REAL FAIRIES
or the possible glory that underlies
The passing phase of the meanest things.
_Mrs. Whitney._
Alive it certainly was, this exquisite green moth, which rose on
shimmering wings at Ruth’s touch. No wonder Ruth almost screamed aloud
in her surprised delight.
“Are you a moonbeam?” she asked. “You are just lovely enough for one.”
“No, I am not a moonbeam,” was the answer, “_but I am the moon moth, the
Luna_. I am a messenger for the night-blooming flowers, for only the
long tongues of the moths may reach through the deep tubes to their
honeyed hearts. I was taking my day nap when you touched me.”
[Illustration: “‘I AM THE MOON MOTH, THE LUNA’”]
“I didn’t know you were there,” said Ruth, “you looked so much like a
leaf.”
“That is what I wished to look like. Many others are sleeping the same
way. You wouldn’t know them unless they moved. Our larvæ are not
sleeping, however. I can answer for that. They are quite awake and busy
eating the leaves of hickory, walnut, and other trees of that family.
Maybe you have seen them? They are large and handsome, and they spin
very snug cocoons of silk, wrapped about with a dead leaf, very much
like those made by the polyphemus babies.”
“Now you know your cocoon never had the quantity of silk in it that mine
had,” said a yellowish-brown moth, rising from the trunk of a nearby
tree.
She was very handsome. There were window-like spots on her wings, and
dusky bands edged with pink. Not far away were her larvæ, having a good
time chewing the leaves of a plumb tree. They were light green, with an
oblique yellow line on each side, and a purplish-brown V-shaped mark
near the end of their bodies.
“You may always know the polyphemus children by that mark,” said Mrs.
Polyphemus, for it was she who had interrupted the Luna’s remarks. “Now,
speaking of cocoons,” she went on, “as I said before, ours contain a
great deal of silk. They have been used in the making of silk too. Shall
I tell you my story?”
Of course Ruth wanted to hear it.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Polyphemus. “I belong to the family of giant
silkworms, though, of course, we are not worms. I began my life on an
elm leaf. It was a lovely morning in May when I was hatched, and the
world seemed a beautiful place to live in. I did not spend much time
admiring the scenery, though, for I was hungry. I ate the shell of my
egg for the first course, then I began to chew elm leaves, and I kept it
up steadily. Naturally I grew, and I changed my skin five times. When I
was ready to make my cocoon I found a twig on the ground among the dead
leaves, and spun a fluffy mass of gray-white silk all about it, and this
wrapped in a dead leaf——”
“What?” interrupted Mrs. Cecropia, “spin your cocoon on the ground? What
a careless habit. Why not fasten it to the twig of a tree or——”
“Inside a curled leaf?” added Mrs. Promethea. “That is the safest way.
The wind will rock it and——,”
“I said nothing about curled leaves,” answered Mrs. Cecropia. “I never
use a curled leaf. I leave that for the leaf rollers. I——”
“Well, I know swinging would make me ill,” declared Mrs. Polyphemus,
“and I prefer the ground for my cocoon.”
“Quite right,” agreed Mrs. Hummingbird Moth. “The ground for me, too.
Our children always go down and——”
“Gracious! you don’t suppose my children would go down in the ground?”
asked Mrs. Polyphemus. “No, indeed; they will sleep in their cocoons,
among the fallen leaves on top. It is snug and cozy too, this cocoon, or
it will be, I should rather say, for it isn’t made yet. I remember mine
though. A mass of coarse silk first, and a coating of varnish inside,
then more silk, and another coating of varnish. I slept soundly, I can
tell you, and when I awoke in the Spring I had only to send from my body
a milky fluid, which softened the varnish and silk, until a doorway was
made for me to come out of. I felt very weak, miserable, and forlorn
just at first. I had but six legs, and my wings seemed of no use
whatever, but after I had hung a while to a twig, and my wings had grown
dry and strong, I was a different being. My body was lighter and smaller
too. Do you know why?”
The question came suddenly, and Ruth, though she had been listening
intently, could think of no answer.
“Because the fluids from it were pumped into my wings,” said Mrs.
