show as they are lifted to
balance the the moths when walking over vines and uncertain footing.
They are quite conspicuous on our Cabin, because it is built of
the red cedar of Wisconsin; were it of the timber used by our
grandfathers, these moths with folded wings would be almost indistinguishable
from their surroundings.
Few moths can boast greater beauty. The largest specimen of the
'Sweetheart' that homes with us would measure three and one half
inches if it would spread its wings full width as do the moths
of other species. No moth is more difficult to describe, because
of the delicate blending of so many intangible shades. The front
wings are a pale, brownish grey, with irregular markings of tan,
and dark splotches outlined with fine deep brown lines. The edges
are fluted and escalloped, each raised place being touched with
a small spot of tan, and above it a narrow escalloped line of
brown. The back wings are bright red, crossed by a circular band
of brownish black, three-fourths of an inch from the base, a secondary
wider band of the same, and edged with pale yellow.
There is no greater surprise in store for a student of moths than
to locate a first Catocala Amatrix, and see the softly blended
grey front wings suddenly lift, and the vivid red of the back
ones flash out. The under sides of the front wings are a warm
creamy tan, crossed by wide bands of dark brown and grey-brown,
ending in a delicate grey mist at the edges. The back wings are
the same tan shade, with red next the abdomen, and crossed by
brown bands of deeper shade than the fore-wings. The shoulders
are covered with long silky hair like the front wings. This is
so delicate that it becomes detached at the slightest touch of
vine or leaf. The abdomen is slightly lighter in colour on top,
and a creamy tan beneath. The legs are grey, and the feet to the
first joint tan, crossed by faint lines of brown.
The head is small, with big prominent eyes that see better by
day than most night moths; for Catocala takes precipitate flight
at the merest shadow. The antennae are long, delicate and threadlike,
and must be broken very easily in the flight of the moth. It is
nothing unusual to see them with one antenna shorter than the
other, half, or entirely gone; and a perfect specimen with both
antennae, and all the haif on its shoulders, is rare. They have
a long tongue that uncoils like Lineata, and Celeus, so they are
feeders, but not of day, for they never take flight until evening,
except when disturbed. The male is smaller than the female, his
fore-wings deeply flushed with darker colour and the back brighter
red with more black in the bands.
Neogama, another member of this family, is a degree smaller than
Amatrix, but of the same shape. The fore-wings are covered with
broken lines of different colours, the groundwork grey, with gold
flushings, the lines and dots of the border very like the Sweetheart's.
The back wings are pure gold, almost reddish, with dark brownish
black bands, and yellow borders. The top of the abdomen is a grey-gold
colour. Underneath, the markings are nearly the same as Amatrix,
but a gold flush suffuses the moth.
There are numbers of these Catocala moths running the colour scheme
of-yellow, from pale chrome to umber. Many shade from light pink
through the reds to a dark blood colour. Then there is a smaller
number having brown back wings and with others they are white.
The only way I know to photograph them is to focus on some favourable
spot, mark the place your plate covers in length and width, and
then do your best to coax your subjects in range. If they can
be persuaded to walk, they will open their wings to a greater
or less degree. A reproduction would do them no sort of justice
unless the markings of the back wings show. It is on account of
the gorgeous colourings of these that scientists call the species
`afterwings.'
One would suppose that with so many specimens of this beautiful
species living with us and swarming the swamp close by, I would
be prepared to give their complete life history; but I know less
concerning them than any other moths common with us, and all the
scientific works I can buy afford little help. Professional lepidopterists
dismiss them with few words. One would-be authority disposes of
the species with half a dozen lines. You can find at least a hundred
Catocala reproduced from museum specimens and their habitat given,
in the Holland "Moth Book", but I fail to learn what
I most desire to know: what these moths feed on; how late they
live; how their eggs appear; where they are deposited; which is
their caterpillar; what does it eat; and where and how does it
pupate.
Packard, in his "Guide to the Study of Insects", offers
in substance this much help upon the subject: "The genus
is beautiful, the species numerous, of large size, often three-inch
expansion, and in repose form a flat roof. The larva is elongate,
slender, flattened beneath and spotted with black, attenuated
at each end, with fleshy filaments on the sides above the legs,
while the head is flattened and rather forked above. It feeds
on trees and rests attached to the trunks. The pupa is covered
with a bluish efflorescence, enclosed in a slight cocoon of silk,
spun amongst leaves or bark."
This will tend to bear out my contention that scientific works
are not the help they should be to the Nature Lover. Heaven save
me from starting to locate Catocala moths, eggs, caterpillars
or pupae on the strength of this information. I might find moths
by accident; nothing on the subject of eggs; neither colour of
body, characteristics nor food, to help identify caterpillars;
for the statement, 'it feeds on trees,' cannot be considered exactly
illuminating when we remember the world full of trees on which
caterpillars are feeding; and should one search for cocoon encased
pupae among the leaves and bark of tree-tops or earth?
The most reliable information I have had, concerning these moths
of which I know least, comes from Professor Rowley. He is the
only lepidopterist of four to whom I applied, who could tell me
any of the things I am interested in knowing. He writes in substance:
"The Bride and Sweetheart are common northern species, as
are most of the other members of the group. The Amatrix, with
its red wings, is called the Sweetheart because amor means love,
and red is love's own colour. The caterpillar feeds on willow.
The Catocala of the yellow "after-wings" is commonly
called the Bride, because Neogama, its scientific name, means
recently wedded. Its caterpillar feeds on walnut leaves.
"If you will examine the under side of the body of a Catocala
moth you will find near the junction of the thorax and abdomen
on either side, large open organs reminding one of the ears of
a grasshopper, which are on the sides of the first abdominal segment.
Examine the bodies of Sphinges and other moths for these same
openings. They appear to be ears. Catocala moths feed on juices,
and live most of the summer season. Numbers of them have been
found sipping sap at a tree freshly cut and you know we take them
at night with bait.
"New Orleans sugar and cider or sugar and stale beer are
the usual baits. This 'concoction'is put on the bodies of trees
with a brush, between eight and ten o'clock at night. During good
Catocala years, great numbers of these moths may be taken as they
feed at the sweet syrup. So it is proved that their food is sap,
honeydew, and other sugary liquids. Mr. George Dodge assures me
that he has taken Catocala abbreviatella at milk-weed blooms about
eight o'clock of early July evenings. Other species also feed
on flowers."
You will observe that in his remarks about the "open organs
on the side of the abdominal segment," Professor Rowley may
have settled the 'ear' question. I am going to keep sharp watch
for these organs, hereafter. I am led to wonder if one could close
them in some way and detect any difference in the moth's sense
of hearing after having done so.
All of us are enthusiasts about these moths with their modest
fore-wings and the gaudy brilliance of the wonderful 'after-wings,'
that are so bright as to give common name to the species. We are
studying them constantly and hope soon to learn all we care to
know of any moths, for our experience with them is quite limited
when compared with other visitors from the swamp. But think of
the poetry of adding to the long list of birds, animals and insects
that temporarily reside with us, a Sweetheart and a Bride!
CHAPTER X The Giant Gamin: Telea Polyphemus
Time cannot be used to tell of making the acquaintance of this
moth until how well worth knowing it is has been explained. That
it is a big birdlike fellow, with a six inch sweep of wing, is
indicated by the fact that it is named in honour of the giant
Polyphemus. Telea means `the end,' and as scientists fail to explain
the appropriateness of this, I am at liberty to indulge a theory
of my own. Nature made this handsome moth last, and as it was
the end, surpassed herself as a finishing touch on creatures that
are, no doubt, her frailest and most exquisite creation.
Polyphemus is rich in shadings of many subdued colours, that so
blend and contrast as to give it no superior in the family of
short-lived lovers of moonlight. Its front wings are a complicated
study of many colours, for some of which it would be difficult
to find a name. Really, it is the one moth that must be seen and
studied in minutest detail to gain an idea of its beauty. The
nearest I can come to the general groundwork of the wing is a
rich brown-yellow. The costa is grey, this colour spreading in
a widening line from the base of the wing to more than a quarter
of an inch at the tip, and closely peppered with black. At the
base, the wing is covered with silky yellow-brown hairs. As if
to outline the extent of these, comes a line of pinkish white,
and then one of rich golden brown, shading into the prevailing
colour.
Close the middle of the length of the wing, and half an inch from
the costa, is a transparent spot like isinglass, so clear that
fine print can be read through it. This spot is outlined with
a canary yellow band, and that with a narrow, but sharp circle
of black. Then comes a cloudlike rift of golden brown, drifting
from the costa across the wing, but, growing fainter until it
merges with the general colour near the abdomen. Then half an
inch of the yellow-brown colour is peppered with black, similar
to the costa; this grows darker until it terminates in a quarter
of an inch wide band of almost grey-black crossing the wing. Next
this comes a narrower band of pinkish white. The edge begins with
a quarter of an inch band of clear yellow-brown, and widens as
the wing curves until it is half an inch at the point. It is the
lightest colour of rotten apple. The only thing I ever have seen
in nature exactly similar was the palest shade of `mother' found
in barrels of vinegar. A very light liver colour comes close it.
On the extreme tip is a velvety oval, half black and half pale
pink.
The back wings are the merest trifle stronger in this yellow-brown
colour, and with the exception of the brown rift are the same
in marking, only that all colour, similar to the brown, is a shade
deeper.
The `piece de resistance' of the back wing, is the eyespot. The
transparent oval is a little smaller. The canary band is wider,
and of stronger colour. The black band around the lower half is
yet wider, and of long velvety hairs. It extends in an oval above
the transparent spot fully half an inch, then shades through peacock
blue, and grey to the hairlike black line enclosing the spot.
The under sides of the wings are pure tan, clouded and lined with
shades of rich brown. The transparent spots are outlined with
canary, and show a faint line drawn across the middle the long
way.
The face is a tiny brown patch with small eyes, for the size of
the moth, and large brown antennae, shaped like those of Cecropia.
The grey band of the costa crosses the top of the head. The shoulders
are covered with pinkish, yellow-brown hair. The top and sides
of the abdomen are a lighter shade of the same.
The under side of the abdomen is darker brown, and the legs brown
with very dark brown feet. These descriptions do the harmonizing
colours of the moth no sort of justice, but are the best I can
offer. In some lights it is a rich YELLOW-BROWN, and again a pink
flush pervades body and wings.
