THE COMMON CATERPILLAR
“I remember,” said Jules, “one Sunday last winter—it was some time in
December or January, I think—the mayor had just posted a notice on the
door of the town hall, and the people were reading it as they came from
church. The notice was something about caterpillars, and the mayor had
ordered their nests to be destroyed.”
“Yes,” rejoined Uncle Paul, “the mayor had in mind, luckily for us, the
caterpillar law.”
“What! Is there a law about caterpillars, with a fine for disobeying
it?”
“Yes, my boy, there is a law about caterpillars, and I thank the
legislature that had the wisdom to pass it. God grant it may become a
more general statute and include a greater number of our insect
enemies, the June-bug especially, and that it may be strictly
enforced!”
“But that would put people out, to have to leave their business and go
and hunt for caterpillar-nests and burn them. At least, that’s what
One-eyed John said when he read the mayor’s notice.”
“Leave their business, you say? Is it leaving one’s business to go and
save the crops when they are threatened? Laws, my young friend, are
rules made for the general good, and we should all obey them
scrupulously. If there are any narrow-minded objectors or stupid
grumblers—any One-eyed Johns, in short—that choose to take offense, so
much the worse for them: they will have to obey in any event, for the
common interest is not to be compromised by the foolishness of a few.
“The mayor’s notice had especial reference to a caterpillar whose
ravages are, in some seasons, truly calamitous. So abundant is this
caterpillar in central and northern France that it is called, briefly,
the common caterpillar. It is encountered everywhere, on fruit-trees
and forest trees, in garden walks and on plants and hedges, and even on
the bark of trees, sometimes in countless legions.
“It is dark brown in color with six rows of little tubercles or pimples
of the same hue, each bearing a tuft of long, red hair. The ring-like
segment to which is attached the last pair of false legs, and also the
following segment, have each a plump red nipple which can at the
caterpillar’s pleasure recede under the skin or stand out prominently.
The butterfly developing from this caterpillar is pure white except on
the abdomen, which is brown. Furthermore, the female has a thick tuft
of red hair at the end of the abdomen. Its purpose is shown when the
eggs are laid: after these are deposited, to the number of three or
four hundred, the butterfly rubs off the hair and places it over the
eggs. The laying takes place in July and the eggs, deposited in a
little heap on a leaf, are rose red.”
“But if they are on a leaf,” objected Emile, “they must fall from the
tree when the leaves fall, and then the wind might blow them away.”
“The butterfly that lays its eggs on a leaf knows very well what it is
about. On the other hand, those butterflies that lay eggs that are to
go through the winter and hatch in the spring are very careful not to
entrust their eggs to a leaf, which will soon fall to the ground. They
make their eggs fast to the bark. But whence do they get their
knowledge of the future? Who told them the leaves would fall and
therefore would be insecure resting-places for the eggs? They do not
learn this by experience, for they have never seen the autumnal
shedding of leaves, having been born when the foliage is already well
advanced for their nourishment, and laying their eggs and dying while
it is still on the trees. If, then, experience cannot account for it,
we must ascribe the insect’s mysterious foreknowledge to the
incomprehensible inspiration of instinct, which sees the invisible and
knows the unknown because there is a Sovereign Intelligence that knows
all and orders all.
“Our common caterpillar likewise is led by instinct when it lays its
eggs on a leaf, for long before the fall of that leaf they will hatch,
in the last fortnight of July.”
“A cunning rascal, that caterpillar,” said Emile; “it knows the order
of the seasons as if it had the almanac by heart.”
“I haven’t told you all. Another motive acts in determining the
butterfly’s course. In laying its eggs on a leaf the insect places them
where the young caterpillars are sure to find food close at hand when
they come out of the eggs, so that they will not have to go running
about over the branches, a dangerous thing at their tender age. All
anxiety as to food supply is thus removed at the outset, and this
assurance against famine is so much to the good in this world of chance
and uncertainty, whether for men or caterpillars.”
“If the butterfly reasoned it all out,” said Jules, “it couldn’t do any
better.”
“Perhaps not so well, my child. Are there not plenty of people, alas,
that show far less foresight? The butterfly leaves to its young a leaf
as a heritage, a leaf to eat, whereas the spendthrift, the idler,
leaves to his family nothing but poverty and suffering. He has not even
the wisdom of an insect.”