Produced by Geoffrey Cowling
[Updater's note: this etext refers to "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table",
by Oliver Wendell Holmes, and "A Girl of the Limberlost", by Gene
Stratton-Porter. Both books are in the Project Gutenberg collection.]
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.
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 millions 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.