My first experience with a living Polyphemis (I know Telea is
shorter, but it is not suitable, while a giant among moths it
is, so that name is best) occurred several years ago. A man brought
me a living Polyphemus battered to rags and fringes, antennae
broken and three feet missing. He had found a woman trying ot
beat the clinging creature loose from a door screen, with a towel,
before the wings were hardened for flight, and he rescued the
remains. There was nothing to say; some people are not happy unless
they are killing helpless, harmless creatures; and there was nothing
to do.
The moth was useless for a study, while its broken antennae set
it crazy, and it shook and trembled continually, going out without
depositing any eggs. One thing I did get was complete identification,
and another, to attribute the experience to Mrs. Comstock in "A
Girl of the Limberlost"*, when I wished to make her do something
particularly disagreeable. In learning a moth I study its eggs,
caterpillars, and cocoons, so that fall Raymond and I began searching
for Polyphemus. I found our first cocoon hanging by a few threads
of silk, from a willow twig overhanging a stream in the limberlost.
<<*April 1994 [limbr10x.xxx] 125 A Girl of the Limberlost,
by Gene Stratton-Porter>>
A queer little cocoon it was. The body was tan colour, and thickly
covered with a white sprinkling like lime. A small thorn tree
close the cabin yielded Raymond two more; but these were darker
in colour, and each was spun inside three thorn leaves so firmly
that it appeared triangular in shape. The winds had blown the
cocoons agianst the limbs and worn away the projecting edges of
the leaves, but the midribs and veins showed plainly. In all we
had half a dozen of htese cocoons gathered from different parts
of the swamp, and we found them dangling from a twig of willow
or hawthorn, by a small piece of spinning. During the winter these
occupied the place of state in the conservatory, and were watched
every day. They were kept in the coolest spot, but where the sun
reached them at times. Always in watering the flowers, the hose
was turned on them, because they would have been in the rain if
they had been left out of doors, and conditions should be kept
as natural as possible.
Close time for emergence I became very uneasy, because the conservatory
was warm; so I moved them to my sleeping room, the coolest in
the cabin, where a fireplace, two big windows and an outside door,
always open, provide natural atmospheric conditions, and where
I would be sure to see them every day. I hung the twigs over a
twine stretched from my dresser to the window-sill. One day in
May, when the trees were in full bloom, I was working on a tulip
bed under an apple tree in the garden, when Molly-Cotton said
to me, "How did you get that cocoon in your room wet?"
"I did not water any of the cocoons," I answered. "I
have done no sprinkling today. If they are wet, it has come from
the inside."
Molly-Cotton dropped her trowel. "One of them was damp on
the top before lunch," she cried. "I just now thought
of it. The moths are coming!" She started on a run and I
followed, but stopped to wash my hands, so she reached them first,
and her shout told the news.
"Hurry!" she cried. "Hurry! One is out, and another
is just struggling through!" Quickly as I could I stood beside
her. One Polyphemus female, a giant indeed, was clinging to a
twig with her feet, and from her shoulders depended her wings,
wet, and wrinkled as they had been cramped in the pupa case. Even
then she had expanded in body until it seemed impossible that
she had emerged from the opening of the vacant cocoon. The second
one had its front feet and head out, and was struggling frantically
to free its shoulders. A fresh wet spot on the top of another
cocoon, where the moth had ejected the acid with which it is provided
to soften the spinning, was heaving with the pushing head of the
third. Molly-Cotton was in sympathy with the imprisoned moths.
"Why don't you get something sharp, and split the cocoons
so they can get out?" she demanded. "Just look at them
struggle! They will kill themselves!"
Then I explained to her that if we wanted big, perfect moths we
must not touch them. That the evolution of species was complete
to the minutest detail. The providence that supplied the acid,
required that the moths make the fight necessary to emerge alone,
in order to strengthen them so they would be able to walk and
cling with their feet, while the wings drooped and dried properly.
That if I cut a case, and took out a moth with no effort on its
part, it would be too weak to walk, or bear its weight, and so
would fall to the floor. Then because of not being in the right
position, the wings would harden half spread, or have broken membranes
and never develop fully. So instead of doing a kindness I really
would work ruination.
"Oh, I see!" cried the wondering girl, and her eyes
were large enough to have seen anything, while her brain was racing.
If you want to awaken a child and teach it to think, give object
lessons such as these, in natural history and study with it, so
that every miraculous point is grasped when reached. We left the
emerging moths long enough to set up a camera outside, and focus
on old tree. Then we hurried back, almost praying that the second
moth would be a male, and dry soon enough that the two could be
pictured together, before the first one would be strong enough
to fly.
The following three hours were spent with them, and every minute
enjoyed to the fullest. The first to emerge was dry, and pumping
her wings to strengthen them for flight; the second was in condition
to pose, but a disappointment, for it was another female. The
third was out, and by its smaller size, brighter markings and
broad antennae we knew it was a male. His `antlers' were much
wider than those of the first two, and where their markings were
pink, his were so vivid as to be almost red, and he was very furry.
He had, in fact, almost twice as much long hair as the others,
so he undoubtedly was a male, but he was not sufficiently advanced
to pose with the females, and I was in doubt as to the wisest
course to pursue.
"Hurry him up!" suggested Molly-Cotton. "Tie a
string across the window and hang him in the sunshine. I'll bring
a fan, and stir the air gently.'
This plan seemed feasible, and when the twine was ready, I lifted
his twig to place it in the new location. The instant I touched
his resting-place and lifted its weight from the twine both females
began ejecting a creamy liquid. They ruined the frescoing behind
them, as my first Cecropia soiled the lace curtain when I was
smaller than Molly-Cotton at that time. We tacked a paper against
the wall to prevent further damage. A point to remember in moth
culture, is to be ready for this occurrence before they emerge,
if you do not want stained frescoing, floors, and hangings.
In the sunshine and fresh air the male began to dry rapidly, and
no doubt he understood the presence of his kind, for he was much
more active than the females. He climbed the twig, walked the
twine body pendent, and was so energetic that we thought we dared
not trust him out of doors; but when at every effort to walk or
fly he only attempted to reach the females, we concluded that
he would not take wing if at liberty. By this time he was fully
developed, and so perfect he would serve for a study.
I polished the lenses, focused anew on the tree, marked the limits
of exposure, inserted a plate, and had everything ready. Then
I brought out the female, Molly-Cotton walking beside me hovering
her with a net. The moth climbed from the twig to the tree, and
clung there, her wings spread flat, at times setting them quivering
in a fluttering motion, or raising them. While Molly-Cotton guarded
her I returned for the male, and found him with wings so hardened
that could raise them above his back, and lower them full width.
I wanted my study to dignify the term, so I planned it to show
the under wings of one moth, the upper of the other. Then the
smaller antennae and large abdomen of the female were of interest.
I also thought it would be best to secure the male with wings
widespread if possible, because his colour was stronger, his markings
more pronounced. So I helped the female on a small branch facing
the trunk of the tree, and she rested with raised wings as I fervently
hoped she would. The male I placed on the trunk, and with wide
wings he immediately started toward the female, while she advanced
in his direction. This showed his large antennae and all markings
and points especially note worthy; being good composition as well,
for it centred interest; but there was one objection. It gave
the male the conspicuous place and made him appear the larger
because of his nearness to the lens and his wing spread; while
as a matter of fact, the female had almost an inch more sweep
than he, and was bigger at every point save the antennae.
The light was full and strong, the lens the best money could buy,
the plate seven by nine inches. By this time long practice had
made me rather expert in using my cameras. When the advancing
pair were fully inside my circle of focus, I made the first exposure.
Then I told Molly-Cotton to keep them as nearly as possible where
they were, while I took one breathless peep at the ground glass.
Talk about exciting work! No better focus could be had on them,
so I shoved in another plate with all speed, and made a second
exposure, which was no better than the first. Had there been time,
I would have made a third to be sure, for plates are no object
when a study is at all worth while. As a rule each succeeding
effort enables you to make some small change for the better, and
you must figure on always having enough to lose one through a
defective plate or ill luck in development, and yet end with a
picture that will serve your purpose.
Then we closed the ventilators and released the moths in the conservatory.
The female I placed on a lemon tree in a shady spot, and the male
at the extreme far side to see how soon he would find her. We
had supposed it would be dark, but they were well acquainted by
dusk. The next morning she was dotting eggs over the plants.
The other cocoons produced mostly female living moths, save one
that was lost in emergence. I tried to help when it was too late;
but cutting open the cocoon afterward proved the moth defective.
The wings on one side were only about half size, and on the other
little patches no larger than my thumb nail. The body was shrunken
and weakly.
At this time, as I remember, Cecropia eggs were the largest I
had seen, but these were larger; the same shape and of a white
colour with a brown band. The moth dotted them on the under and
upper sides of leaves, on sashes and flower pots, tubs and buckets.
They turned brown as the days passed. The little caterpillars
that emerged from them were reddish brown, and a quarter of an
inch long.
I could not see my way to release a small army of two or three
hundred of these among my plants, so when they emerged I held
a leaf before fifty, that seemed liveliest, and transferred them
to a big box. The remainder I placed with less ceremony, over
mulberry, elm, maple, wild cherry, grape, rose, apple, and pear,
around the Cabin, and gave the ones kept in confinement the same
diet.
The leaves given them always were dipped in water to keep them
fresh longer, and furnish moisture for the feeders. They grew
by a series of moults, like all the others I had raised or seen,
and were full size in forty-eight days, but travelled a day or
two before beginning the pupa stage of their existence. The caterpillars
were big fellows; the segments deeply cut; the bodies yellow-green,
with a few sparse scattering hairs, and on the edge of each segment,
from a triple row of dots arose a tiny, sharp spine. Each side
had series of black touches and the head could be drawn inside
the thorax. They were the largest in circumference of any I had
raised, but only a little over three inches long.
I arranged both leaves and twigs in the boxes, but they spun among
the leaves,and not dangling from twigs, as all the cocoons I had
found outdoors were placed previous to that time. Since, I have
found them spun lengthwise of twigs in a brush heap. The cocoons
of these I had raised were whiter than those of the free caterpillars,
and did not have the leaves fastened on the outside, but were
woven in a nest of leaves, fastened together by threads.
Polyphemus moths are night flyers, and do not feed. I have tried
to tell how beautiful they are, with indifferent success, and
they are common with me. Since I learned them, find their cocoons
easiest to discover. Through the fall and winter, when riding
on trains, I see them dangling from wayside thorn bushes. Once,
while taking a walk with Raymond in late November, he located
one on a thorn tree in a field beside the road, but he has the
eyes of an Indian.