Polyphemus. “The next time you see a moth just out of its cocoon,
hanging by its feet and waving its wings to and fro, you may know it is
pumping fluids into them, so they may grow big and strong. You may see
many wonderful things if you only keep your eyes open. Well, to go back
to my story: After my wings were strong, I could fly and be as happy as
I pleased. Now it is time for me to lay my eggs.”
“I wondered if you ever meant to stop talking,” said Mrs. Promethea.
“There are others, you know. I really can’t see how you Polyphemuses
grow up, considering the careless way your cocoons lie about on the
ground. Perhaps the people who say that caterpillar children are not
cared for have you in mind. Generally I believe it is better for
children to help themselves. You never hear caterpillars say, ‘I can’t
do this, and will some one please help me to change my skin, or some one
spin my cocoon for me?’ No, they do these things for themselves, and ask
no advice about them either. Still I do believe one can’t be too careful
about cocoons, for once you are in one and asleep you can’t defend
yourself. It is much better to make them safe to begin with. That was
what I thought when I made mine. I enclosed it in a leaf, and then to
make sure the leaf wouldn’t fall in the Winter winds, I fastened it to a
branch of the tree with a thread of silk. No wind or anything else could
break that thread. It was so strong. Just try it,” she added to Ruth,
“the next time you find a Promethean cocoon. You will probably see a
number together, but all will have the same strong fastenings. Another
thing, I didn’t have to make a hole to get out by, as Mrs. Polyphemus
told us she did. My cocoon had a valve in the top, and I had only to
crawl through that. Talk about difference in looks! My mate is so unlike
me you would think he belonged to another species. Our children are very
handsome. Fully two inches long and blue-green in colour, not to mention
the row of lovely black knobs along their bodies.”
“They can’t compare with ours,” said a fine cecropia, settling on a
branch and spreading her beautiful wings.
She was very large and very handsome. Her wings were grayish, with many
markings of white, brick-red, pink, and violet, and with splendid eye
spots on each.
“We are the largest of the giant silkworms,” she said, “and our larvæ
are as handsome in their way as we are in ours. You can see them on the
plum trees over there. They are wearing their last suits, of course,
for, like all caterpillars, they eat so much they need bigger skins
every little while.”
“They _are_ pretty for caterpillars,” agreed Ruth, looking at the
blue-green creatures, with their knobs of red, yellow, and blue, all
bearing black bristles.
“They are pretty enough for _anything_,” declared Mrs. Cecropia, with
decision. “Our cocoon is large and fine too. Indeed, everything about us
is first class. We never enclose our cocoon in a leaf, though sometimes
a dead leaf may cling to the outside. We spin it along a branch, to
which it is securely fastened. Some are larger and looser than others,
but all are beauties.”
“Well, _I_ can’t boast of fine clothes,” said a plainly dressed little
moth, who was quietly hiding on a shrub, “but I belong to a very old
family, and a very useful one. We were known and appreciated in Asia
more than four thousand years ago. I, too, came from a tiny egg. My body
was black, covered by stiff hairs, and of course I was hungry. I liked
best the leaf of the mulberry tree, and I ate so much I had to change my
dress often, as all caterpillars do. They all get too big for their
skins, and that is what I did, but, finally, I lost my appetite, and I
knew the time had come for me to spin my silken cradle. And now I may
boast with good reason, for I am the true silkworm. My cocoon is spun in
one thread a _quarter of a mile long_.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Cecropia. “I should like to know how you measured
it.”
“I haven’t measured it,” the silkworm answered, “but the wise men have.
Not my particular cocoon, you understand, but those of our family, and
they are said to average that. They are very pretty too, these cocoons.
I suppose you have all seen them? I was nine days making mine, and three
days after that I cast off my baby clothes and went to sleep. I was very
weak when I awoke and left my cocoon cradle, but I soon grew stronger
and could walk, for you must know that the family to which I belong is
not in the habit of flying. Its members are homebodies and seldom use
their wings. Many of us, I may say the majority, do not live to be
moths, for our cocoons are so precious, because of the long silk thread,
that the larvæ are killed before they come out.”
“Why?” said Ruth.
“Because when the larvæ come out they break the thread. And now perhaps
you understand how very useful we are, for all the silks, satins,
ribbons, and velvets in the world are made by us.”
Ruth’s eyes grew wide with astonishment.
