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