These are the moths that city people can cultivate, for in Indianapolis,
in early December, I saw fully one half as many Polyphemus cocoons
on the trees as there were Cecropia, and I could have gathered
a bushel of them. They have emerged in perfection for me always,
with one exception. Personally, I have found more Polyphemus than
Cecropia.
These moths are the gamins of their family, and love the streets
and lights at night.
Under an arc light at Wabash, Indiana, I once picked up as beautiful
a specimen of Polyphemus as I ever saw, and the following day
a friend told me that several had been captured the night before
in the heart of town.
CHAPTER XI The Garden Fly: Protoparce Carolina
Protoparce Carolina is a 'cousin' of Celeus, and so nearly its
double that the caterpillars and moths must be seen together to
be differentiated by amateurs; while it is doubtful if skilled
scientists can always identify the pupa cases with certainty.
Carolina is more common in the south, but it is frequent throughout
the north. Its caterpillars eat the same food as Celeus, and are
the same size. They are a dull green, while Celeus is shining,
and during the succession of moults, they show slight variations
in colour.
They pupate in a hole in the ground. The moths on close examination
show quite a difference from Celeus. They are darker in colour.
The fore-wings lack the effect of being laid off in lines. The
colour is a mottling of almost black, darkest grey, lighter grey,
brown, and white. The back wings are crossed by wavy bands of
brownish grey, black, and tan colour, and the yellow markings
on the abdomen are larger.
In repose, these moths fold the front wings over the back like
large flies. In fact, in the south they are called the `Tobacco
Fly' ; and we of the north should add the `Tomato and Potato Fly.'
Because I thought such a picture would be of interest, I reproduced
a pair---the male as he clung to a piece of pasteboard in the
`fly' attitude.
Celeus and Carolina caterpillars come the nearest being pests
of those of any large moths, because they feed on tomato, potato,
and tobacco, but they also eat jimson weed, ground cherry, and
several vines that are of no use to average folk.
The Carolina moths come from their pupa cases as featherweights
step into the sparring. They feed partially by day, and their
big eyes surely see more than those of most other moths, that
seem small and deepset in comparison. Their legs are long, and
not so hairy as is the rule. They have none of the blind, aimless,
helpless appearance of moths that do not feed. They exercise violently
in the pupa cases before they burst the shields, and when they
emerge their eyes glow and dilate. They step with firmness and
assurance, as if they knew where they wanted to go, and how to
arrive. They are of direct swift flight, and much experience and
dexterity are required to take them on wing.
Both my Carolina moths emerged in late afternoon, about four o'clock,
near the time their kind take flight to hunt for food. The light
was poor in the Cabin, so I set up my camera and focused on a
sweetbrier climbing over the back door.
The newly emerged moth was travelling briskly in that first exercise
it takes, while I arranged my camera; so by the time I was ready,
it had reached the place to rest quietly until its wings developed.
Carolina climbed on my finger with all assurance, walked briskly
from it to the roses, and clung there firmly.
The wet wings dropped into position, and the sun dried them rapidly.
I fell in love with my subject. He stepped around so jauntily
in comparison with most moths. The picture he made while clinging
to the roses during the first exposure was lovely.
His slender, trim legs seemed to have three long joints, and two
short in the feet. In his sidewise position toward the lens, the
abdomen showed silver-white beneath, silvery grey on the sides,
and large patches of orange surrounded by black, with touches
of white on top. His wings were folded together on his back as
they drooped, showing only the under sides, and on these the markings
were more clearly defined than on top. In the sunlight the fore
pair were a warm tan grey, exquisitely lined and shaded. They
were a little more than half covered by the back pair, that folded
over them. These were a darker grey, with tan and almost black
shadings, and crossed by sharply zig-zagging lines of black. The
grey legs were banded by lines of white. The first pair clung
to the stamens of the rose, the second to the petals, and the
third stretched out and rested on a leaf.
There were beautiful markings of very dark colour and white on
the thorax, head, shoulders, and back wings next the body. The
big eyes, quite the largest of any moth I remember, reminded me
of owl eyes in the light. The antennae, dark, grey-brown on top,
and white on the under side, turned back and drooped beside the
costa, no doubt in the position they occupied in the pupa case.
The location was so warm, and the moth dried so rapidly, that
by the time two good studies were made of him in this position,
he felt able to step to some leaves, and with no warning whatever,
reversed his wings to the `fly' position, so that only the top
side of the front pair showed. The colour was very rich and beautiful,
but so broken in small patches and lines, as to be difficult to
describe. With the reversal of the wings the antennae flared a
little higher, and the exercise of the sucking tube began. The
moth would expose the whole length of the tube in a coil, which
it would make larger and contract by turns, at times drawing it
from sight. When it was uncoiled the farthest, a cleft in the
face where it fitted could be seen.
The next day my second Carolina case produced a beautiful female.
The history of her emergence was exactly similar to that of the
male. Her head, shoulders, and abdomen seemed nearly twice the
size of his, while her wings but a trifle, if any larger.
As these moths are feeders, and live for weeks, I presume when
the female has deposited her eggs, the abdomen contracts, and
loses its weight so that she does not require the large wings
of the females that only deposit their eggs and die. They are
very heavy, and if forced to flight must have big wings to support
them. I was so interested in this that I slightly chloroformed
the female, and made a study of the pair. The male was fully alive
and alert, but they had not mated, and he would not take wing.
He clung in his natural position, so that he resembled a big fly,
on the smooth side of the sheet of corrugated paper on which I
placed the female. His wings folded over each other. The abdomen
and the antennae were invisible, because they were laid flat on
the costa of each wing.
The female clung to the board, in any position in which she was
placed. Her tongue readily uncoiled, showing its extreme length,
and curled around a pin. With a camel'shair brush I gently spread
her wings to show how near they were the size of the male's, and
how much larger her body was.
Her fore-wings were a trifle lighter in colour than the male's,
and not so broken with small markings. The back wings were very
similar. Her antennae stood straight out from the head on each
side, of their own volition and differed from the male's. It has
been my observation that in repose these moths fold the antennae
as shown by the male. The position of the female was unnatural.
In flight, or when feeding, the antennae are raised, and used
as a guide in finding food flowers. A moth with broken antennae
seems dazed and helpless, and in great distress.
I have learned by experience in handling moths, that when I induce
one to climb upon bark, branch, or flower for a study, they seldom
place their wings as I want them. Often it takes long and patient
coaxing, and they are sensitive to touch. If I try to force a
fore-wing with my fingers to secure a wider sweep, so that the
markings of the back wings show, the moths resent it by closing
them closer than before, climbing to a different location or often
taking flight.
But if I use a fine camel's-hair brush, that lacks the pulsation
of circulation, and gently stroke the wing, and sides of the abdomen,
the moths seems to like the sensation and grow sleepy or hypnotized.
By using the brush I never fail to get wing extension that will
show markings, and at the same time the feet and body are in a
natural position. After all is said there is to say, and done
there is to do, the final summing up and judgment of any work
on Natural History will depend upon whether it is true to nature.
It is for this reason I often have waited for days and searched
over untold miles to find the right location, even the exact leaf,
twig or branch on which a subject should be placed.
I plead guilty to the use of an anesthetic in this chapter only
to show the tongue extension of Carolina, because it is the extremest
with which I am acquainted; and to coaxing wide wing sweep with
the camel'shair brush; otherwise either the fact that my subjects
are too close emergence ever to have taken flight, or sex attraction
alone holds them.
If you do not discover love running through every line of this
text and see it shining from the face of each study and painting,
you do not read aright and your eyes need attention. Again and
again to the protests of my family, I have made answer--
"To work we love we rise betimes, and go to it with delight."
From the middle of May to the end of June of the year I was most
occupied with this book, my room was filled with cocoons and pupa
cases. The encased moths I had reason to believe were on the point
of appearing lay on a chair beside my bed or a tray close my pillow.
That month I did not average two hours of sleep in a night, and
had less in the daytime. I not only arose `betimes,' but at any
time I heard a scratching and tugging moth working to enter the
world, and when its head was out, I was up and ready with note-book
and camera. Day helped the matter but slightly, for any moth emerging
in the night had to be provided a location, and pictured before
ten o'clock or it was not safe to take it outside. Then I had
literally 'to fly' to develop the plate, make my print and secure
exact colour reproduction while the moth was fresh.
For this is a point to remember in photographing a moth. A FREE
LIVING MOTH NEVER RAISES ITS WINGS HIGHER THAN A STRAIGHT LINE
FROM THE BASES CROSSING THE TOP OF THE THORAX. It requires expert
and adept coaxing to get them horizontal with their bases. If
you do, you show all markings required; and preserve natural values,
quite the most important things to be considered.
I made a discovery with Carolina. Moths having digestive organs
and that are feeders are susceptible to anaesthetics in a far
higher degree than those that do not feed. Many scientific workers
confess to having poured full strength chloroform directly on
nonfeeders, mounted them as pinned specimens and later found them
living; so that sensitive lepidopterists have abandoned its use
for the cyanide or gasoline jar. I intended to give only a whiff
of chloroform to this moth, just enough that she would allow her
tongue to remain uncoiled until I could snap its fullest extent,
but I could not revive her. The same amount would have had no
effect whatever on a non-feeder,
CHAPTER XII Bloody-nose of Sunshine Hill: Hemaris Thysbe
John Brown lives a mile north of our village, in the little hamlet
of Ceylon. Like his illustrious predecessor of the same name he
is willing to do something for other people. Mr. Brown owns a
large farm, that for a long distance borders the Wabash River
where it is at its best, and always the cameras and I have the
freedom of his premises.
On the east side of the village, about half its length, swings
a big gate, that opens into a long country lane. It leads between
fields of wheat and corn to a stretch of woods pasture, lying
on a hillside, that ends at the river. This covers many acres,
most of the trees have been cut; the land rises gradually to a
crest, that is crowned by a straggling old snake fence, velvety
black in places, grey with lint in others, and liberally decorated
its entire length with lichens, in every shade of grey and green.
Its corners are filled with wild flowers, ferns, gooseberries,
raspberries, black and red haw, papaw, wild grapevines, and trees
of all varieties. Across the fence a sumac covered embankment
falls precipitately to the Wabash, where it sweeps around a great
curve at Horseshoe Bend. The bed is stone and gravel, the water
flows shallow and pure in the sunlight, and mallows and willows
fringe the banks.