“It is a big boast, isn’t it?” said a very small straw-coloured moth,
flitting rapidly about. “It is a true one, though. My children make
cocoons too, and I made one myself, but it was quite unlike a
silkworm’s, and I have an idea we are not considered useful either. I do
not work among the flowers. I belong to the Wool Exchange, at least that
is what somebody said about me once. My eggs will not be laid on a
plant, or any growing thing. I shall choose carpet, or fine cloth, or
something of that sort, and when my babies hatch they will gnaw away the
fibres of the cloth, and eat and eat. Then what they don’t eat they will
use to cover themselves with, binding the threads together with silk
from their own bodies.”
“I know you, anyway,” said Ruth. “You ate my Winter dress full of holes.
At least it was some moths like you.”
“No, my dear, not moths, but their caterpillar babies did the eating.”
“Well, it wasn’t nice, whoever did it,” declared Ruth, with some heat.
“Nice?” repeated Mrs. Clothes Moth. “I suppose it is nice to kill the
silkworm babies and make dresses from their cradles, and nice to do a
lot of other things that I could mention. I guess you had better not
talk.”
Ruth was silent. She felt she had the worst of the argument.
“You must not mind,” whispered a large and beautiful moth whose wings
were of many delicate shades of ash-gray marked with black.
Ruth turned to the speaker.
“You are something like the sphinx moth,” she said.
“Yes. I am a sphinx,” was the answer. “All of us look somewhat alike,
though some are smaller than others, and colours vary. But our wings are
always clear cut, our scales close fitting, and our colours quiet; a
tailormade air about us, as it were. We are sometimes called hawk moths,
because our wings are narrow, long, and strong, and sometimes
hummingbird moths, because we fly at twilight, and poise above a flower
while extracting its honey, just as hummingbirds do.”
“But why are you named the sphinx?” asked Ruth. “You haven’t told me
that.”
“Well, you see, our larvæ have a queer habit of rearing themselves up in
front and remaining in that position, and the wise men thought they
looked something like the old Egyptian Sphinx. There’s a sphinx moth
caterpillar on that tomato vine.”
“He is awful fat and green,” said Ruth. “Can you show me his cocoon?”
Even the larva laughed when Ruth asked this question.
“Dear, dear! what ignorance!” said the moth. “Just put your hand in that
soft earth and take out what is there.”
Ruth obeyed, and presently brought up a dark brown case, pointed at each
end.
“That is our pupa case,” explained the moth, “and in it is wrought our
wonderful transformation. We do not weave cocoons, but the little brown
case holds the same miracle of life and growth.”
“Well, there is just as much life and growth under my old blanket as in
any pupa case, or cocoon, that was ever made.”
The speaker was a hairy caterpillar, chestnut brown in the middle, and
black at each end.
“That’s the woolly bear,” explained the sphinx. “Just pick him up, and
see what will happen.”
“I know,” answered Ruth, but nevertheless she took the little brown
fellow in her hand, whereupon he promptly curled up in a tight ball and
rolled to the ground.
“I will do it every time,” said the caterpillar. “I have been called the
hedge hog because of that cute trick.”
“It _is_ cute,” agreed Ruth, “but what do you mean by your blanket?”
“Oh, as to that, I don’t fool after cocoons, or pupa cases, or the rest
of it. I simply take off my hair when I am ready for my long sleep, and
make it into a blanket, which covers me snugly.”
“But it is a cocoon just the same,” persisted Ruth.
“Well, you may call it what you please, I say it is a blanket. When I
wake from my sleep under it I am no longer a caterpillar, but a moth.”
“Like me,” added a dull yellow moth, spreading her black dotted wings.
“I am the Isabella, if you care to know.”
“So you see,” rejoined the woolly bear, “it really doesn’t matter
whether it is a cocoon, a pupa case, or a blanket which encloses the
glory of our transformation, the marvel of it is just the same.”
Long after they had drifted by, that gay company of butterflies and
moths, Ruth sat thinking of the wonder of it all.
“Didn’t I tell you, Belinda,” she whispered, “didn’t I tell you it was
really living in Fairyland, and now, when we can hear what they say, and
they tell us such interesting things, it is more Fairyland than ever.
The Wind told us to watch and listen, and we will do that. We will watch
and listen with all our might, for oh! Belinda, there is such a lot to
learn yet.”
[Illustration]
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.