Books: Moths of the Limberlost
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Gene Stratton Porter >> Moths of the Limberlost
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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.
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