Beside this stretch of river most of one summer was spent, because
there were two broods of cardinals, whose acquaintance I was cultivating,
raised in those sumacs. The place was very secluded, as the water
was not deep enough for fishing or swimming. On days when the
cardinals were contrary, or to do the birds justice, when they
had experiences with an owl the previous night, or with a hawk
in the morning, and were restless or unduly excited, much grist
for my camera could be found on the river banks.
These were the most beautiful anywhere in my locality. The hum
of busy life was incessant. From the top twig of the giant sycamore
in Rainbow Bottom, the father of the cardinal flock hourly challenged
all creation to contest his right to one particular sumac. The
cardinals were the attraction there; across the fence where the
hill sloped the length of the pasture to the lane, lures were
many and imperative. Despite a few large trees, compelling right
to life by their majesty, that hillside was open pasture, where
the sunshine streamed all day long. Wild roses clambered over
stumps of fallen monarchs, and scrub oak sheltered resting sheep.
As it swept to the crest, the hillside was thickly dotted with
mullein, its pale yellow-green leaves spreading over the grass,
and its spiral of canary-coloured bloom stiffly upstanding. There
were thistles, the big, rank, richly growing, kind, that browsing
cattle and sheep circled widely.
Very beautiful were these frosted thistles, with their large,
widespreading base leaves, each spine needle-tipped, their uplifted
heads of delicate purple bloom, and their floating globes of silken
down, with a seed in their hearts. No wonder artists have painted
them, decorators conventionalized them; even potters could not
pass by their artistic merit, for I remembered that in a china
closet at home there were Belleck cups moulded in the shape of
a thistle head.
Experience had taught me how the appreciate this plant. There
wasa chewink in the Stanley woods, that brought off a brood of
four, under the safe shelter of a rank thistle leaf, in the midst
of trampling herds of cattle driven wild by flies. There was a
ground sparrow near the Hale sand pit, covered by a base leaf
of another thistle, and beneath a third on Bob's lease, I had
made a study of an exquisite nest. Protection from the rank leaves
was not all the birds sought of these plants, for goldfinches
were darting around inviting all creation to "See me?"
as they gathered the silken down for nest lining. Over the sweetly
perfumed purple heads, the humming-birds held high carnival on
Sunshine Hillside all the day. The honey and bumble bees fled
at the birds' approach, but what were these others, numerous everywhere,
that clung to the blooms, greedily thrusting their red noses between
the petals, and giving place to nothing else?
For days as I passed among them, I thought them huge bees. The
bright colouring of their golden olive-green, and red-wine striped
bodies had attracted me in passing. Then one of them approached
a thistle head opposite me in such a way its antennae and the
long tongue it thrust into the bloom could be seen. That proved
it was not a bee, and punishment did not await any one who touched
it.
There were so many that with one sweep of the net two were captured.
They were examined to my satisfaction and astonishment. They were
moths! Truly moths, feeding in the brilliant sunshine all the
day; bearing a degree of light and heat I never had known any
other moth to endure. Talk about exquisite creatures! These little
day moths, not much larger than the largest bumble bees, had some
of their gaudiest competitors of moonlight and darkness outdone.
The head was small and pointed, with big eyes, a long tongue,
clubbed antennae, and a blood-red nose. The thorax above was covered
with long, silky, olive-green hair; the top of the abdomen had
half an inch band of warm tan colour, then a quarter of an inch
band of velvety red wine, then a band nearer the olive of the
shoulders. The males had claspers covered with small red-wine
feathers tan tipped. The thorax was cream-coloured below and the
under side of the abdomen red wine crossed with cream-coloured
lines at each segment.
The front wings had the usual long, silky hairs. They were of
olive-green shading into red, at the base, the costa was red,
and an escalloped band of red bordered them. The intervening space
was transparent like thinnest isinglass, and crossed with fine
red veins. The back wings were the same, only the hairs at the
base were lighter red, and the band at the edge deeper in colour.
The head of the male seemed sharper, the shoulders stronger olive,
the wings more pointed at the apex, where the female's were a
little rounded. The top of the abdomen had the middle band of
such strong red that it threw the same colour over the bands above
and below it; giving to the whole moth a strong red appearance
when on wing. They, were so fascinating the birds were forgotten,
and the hillside hunted for them until a pair were secured to
carry home for identification, before the whistle of the cardinal
from Rainbow Bottom rang so sharply that I remembered this was
the day I had hoped to secure his likeness; and here I was allowing
a little red-nosed moth so to thrust itself upon my attention,
that my cameras were not even set up and focused on the sumac.
This tiny sunshine moth, Hemaris Thysbe, was easy ofidentification,
and its whole life history before me on the hillside. I was too
busy with the birds to raise many caterpillars, so reference to
several books taught me that they all agreed on the main points
of Hemaris history.
Hemaris means `bloody nose.' `Bloody nose' on account of the red
first noticed on the face, though some writers called them 'Clear
wings,' because of the transparent spaces on the wings. Certainly
`clear wings' is a most appropriate and poetic name for this moth.
Fastidious people will undoubtedly prefer it for common usage.
For myself, I always think of the delicate, gaudy little creature,
greedily thrusting its blood-red nose into the purple thistle
blooms; so to my thought it returns as `bloody nose.'
The pairs mate early after emerging, and lay about two hundred
small eggs to the female, from which the caterpillars soon hatch,
and begin their succession of moults. One writer gave black haw
and snowball as their favourite foods, and the length of the caterpillar
when full grown nearly two inches. They are either a light brown
with yellow markings, or green with yellow; all of them have white
granules on the body, and a blue-black horn with a yellow base.
They spin among the leaves on the ground, and the pupa, while
small, is shaped like Regalis, except that it has a sharper point
at each end, and more prominent wing shields. It has no raised
tongue case, although it belongs to the family of `long tongues.'
On learning all I could acquire by experience with these moths,
and what the books had to teach, I became their warm admirer.
One sunny morning climbing the hill on the way to the cardinals,
with fresh plates in my cameras, and high hopes in my heart, I
passed an unsuually large fine thistle, with half a dozen Thysbe
moths fluttering over it as if nearly crazed with fragrance, or
honey they were sipping.
"Come here! Come here! Come here!" intoned the cardinal,
from the sycamore of Rainbow Bottom.
"Just you wait a second, old fellow!" I heard myself
answering. Scarcely realizing what I was doing, the tripod was
set up, the best camera taken out, and focused on that thistle
head. The moths paid no attention to bees, butterflies, or humming-birds
visiting the thistle, but this was too formidable, and by the
time the choicest heads were in focus, all the little red fellows
had darted to another plant. If the camera was moved there, they
would change again, so I sat in the shade of a clump of papaws
to wait and see if they would not grow accustomed to it.
They kept me longer than I had expected, and the chances are I
would have answered the cardinal's call, and gone to the river,
had it not been for the interest found in watching a beautiful
grey squirrel that homed in an ivy-covered stump in the pasture.
He seemed to have much business on the fence at the hilltop, and
raced back and forth to it repeatedly. He carried something, I
could not always tell what, but at times it was green haws. Once
he came with no food, and at such a headlong run that he almost
turned somersaults as he scampered up the tree.
For a long time he was quiet, then he cautiously peeped out. After
a while he ventured to the ground, raced to a dead stump, and
sitting on it, barked and scolded with all his might. Then he
darted home again. When he had repeated this performance several
times, the idea became apparent. There was some danger to be defied
in Rainbow Bottom, but not a sound must be made from his home.
The bark of a dog hurried me to the fence in time to see some
hunters passing in the bottom, but I thanked mercy they were on
the opposite side of the river and it was not probable they would
wade, so my birds would not be disturbed. When the squirrel felt
that he must bark and chatter, or burst with tense emotions, he
discreetly left his mate and nest. I did some serious thinking
on the `instinct' question. He might choose a hollow log for his
home by instinct, or eat certain foods because hunger urged him,
but could instinct teach him not to make a sound where his young
family lay? Without a doubt, for this same reason, the cardinal
sang from every tree and bush around Horseshoe Bend, save the
sumac where his mate hovered their young.
The matter presented itselfin this way. The squirrel has feet,
and he runs with them. He has teeth, and he eats with them. He
has lungs, and he breathes with them. Every organ of his interior
has its purpose, and is used to fulfil it. His big, prominent
eyes come from long residence in dark hollows. His bushy tail
helps him in long jumps from tree to tree. Every part of his anatomy
is created, designed and used to serve some purpose, save only
his brain, the most complex and complicated part of him. Its only
use and purpose is to form one small 'tidbit ' for the palate
of the epicure! Like Sir Francis, who preached a sermon to the
birds, I found me delivering myself of a lecture to the squirrels,
birds, and moths of Sunshine Hill. The final summing up was, that
the squirrel used his feet, teeth, eyes and tail; that could be
seen easily, and by his actions it could be seen just as clearly
that he used his brain also.
There was not a Thysbe in front of the lens, so picking up a long
cudgel I always carry afield, and going quietly to surrounding
thistles, I jarred them lightly with it, and began rounding up
the Hemaris family in the direction of the camera. The trick was
a complete success. Soon I had an exposure on two. After they
had faced the camera once, and experienced no injury, like the
birds, they accepted it as part of the landscape. The work was
so fascinating, and the pictures on the ground glass so worth
while, that before I realized what I was doing, half a dozen large
plates were gone, and for this reason, work with the cardinals
that day ended at noon. This is why I feel that at times in bird
work the moths literally `thrust themselves' upon me.
CHAPTER XIII The Modest Moth: Triptogon Modesta
Of course this moth was named Modesta because of modest colouring.
It reminds me of a dove, being one of my prime favourites. On
wing it is suggestive of Polyphemus, but its colours are lighter
and softer. Great beauty that Polyphemus is, Modesta equals it.
Modesta belongs to the genus Triptogon, species Modesta--hence
the common name, the Modest moth. I am told that in the east this
moth is of stronger colouring than in the central and western
states. I do not know about the centre and west, but I do know
that only as far east as Indiana, Modesta is of more delicate
colouring than it is described by scientists of New York and Pennsylvania;
and, of course, as in almost every case, the female is not so
strongly coloured as the male.
I can class the Modest moth and its caterpillar among those I
know, but my acquaintance with it is more limited than with almost
any other. My first introduction came when I found a caterpillar
of striking appearance on water sprouts growing around a poplar
stump in a stretch of trees beside the Wabash. I carried it home
with a supply of the leaves for diet, but as a matter of luck,
it had finished eating, and was ready to pupate. I write of this
as good luck, because the poplar tree is almost extinct in my
location. I know of only one in the fields, those beside the river,
and a few used for ornamental shade trees. They are so scarce
I would have had trouble to provide the caterpillar with natural
food; so I was glad that it was ready to pupate when found.
Any one can identify this caterpillar easily, as it is most peculiar.
There is a purplish pink cast on the head and mouth of the full-grown
caterpillar, and purplish red around the props. The body is a
very light blue-green, faintly tinged with white, and yellow in
places. On the sides are white obliques, or white, shaded with
pink, and at the base of these, a small oval marking. There is
a small short horn on the head. But the distinguishing mark is
a mass of little white granules, scattered all over the caterpillar.
It is so peppered with these, that failure to identify it is impossible.
These caterpillars pupate in the ground. I knew that, but this
was before I had learned that the caterpillar worked out a hole
in the ground, and the pupa case only touched the earth upon which
it lay. So when my Modesta caterpillar ceased crawling, lay quietly,
turned dark, shrank one half in length, and finally burst the
dead skin, and emerged in a shining dark brown pupa case two inches
long, I got in my work. I did well. A spade full of garden soil
was thoroughly sifted, baked in the oven to kill parasites and
insects, cooled, and put in a box, and the pupa case buried in
it. Every time it rained, I opened the box, and moistened the
earth. Two months after time for emergence, I dug out the pupa
case to find it white with mould. I had no idea what the trouble
was, for I had done much work over that case, and the whole winter
tended it solicitously. It was one of my earliest attempts, and
I never have found another caterpillar, or any eggs, though I
often search the poplars for them.
However, something better happened. I say better, because I think
if they will make honest confession, all people who have gathered
eggs and raised caterpillars from them in confinement, by feeding
cut leaves, will admit that the pupa cases they get, and the moths
they produce are only about half size. The big fine cases and
cocoons are the ones you find made by caterpillars in freedom,
or by those that have passed at least the fourth or fifth moult
out of doors. So it was a better thing for my illustration, and
for my painting, when in June of this year, Raymond, in crossing
town from a ball game, found a large, perfect Modesta female.
He secured her in his hat, and hurried to me. Raymond's hat has
had many wonderful things in it besides his head, and his pockets
are always lumpy with boxes.
Although perfect, she had mated, deposited her eggs, and was declining.
All she wanted was to be left alone, and she would sit with wings
widespread wherever placed. I was in the orchard, treating myself
to some rare big musky red raspberries that are my especial property,
when Raymond came with her. He set her on a shoot before me, and
guarded her while I arranged a camera. She was the most complacent
subject I ever handled outdoors, and did not make even an attempt
to fly. Raymond was supposed to be watching while I worked, but
our confidence in her was so great, that I paid all my attention
to polishing my lenses, and getting good light, while Raymond
gathered berries with one hand, and promiscuously waved the net
over the bushes with the other.
During the first exposure, Modesta was allowed to place and poise
herself as seemed natural. For a second, I used the brush on her
gently, and coaxed her wings into spreading a little wider than
was natural. These positions gave every evidence of being pleasing
and yet I was not satisfied. There was something else in the back
of my head that kept obtruding itself as I walked to the Cabin,
with the beautiful moth clinging to my fingers. I did not feel
quite happy about her, so she was placed in a large box, lined
with corrugated paper, to wait a while until the mist in my brain
cleared, and my nebulous disturbance evolved an idea. It came
slowly. I had a caterpillar long ago, and had investigated the
history of this moth. I asked Raymond where he found her and he
said, "Coming from the game." Now I questioned him about
the kind of a tree, and he promptly answered, "On one of
those poplars behind the schoolhouse."
That was the clue. Instantly I recognized it. A poplar limb was
what I wanted. Its fine, glossy leaf, flattened stem, and smooth
upright twigs made a setting, appropriate, above all others, for
the Modest moth.
I explained the situation to the Deacon, and he had Brenner drive
with him to the Hirschy farm, and help secure a limb from one
of the very few Lombardy poplars of this region. They drove very
fast, and I had to trouble to induce Modesta to clamber over a
poplar twig, and settle. Then by gently stroking, an unusual wing
sweep was secured, because there is a wonderful purple-pink and
a peculiar blue on the back wings.
It has been my experience that the longer a moth of these big
short-lived subjects remains out of doors, the paler its colours
become, and most of them fade rapidly when mounted, if not kept
in the dark. So my Modesta may have been slightly faded, but she
could have been several shades paler and yet appeared most beautiful
to me.
Her head, shoulders, and abdomen were a lovely dove grey; that
soft tan grey, with a warm shade, almost suggestive of pink. I
suppose the reason I thought of this was because at the time two
pairs of doves, one on a heap of driftwood overhanging the river,
and the other in an apple tree in the Aspy orchard a few rods
away, were giving me much trouble, and I had dove grey on my mind.
This same dove grey coloured the basic third of the fore-wings.
Then they were crossed with a band only a little less in width,
of rich cinnamon brown. There was a narrow wavy line of lighter
brown, and the remaining third of the wing was paler, but with
darker shadings. These four distinct colour divisions were exquisitely
blended, and on the darkest band, near the costa, was a tiny white
half moon. The under sides of the fore-wings were a delicate brownish
grey, with heavy flushings of a purplish pink, a most beautiful
colour.
The back wings were dove colour near the abdomen, more of a mouse
colour around the edges, and beginning strongly at the base, and
spreading in lighter shade over the wing, was the same purplish
pink of the front under-wing, only much stronger. Near the abdomen,
a little below half the length, and adjoining the grey; each wing
had a mark difficult to describe in shape, and of rich blue colour.
The antennae stood up stoutly, and were of dove grey on one side,
and white on the other. The thorax, legs, and under side of the
abdomen were more of the mouse grey in colour. Over the whole
moth in strong light, there was an almost intangible flushing
of palest purplish pink. It may have shaded through the fore-wing
from beneath, and over the back wing from above. At any rate,
it was there, and so lovely and delicate was the whole colour
scheme, it made me feel that I would give much to see a newly
emerged male of this species. In my childhood my mother called
this colour aniline red.
I once asked a Chicago importer if he believed that Oriental rug
weavers sometimes use these big night moths as colour guides in
their weaving. He said he had heard this, and gave me the freedom
of his rarest rugs. Of course the designs woven into these rugs
have a history, and a meaning for those who understand. There
were three, almost priceless, one of which I am quite sure copied
its greys, terra cotta, and black shades from Cecropia.
There was another, a rug of pure silk, that never could have touched
a floor, or been trusted outside a case, had it been my property,
that beyond all question took its exquisite combinations of browns
and tans with pink lines, and peacock blue designs from Polyphemus.
A third could have been copied from no moth save Modesta, for
it was dove grey, mouse grey, and cinnamon brown, with the purplish
pink of the back wings, and exactly the blue of their decorations.
Had this rug been woven of silk, as the brown one, that moment
would have taught me why people sometimes steal when they cannot
afford to buy. Examination of the stock of any importer of high
grade rugs will convince one who knows moths, that many of our
commonest or their near relatives native to the Orient are really
used as models for colour combinations in rug weaving. The Herat
frequently has moths in its border.
The Modest moth has a wing sweep in large females of from five
and one-half to six inches. In my territory they are very rare,
only a few caterpillars and one moth have fallen to me. This can
be accounted for by the fact that the favourite food tree of the
caterpillar is so scarce, for some reason having become almost
extinct, except in a few cases where they are used for shade.
The eggs are a greyish green, and have the pearly appearance of
almost all moth eggs. On account of white granules, the caterpillar
cannot fail to be identified. The moths in their beautiful soft
colouring are well worth search and study. They are as exquisitely
shaded as any, and of a richness difficult to describe.
CHAPTER XIV The Pride of the Lilacs: Attacus Promethea
So far as the arrangement ofthe subjects of this book in family
groupings is concerned, any chapter might come first or last.
It is frankly announced as the book of the Nature Lover, and as
such is put together in the form that appears to me easiest to
comprehend and most satisfying to examine. I decided that it would
be sufficient to explain the whole situation to the satisfaction
of any one, if I began the book with a detailed history of moth,
egg, caterpillar, and cocoon and then gave complete portrayal
of each stage in the evolution of one cocoon and one pupa case
moth. I began with Cecropia, the commonest of all and one of the
most beautiful for the spinners, and ended with Regalis, of earth--and
the rarest.
The luck I had in securing Regalis in such complete form seems
to me the greatest that ever happened to any, worker in this field,
and it reads more like a fairy tale than sober every-day fact,
copiously illustrated with studies from life. At its finish I
said, "Now I am done. This book is completed." Soon
afterward, Raymond walked in with a bunch of lilac twigs in his
hand from which depended three rolled leaves securely bound to
their twigs by silk spinning.
"I don't remember that we ever found any like these,"
he said. `Would you be interested in them?'
Would I? Instantly I knew this book was not finished. As I held
the firm, heavy, leaf-rolled cocoons in my hand, I could see the
last chapter sliding over from fourteen to fifteen to make place
for Promethea, the loveliest of the Attacine group, a cousin of
Cecropia. Often I had seen the pictured cocoon, in its neat little,
tight little leaf-covered shelter, and the mounted moths of scientific
collections and museums; I knew their beautiful forms and remembered
the reddish tinge flushing the almost black coat of the male and
the red wine and clay-coloured female with her elaborate marks,
spots, and lines. Right there the book stopped at leaf-fall early
in November to await the outcome of those three cocoons. If they
would yield a pair in the spring, and if that pair would emerge
close enough together to mate and produce fertile eggs, then by
fall of the coming year I would have a complete life history.
That was a long wait, thickly punctuated with `ifs.'
Then the twig was carried to my room and stood in a vase of intricate
workmanship and rare colouring.
Every few days I examined those cocoons and tested them by weight.
I was sure they were perfect. That spring I had been working all
day and often at night, so I welcomed an opportunity to spend
a few days at a lake where I would meet many friends; boating
and fishing were fine, while the surrounding country was one uninterrupted
panorama of exquisite land and water pictures. I packed and started
so hastily I forgot my precious cocoons. Two weeks later on my
return, before I entered the Cabin, I walked round it to see if
my flowers had been properly watered and tended. It was not later
than three in the afternoon but I saw at least a dozen wonderful
big moths, dusky and luring, fluttering eagerly over the wild
roses covering a south window of the Deacon's room adjoining mine
on the west. Instantly I knew what that meant. I hurried to the
room and found a female Promothea at the top of the screen covering
a window that the caretaker had slightly lowered. I caught up
a net and ran to bring a step-ladder. The back foundation is several
feet high and that threw the tops of the windows close under the
eaves. I mounted to the last step and balancing made a sweep to
capture a moth. They could see me and scattered in all directions.
I waited until they were beginning to return, when from the thicket
of leaves emerged a deep rose-flushed little moth that sailed
away, with every black one in pursuit. I almost fell from the
ladder. I went inside, only to learn that what I feared was true.
The wind had loosened the screen in my absence, and the moth had
passed through a crack, so narrow it seemed impossible for it
to escape.
Only those interested as I was, and who have had similar experience,
know how to sympathize. I had thought a crowbar would be required
to open one of those screens! With sinking heart I hurried to
my room. Joy! There was yet hope! The escaped moth was the only
one that had emerged. The first thing was to fasten the screen,
the next to live with the remaining cocoons.
The following morning another, female appeared, and a little later
a male.
The cocoons were long, slender, closely leaf-wrapped and hung
from stout spinning longer than the average leaf stem. The outside
leaf covering easily could be peeled away as the spinning did
not seem to adhere except at the edges. There was a thin waterproof
coating as with Cecropia, then a little loose spinning that showed
most at top and bottom, the leaf wrapping being so closely drawn
that it was plastered against the body of the heavy inner case
around the middle until it adhered. The inner case was smooth
and dark inside and the broken pupa case nearly black.
The male and female differed more widely in colour and markings
than any moths with which I had worked. At a glance, the male
reminded me of a monster Mourning Cloak butterfly. The front wings
from the base extending over half the surface were a dark brownish
black, outlined with a narrow escalloped line of clay colour of
light shade. The black colour from here lightened as it neared
the margin. At the apex it changed to a reddish brown tinge that
surrounded the typical eye-spot of all the Attacus group for almost
three-fourths of its circumference. The bottom of the eye was
blackish blue, shading abruptly to pale blue at the top. The straggle
M of white was in its place at the extreme tip, on the usual rose
madder field. From there a broad clay-coloured band edged the
wing and joined the dark colour in escallops. Through the middle
of it in an irregular wavy line was traced an almost hair-fine
marking of strong brown. The back wings were darker than the darkest
part of the fore-wings and this colour covered them to the margin,
lightening very slightly. A clay- coloured band bordered the edge,
touched with irregular splashes of dark brown, a little below
them a slightly heavier line than that on the fore-wing, which
seemed to follow the outline of the decorations.
Underneath, the wings were exquisitely marked, flushed, and shaded
almost past description in delicate and nearly intangible reddish
browns, rose madder on grey, pink-tinged brown and clay colour.
On the fore-wings the field from base to first line was reddish
brown with a faint tinge of tan beside the costa. From this to
the clay-coloured border my descriptive powers fail. You could
see almost any shade for which you looked. There were greyish
places flushed with scales of red and white so closely set that
the result was frosty pink. Then the background would change to
brown with the same over-decoration. The bottom of the eye-spot
was dark only about one-fourth the way, the remaining three-fourths,
tan colour outlined at the top with pale blue and black in fine
lines. The white M showed through on a reddish background, as
did the brown line of the clay border. The back wings widespread
were even lovelier. Beginning about the eighth of an inch from
the top was a whitish line tracing a marking that when taken as
a whole on both outspread wings, on some, slightly resembled a
sugar maple leaf, and on others, the perfect profile of a face.
There was a small oblong figure of pinkish white where the eye
would fall, and the field of each space was brownish red velvet.
From this to the clay-coloured band with its paler brown markings
and lines, the pink and white scales sprinkled the brown ground;
most of the pink, around the marking, more of the white, in the
middle of the space; so few of either, that it appeared to be
brown where the clay border joined.
The antennae were shaped as all of the Attacus group, but larger
in proportion to size, for my biggest Promethea measured only
four and a quarter from tip to tip, and for his inches carried
larger antlers than any Cecropia I ever saw of this measurement,
those of the male being very much larger than the female. In colour
they were similar to the darkest part of the wings, as were the
back of the head, thorax and abdomen. The hair on the back of
the thorax was very long. The face wore a pink flush over brown,
the eyes bright brown, the under thorax covered with long pinkish
brown hairs, and the legs the same. A white stripe ran down each
side of the abdomen, touched with a dot of brownish red wine colour
on the rings. The under part was pinkish wine crossed with a narrow
white line at each segment. The claspers were prominent and sharp.
The finishing touch of the exquisite creatign lay in the fact
that in motion, in strong light the red wine shadings of the under
side cast an intangible, elusive, rosy flush over the dark back
of the moth that was the mast delicate and loveliest colour effect
I ever have seen on marking of flower, bird, or animal.
For the first time in all my experience with moths the female
was less than the male.
Even the eggs of this mated pair carried a pinkish white shade
and were stained with brown. They were ovoid in shape and dotted
the screen door in rows. The tiny caterpillars were out eleven
days later and proved to be of the kind that march independently
from their shells without stopping to feed on them. Of every food
offered, the youngsters seemed to prefer lilac leaves; I remembered
that they had passed the winter wrapped in these, dangling from
their twigs, and that the under wings of the male and much of
the female bore a flushing of colour that was lilac, for what
else is red wine veiled with white? So I promptly christened them,
`The Pride of the Lilacs.' They were said to eat ash, apple pear,
willow, plum, cherry, poplar and many other leaves, but mine liked
lilac, and there was a supply in reach of the door, so they undoubtedly
were lilac caterpillars, for they had nothing else to eat.
The little fellows were pronouncedly yellow. The black head with
a grey stripe joined the thorax with a yellow band. The body was
yellow with black rings, the anal parts black, the legs pale greyish
yellow. They made their first moult on the tenth day and when
ready to eat again they were stronger yellow than before, with
many touches of black. They moulted four times, each producing
slight changes until the third, when the body took on a greenish
tinge, delicate and frosty in appearance. The heads were yellow
with touches of black, and the anal shield even stronger yellow,
with black. At the last moult there came a touch of red on the
thorax, and of deep blue on the latter part of the body.
In spinning they gummed over the upper surface of a leaf and,
covering it with silk, drew it together so that nothing could
be seen of the work inside. They began spinning some on the forty-second,
some on the forty-third day, when about three inches in length
and plump to bursting. I think at a puncture in the skin they
would have spurted like a fountain. They began spinning at night
and were from sight before I went to them the following morning.
So I hunted a box and packed them away with utmost care.
I selected a box in which some mounted moths had been sent me
by a friend in Louisiana, and when I went to examine my cocoons
toward spring, to my horror I found the contents of the box chopped
to pieces and totally destroyed. Pestiferous little 'clothes'
moths must have infested the box, for there were none elsewhere
in the Cabin. For a while this appeared to be too bad luck; but
when luck turns squarely against you, that is the time to test
the essence and quality of the word `friend.' So I sat me down
and wrote to my friend, Professor Rowley, of Missouri, and told
him I wanted Promethea for the completion of this book; that I
had an opportunity to make studies of them and my plate was light-struck,
and house-moths had eaten my cocoons. Could he do anything? To
be sure he could. I am very certain he sent me two dozen `perfectly
good' cocoons. From the abundance of males that have come to seek
females of this species at the Cabin, ample proof seems furnished
that they are a very common Limberlost product; but I never have
found, even when searching for them, or had brought to me a cocoon
of this variety, save the three on one little branch found by
Raymond, when he did not know what they were. Because of the length
of spinning which these caterpillars use to attach their cocoons,
they dangle freely in the wind, and this gives them especial freedom
from attack.
CHAPTER XV The King of the Poets: Citheronia Regalis
To the impetuosity of youth I owe my first acquaintance with the
rarest moth of the Limberlost; "not common anywhere,"
say scientific authorities. Molly-Cotton and I were driving to
Portland-town, ten miles south of our home. As customary, I was
watching fields, woods, fence corners and roadside in search of
subjects; for many beautiful cocoons and caterpillars, much to
be desired, have been located while driving over the country on
business or pleasure.
With the magnificent independence of the young, Molly-Cotton would
have scouted the idea that she was searching for moths also, but
I smiled inwardly as I noticed her check the horse several times
and scan a wayside bush, or stretch of snake fence. We were approaching
the limits of town, and had found nothing; a slow rain was falling,
and the shimmer on bushes and fences made it difficult to see
objects plainly. Several times I had asked her to stop the horse,
or drive close the fields when I was sure of a moth or caterpillar,
though it was very late, being close the end of August; but we
found only a dry leaf, or some combination that had deceived me.
Just on the outskirts of Portland, beside a grassy ditch and at
the edge of a cornfield, grew a cluster of wild tiger lilies.
The water in the ditch had kept them in flower long past their
bloomtime. On one of the stems there seemed to be a movement.
"Wait a minute!" I cried, and Molly-Cotton checked the
horse, but did not stop, while I leaned forward and scanned the
lilies carefully. What I thought I saw move appeared to be a dry
lily bloom of an orange-red colour, that had fallen and lodged
on the grasses against a stalk.
"It's only a dead lily," I said; "drive on."
"Is there a moth that colour?" asked Molly-Cotton.
"Yes," I replied. "There is an orange-brown species,
but it is rare. I never have seen a living one."
So we passed the lilies. A very peculiar thing is that when one
grows intensely interested in a subject, and works over it, a
sort of instinct, an extra sense as it were, is acquired. Three
rods away, I became certain I had seen something move, so strongly
the conviction swept over me that we had passed a moth. Still,
it was raining, and the ditch was wet and deep.
"I am sorry we did not stop," I said, half to myself,
"I can't help feeling that was a moth."
There is where youth, in all its impetuosity, helped me. If the
girl had asked, "Shall I go back?" in all probability
I would have answered, "No, I must have been mistaken. Drive
on!"
Instead, Molly-Cotton, who had straightened herself, and touched
up her horse for a brisk entrance into town, said, "Well,
we will just settle that 'feeling' right here!"
At a trot, she deftly cut a curve in the broad road and drove
back. She drew close the edge of the ditch as we approached the
lilies. As the horse stopped, what I had taken for a fallen lily
bloom, suddenly opened to over five inches of gorgeous red-brown,
canary-spotted wing sweep, and then closed again.
"It is a moth!" we gasped, with one breath.
Molly-Cotton cramped the wheel on my side of the carriage and
started to step down. Then she dropped back to the seat.
"I am afraid," she said. "I don't want you to wade
that ditch in the rain, but you never have had a red one, and
if I bungle and let it escape, I never will forgive myself."
She swung the horse to the other side, and I climbed down. Gathering
my skirts, I crossed the ditch as best I could, and reached the
lily bed, but I was trembling until my knees wavered. I stepped
between the lilies and the cornfield, leaned over breathlessly,
and waited in the pelting rain, until the moth again raised its
wings above its back. Then with a sweep learned in childhood,
I had it.
While crossing the ditch, I noticed there were numbers of heavy
yellow paper bags lying where people had thrown them when emptied
of bananas and biscuits, on leaving town. They were too wet to
be safe, but to carry the moth in my fingers would spoil it for
a study, so I caught up and drained a big bag; carefully set my
treasure inside, and handed it to Molly-Cotton. If you consider
the word `treasure' too strong to fit the case, offer me your
biggest diamond, ruby, or emerald, in recompense for the privilege
of striking this chapter, with its accompanying illustration,
from my book, and learn what the answer will be.
When I entered the carriage and dried my face and hands, we peeped,
marvelled, and exclaimed in wonder, for this was the most gorgeous
moth of our collections. We hastened to Portland, where we secured
a large box at a store. In order that it might not be dark and
set the moth beating in flight, we copiously punctured it with
as large holes as we dared, and bound the lid securely. On the
way home we searched the lilies and roadside for a mile, but could
find no trace of another moth. Indeed, it seemed a miracle that
we had found this one late in August, for the time of their emergence
is supposed to be from middle May to the end of June. Professor
Rowley assures me that in rare instances a moth will emerge from
a case or cocoon two seasons old, and finding this one, and the
Luna, prove it is well for nature students to be watchful from
May until October. Because these things happened to me in person,
I made bold to introduce the capture of a late moth into the experience
of Edith Carr in the last chapter of "A Girl of the Limberlost."
I am pointing out some of these occurrences as I come to them,
in order that you may see how closely I keep to life and truth,
even in books exploited as fiction. There may be such incidents
that are pure imagination incorporated; but as I write I can recall
no instance similar to this, in any book of mine, that is not
personal experience, or that did not happen to other people within
my knowledge, or was not told me by some one whose word I consider
unquestionable; allowing very little material indeed, on the last
provision.
There is one other possibility to account for the moth at this
time. Beyond all question the gorgeous creature is of tropical
origin. It has made its way north from South or Central America.
It occurs more frequently in Florida and Georgia than with us,
and there it is known to have been double brooded; so standing
on the records of professional lepidopterists, that gives rise
to grounds for the possibility that in some of our long, almost
tropical Indiana summers, Regalis may be double brooded with us.
At any rate, many people saw the living moth in my possession
on this date. In fact, I am prepared to furnish abundant proof
of every statement contained in this chapter; while at the same
time admitting that it reads like the veriest fairy tale `ever
thought or wondered.'
The storm had passed and the light was fine, so we posed the moth
before the camera several times. It was nervous business, for
he was becoming restless, and every instant I expected him to
fly, but of course we kept hiM guarded.
There was no hope of a female that late date, so the next step
was to copy his colours and markings as exactly as possible. He
was the gaudiest moth of my experience, and his name seemed to
suit rarely well. Citheroma--a Greek poet, and Regalis--regal.
He was truly royal and enough to inspire poetry in a man of any
nation. His face-was orange-brown, of so bright a shade that any
one at a glance would have called it red. His eyes were small
for his size, and his antennae long, fine, and pressed against
the face so closely it had to be carefully scrutinized to see
them. A band of bright canary-yellow arched above them, his thorax
was covered above with long silky, orange-brown hairs, and striped
lengthwise with the same yellow. His abdomen was the longest and
slenderest I had seen, elegantly curved like a vase, and reaching
a quarter of an inch beyond the back wings, which is unusual.
It was thickly covered with long hair, and faintly lined at the
segments with yellow. The claspers were very sharp, prominent
brown hooks. His sides were dotted with alternating red and orangebrown
spots, and his thorax beneath, yellow. The under side of the abdomen
was yellow, strongly shaded with orange-brown. His legs and feet
were the same.
His fore-wings were a silvery lead colour, each vein covered with
a stripe of orange-brown three times its width. The costa began
in lead colour, and at half its extent shaded into orange-brown.
Each front wing had six yellow spots, and a seventh faintly showing.
Half an inch from the apex of the wings, and against the costa,
lay the first and second spots, oblong in shape, and wide enough
to cover the space between veins. The third was a tiny dot next
the second. The hint of one crossed the next vein, and the other
three formed a triangle; one lay at the costa about three-quarters
of an inch from the base, the second at the same distance from
the base at the back edge of the wing, and the third formed the
apex, and fell in the middle, on the fifth space between veins,
counting from either edge. These were almost perfectly round.
The back wings were very hairy, of a deep orange-brown at the
base, shading to lighter tones of the same colour at the edge,
and faintly clouded in two patches with yellow.
Underneath the fore-wings were yellow at the base, and lead colour
the remainder of their length. The veins had the orange-red outlining,
and the two large yellow dots at the costa showed through as well
as the small one beside them. Then came another little yellow
dot of the same size, that did not show on the upper side, and
then four larger round spots between each vein. Two of them showed
in the triangle on the upper side full size, and the two between
could be seen in the merest speck, if looked for very closely.
The back wings underneath were yellow three-fourths of their length,
then next the abdomen began a quarter of an inch wide band of
orange-brown, that crossed the wing to the third vein from the
outer edge, and there shaded into lead colour, and covered the
space to the margin. The remainder of the wing below this band
was a lighter shade of yellow than above it. From tip to tip he
measured five and a half inches, and from head to point of abdomen
a little over two.
While I was talking Regalis, and delighted over finding so late
in the season the only one I lacked to complete my studies of
every important species, Arthur Fensler brought me a large Regalis
caterpillar, full fed, and in the last stages of the two days
of exercise that every caterpillar seems to take before going
into the pupa state. It was late in the evening, so I put the
big fellow in a covered bucket of soft earth from the garden,
planning to take his picture the coming day. Before morning he
had burrowed into the earth from sight, and was pupating, so there
was great risk in disturbing him. I was afraid there were insects
in the earth that would harm him, as care had not been taken to
bake it, as should have been done.
A day later Willis Glendenning brought me another Regalis caterpillar.
I made two pictures of it, although transformation to the pupa
stage was so far advanced that it was only half length, and had
a shrivelled appearance like the one I once threw away. I was
disgusted with the picture at the time, but now I feel that it
is very important in the history of transformation from caterpillar
to pupa, and I am glad to have it.
Two days later, Andrew Idlewine, a friend to my work, came to
the Deacon with a box. He said that he thought maybe I would like
to take a picture of the fellow inside, and if I did, he wanted
a copy; and he wished he knew what the name of it was. He had
found it on a butternut tree, and used great care in taking it
lest it `horn' him. He was horrified when the Deacon picked it
up, and demonstrated how harmless it was. This is difficult to
believe, but it was a third Regalis and came into my possession
at night again. My only consolation was that it was feeding, and
would not pupate until I could make a picture. This one was six
inches from tip to tip, the largest caterpillar I ever saw; a
beautiful blue-green colour, with legs of tan marked with black,
each segment having four small sharp horns on top, and on the
sides an oblique dash of pale blue. The head bore ten horns. Four
of these were large, an inch in length, coloured tan at the base,
black at the tip. The foremost pair of this formidable array turned
front over the face, all the others back, and the outside six
of the ten were not quite the length of the largest ones.
The first caterpillar had measured five inches, and the next one
three, but it was transforming. Whether the others were males
and this a female, or whether it was only that it had grown under
favourable conditions, I could not tell. It was differently marked
on the sides, and in every way larger, and brighter than the others,
and had not finished feeding. Knowing that it was called the `horned
hickory devil' at times, hickory and walnut leaves were placed
in its box, and it evinced a decided preference for the hickory.
As long as it ate and seemed a trifle larger it was fed. The day
it walked over fresh leaves and began the preliminary travel,
it was placed on some hickory sprouts around an old stump, and
exposures made on it, or rather on the places it had been, for
it was extremely restless and difficult to handle. Two plates
were spoiled for me by my subject walking out of focus as I snapped,
but twice it was caught broadside in good position.
While I was working with this caterpillar, there came one of my
clearest cases of things that `thrust themselves upon me.' I would
have preferred to concentrate all my attention on the caterpillar,
for it was worth while; but in the midst of my work a katydid
deliberately walked down the stump, and stopped squarely before
the lens to wash her face and make her toilet. She was on the
side of the stump, and so clearly outlined by the lens that I
could see her long wavering antennae on the ground glass, and
of course she took two plates before she resumed her travels.
I long had wanted a katydid for an illustration. I got that one
merely by using what was before me. All I did was to swing the
lens about six inches, and shift the focus slightly, to secure
two good exposures of her in fine positions. My caterpillar almost
escaped while I worked, for it had put in the time climbing to
the ground, and was a yard away hurrying across the grass at a
lively pace.
Two days later it stopped travelling, and pupated on the top of
the now hardened earth in the bucket that contained the other
two. It was the largest of the pupae when it emerged, a big shining
greenish brown thing flattened and seeming as if it had been varnished.
On the thin pupa case the wing shields and outlines of the head
and different parts of the body could be seen. Then a pan of sand
was baked, and a box with a glass cover was filled. I laid the
pupa on top of the sand, and then dug up the first one, as I was
afraid of the earth in which it lay. The case was sound, and in
fine condition. All of these pupae lived and seemed perfect. Narrow
antennae and abdominal formation marked the big one a female,
while broader antlers and the clearly outlined `claspers' proved
the smaller ones males. A little sphagnum moss, that was dampened
slightly every few days, was kept around them. The one that entered
the ground had pushed the earth from it on all, sides at a depth
of three inches, and hollowed an oval space the size of a medium
hen egg, in which the pupa lay, but there was no trace of its
cast skin. Those that pupated on the ground had left their skins
at the thorax, and lay two inches from them. The horns came off
with the skin, and the lining of the segments and the covering
of the feet showed. At first the cast skins were green, but they
soon turned a dirty grey, and the horns blackened.
So from having no personal experience at all with our rarest moth,
inside a few days of latter August and early September, weeks
after hope had been abandoned for the season, I found myself with
several as fine studies of the male as I could make, one of an
immense caterpillar at maturity, one half-transformed to the moth,
and three fine pupa cases. Besides, I had every reason to hope
that in the spring I could secure eggs and a likeness of a female
to complete my illustration. Call this luck, fairy magic, what
you will, I admit it sounds too good to be true; but it is.
All winter these three fine Regalis pupa cases were watched solicitously,
as well as my twin Cecropias, some Polyphemus, and several ground
cocoons so spun on limbs and among debris that it was not easy
to decide whether they were Polyphemus or Luna. When spring came,
and the Cecropias emerged at the same time, I took heart, for
I admit I was praying for a pair of Regalis moths from those pupa
cases in order that a female, a history of their emergence, and
their eggs, might be added to the completion of this chapter.
In the beginning it was my plan to use the caterpillars, and give
the entire history of one spinning, and one burrowing moth. My
Cecropia records were complete; I could add the twin series for
good measure for the cocoon moth; now if only a pair would come
from these pupa cases, I would have what I wanted to compile the
history of a ground moth.
Until the emergence of the Cecropias, my cocoons and pupa cases
were kept on my dresser. Now I moved the box to a chair beside
my bed. That was a lucky thought, for the first moth appeared
at midnight, from Mr. Idlewine's case. She pushed the wing shields
away with her feet, and passed through the opening. She was three
and one-half inches LONG, with a big pursy abdomen, and wings
the size of my thumbnail. I was anxious for a picture of her all
damp and undeveloped, beside the broken pupa case; but I was so
fearful of spoiling my series I dared not touch, or try to reproduce
her. The head and wings only seemed damp, but the abdomen was
quite wet, and the case contained a quantity of liquid, undoubtedly
ejected for the purpose of facilitating exit. When you next examine
a pupa, study the closeness with which the case fits antennae,
eyes, feet, wings, head, thorax, and abdominal rings and you will
see that it would be impossible for the moth to separate from
the case and leave it with down intact, if it were dry.
Immediately the moth began racing around energetically, and flapping
those tiny wings until the sound awakened the Deacon in the adjoining
room. After a few minutes of exercise, it seemed in danger of
injuring the other cases, so it was transferred to the dresser,
where it climbed to the lid of a trinket case, and clinging with
the feet, the wings hanging, development began. There was no noticeable
change in the head and shoulders, save that the down grew fluffier
as it dried. The abdomen seemed to draw up, and became more compact.
No one can comprehend the story of the wings unless they have
seen them develop.
At twelve o'clock and five minutes, they measured two-thirds of
an inch from the base of the costa to the tip. At twelve fifteen
they were an inch and a quarter. At half-past twelve they were
two inches. At twelve forty-five they were two and a half; and
at one o'clock they were three inches. At complete expansion this
moth measured six and a half inches strong (sic!), and this full
sweep was developed in one hour and ten minutes. To see those
large brilliantly-coloured wings droop, widen, and develop their
markings, seemed little short of a miracle.
The history of the following days is painful. I not only wanted
a series of this moth as I wanted nothing else concerning the
book, but with the riches of three fine pupa cases of it on hand,
I had promised Professor Rowley eggs from which to obtain its
history for himself. I had taxed Mr. Rowley's time and patience
as an expert lepidopterist, to read my text, and examine my illustration;
and I hoped in a small way to repay his kindness by sending him
a box of fertile Regalis eggs.
The other pupa cases were healthful and lively, but the moths
would not emerge. I coaxed them in the warmth of closed palms--I
even laid them on dampened moss in the sun in the hope of softening
the cases, and driving the moths out with the heat, but to no
avail. They would not come forth.
I had made my studies of the big moth, when she was fully developed;
but to my despair, she was depositing worthless eggs over the
inside of my screen door.
Four days later, the egg-laying period over, the female, stupid
and almost gone, a fine male emerged, and the following day another.
I placed some of the sand from the bottom of the box on a brush
tray, and put these two cases on it, and set a focused camera
in readiness, so that I got a side view of a moth just as it emerged,
and one facing front when about ready to cling for wing expansion.
The history of their appearance, was similar to that of the female,
only they were smaller, and of much brighter. colour. The next
morning I wrote Professor Rowley of my regrets at being unable
to send the eggs as I had hoped.
At noon I came home from half a day in the fields, to find Raymond
sitting on the Cabin steps with a big box. That box contained
a perfect pair of mated Regalis moths. This was positively the
last appearance of the fairies.
Raymond had seen these moths clinging to the under side of a rail
while riding. He at once dismounted, coaxed them on a twig, and
covering them with his hat, he weighted the brim with stones.
Then he rode to the nearest farm-house for a box, and brought
the pair safely to me. Several beautiful studies of them were
made, into one of which I also introduced my last moth to emerge,
in order to show the males in two different positions.
The date was June tenth. The next day the female began egg placing.
A large box was lined with corrugated paper, so that she could
find easy footing, and after she had deposited many eggs on this,
fearing some element in it might not be healthful for them, I
substituted hickory leaves.
Then the happy time began. Soon there were heaps of pearly pale
yellow eggs piled in pyramids on the leaves, and I made a study
of them. Then I gently lifted a leaf, carried it outdoors and,
in full light, reproduced the female in the position in which
she deposited her eggs, even in the act of placing them. Of course,
Molly-Cotton stood beside with a net in one hand to guard, and
an umbrella in the other to shade the moth, except at the instant
of exposure; but she made no movement indicative of flight.
I made every study of interest of which I could think. Then I
packed and mailed Professor Rowley about two hundred fine fertile
eggs, with all scientific data. I only kept about one dozen, as
I could think of nothing more to record of this moth except the
fact that I had raised its caterpillar. As I explained in the
first chapter, from information found in a work on moths supposed
to be scientific and accurate, I depended on these caterpillars
to emerge in sixteen days. The season was unusually rainy and
unfavourable for field work, and I had a large contract on hand
for outdoor stuff. I was so extremely busy, I was glad to box
the eggs, and put them out of mind until the twenty-seventh. By
the merest chance I handled the box on the twentyfourth, and found
six caterpillars starved to death, two more feeble, and four that
seemed lively. One of these was bitten by some insect that clung
to a leaf placed in their box for food, in spite of the fact that
all leaves were carefully washed. One died from causes unknown.
One stuck in pupation, and moulded in its skin. Three went through
the succession of moults and feeding periods in fine shape, and
the first week in September transformed into shiny pupa cases,
not one of which was nearly as large as that of the caterpillar
brought to me by Mr. Idlewine. I fed these caterpillars on black
walnut leaves, as they ate them in preference to hickory.
I am slightly troubled about this moth. In Packard's "Guide
to the Study of Moths", he writes: "Citheronia Regalis
expands five to six inches, and its fore-wings are olive coloured,
spotted with yellow and veined with broad red lines, while the
hind wings are orange-red, spotted with olive, green, and yellow."
He describes two other species. Citheronia Mexicana, a tropical
moth that has drifted as far north as Mexico. It is quite similar
to Regalis, "having more orange and less red," but it
is not recorded as having been found within a thousand miles of
my locality. A third small species, Citheronia sepulcralis, expands
only a little over three inches, is purple-brown with yellow spots;
and is a rare Atlantic Coast species having been found once in
Massachusetts, oftener in Georgia, never west of Pennsylvania.
This eliminates them as possible Limberlost species. Professor
Rowley raised this moth from the eggs I sent him.
The trouble is this: Packard describes the fore-wings as `olive,'
the hind as `olive, and green.' Holland makes no reference to
colour, but on plate X, figure three, page eighty-seven, he reproduces
Regalis with fore-wings of olive-green, the remainder of the colour
as I describe and paint, only lighter. In all the Regalis moths
I have handled, raised, studied minutely, painted, and photographed,
there never has been tinge or shade of GREEN. Not the slightest
trace of it! Each moth, male and female, has had a basic colour
of pure lead or steel grey. White tinged with the proper proportions
of black and blue gives the only colour that will exactly match
it. I have visited my specimen case since writing the preceding.
I find there the bodies of four Regalis moths, saved after their
decline. One is four years old, one three, the others two, all
have been exposed to daylight for that length of time. The yellows
are slightly faded, the reds very much degraded, the greys a half
lighter than when fresh; but showing to-day a pure, clear grey.
What troubles me is whether Regalis of the Limberlost is grey,
where others are green; or whether I am colour blind or these
men. Referring to other writers, I am growing `leery' of the word
`Authority'; half of what was written fifty years ago along almost
any line you can mention, to-day stands disproved; all of us are
merely seekers after the truth: so referring to other writers,
I find the women of Massachusetts; who wrote "Caterpillars
and Their Moths", and who in all probability have raised
more different caterpillars for the, purpose of securing life
history than any other workers of our country, possibly of any,
state that the front wings of Regalis have "stripes of lead
colour between the veins of the wings," and "three or
four lead-coloured stripes" on the back wings. The remainder
of my description and colouring also agrees with theirs. If these
men worked from museum or private collections, there is a possibility
that chemicals used to kill, preserve, and protect the specimens
from pests may have degraded the colours, and changed the grey
to green. But to accept this as the explanation of the variance
upsets all their colour values, so it must not be considered.
This proves that there must be a Regalis that at times has olive-green
stripes where mine are grey; but I never have seen one.
I think people need not fear planting trees on their premises
that will be favourites with caterpillars, in the hope of luring
exquisite te moths to become common with them. I have put out
eggs, and released caterpillars near the Cabin, literally by the
thousand, and never have been able to see the results by a single
defoliated branch. Wrens, warblers, flycatchers, every small bird
of the trees are exploring bark and scanning upper and under leaf
surfaces for eggs and tiny caterpillars, and if they escape these,
dozens of larger birds are waiting for the half-grown caterpillars,
for in almost all instances these lack enough of the hairy coat
of moss butterfly larvae to form any protection. Every season
I watch my walnut trees to free them from the abominable 'tent'
caterpillars; with the single exception of Halesidota Caryae,
I never have had enough caterpillars of any species attack my
foliage to be noticeable; and these in only one instance. If you
care for moths you need not fear to encourage them; the birds
will keep them within proper limits. If only one person enjoys
this book one-tenth as much as I have loved the work of making
it, then I am fully repaid.