John Brown lives a mile north of our village, in the little hamlet
of Ceylon. Like his illustrious predecessor of the same name he is
willing to do something for other people. Mr. Brown owns a large
farm, that for a long distance borders the Wabash River where it is
at its best, and always the cameras and I have the freedom of his
premises.
On the east side of the village, about half its length, swings a
big gate, that opens into a long country lane. It leads between
fields of wheat and corn to a stretch of woods pasture, lying on a
hillside, that ends at the river. This covers many acres, most of
the trees have been cut; the land rises gradually to a crest, that
is crowned by a straggling old snake fence, velvety black in
places, grey with lint in others, and liberally decorated its
entire length with lichens, in every shade of grey and green.
Its corners are filled with wild flowers, ferns, gooseberries,
raspberries, black and red haw, papaw, wild grapevines, and trees
of all varieties. Across the fence a sumac covered embankment
falls precipitately to the Wabash, where it sweeps around a great
curve at Horseshoe Bend. The bed is stone and gravel, the water
flows shallow and pure in the sunlight, and mallows and willows
fringe the banks.
Beside this stretch of river most of one summer was spent, because
there were two broods of cardinals, whose acquaintance I was
cultivating, raised in those sumacs. The place was very secluded,
as the water was not deep enough for fishing or swimming. On days
when the cardinals were contrary, or to do the birds justice, when
they had experiences with an owl the previous night, or with a
hawk in the morning, and were restless or unduly excited, much
grist for my camera could be found on the river banks.
These were the most beautiful anywhere in my locality. The hum of
busy life was incessant. From the top twig of the giant sycamore
in Rainbow Bottom, the father of the cardinal flock hourly
challenged all creation to contest his right to one particular
sumac. The cardinals were the attraction there; across the fence
where the hill sloped the length of the pasture to the lane, lures
were many and imperative. Despite a few large trees, compelling
right to life by their majesty, that hillside was open pasture,
where the sunshine streamed all day long. Wild roses clambered
over stumps of fallen monarchs, and scrub oak sheltered resting
sheep. As it swept to the crest, the hillside was thickly dotted
with mullein, its pale yellow-green leaves spreading over the grass,
and its spiral of canary-coloured bloom stiffly upstanding. There
were thistles, the big, rank, richly growing, kind, that browsing
cattle and sheep circled widely.
Very beautiful were these frosted thistles, with their large,
widespreading base leaves, each spine needle-tipped, their uplifted
heads of delicate purple bloom, and their floating globes of silken
down, with a seed in their hearts. No wonder artists have painted
them, decorators conventionalized them; even potters could not pass
by their artistic merit, for I remembered that in a china closet at
home there were Belleck cups moulded in the shape of a thistle head.
Experience had taught me how the appreciate this plant. There
was a chewink in the Stanley woods, that brought off a brood of four,
under the safe shelter of a rank thistle leaf, in the midst of
trampling herds of cattle driven wild by flies. There was a ground
sparrow near the Hale sand pit, covered by a base leaf of another
thistle, and beneath a third on Bob's lease, I had made a study of
an exquisite nest. Protection from the rank leaves was not all the
birds sought of these plants, for goldfinches were darting around
inviting all creation to "See me?" as they gathered the silken
down for nest lining. Over the sweetly perfumed purple heads, the
humming-birds held high carnival on Sunshine Hillside all the day.
The honey and bumble bees fled at the birds' approach, but what
were these others, numerous everywhere, that clung to the blooms,
greedily thrusting their red noses between the petals, and giving
place to nothing else?
For days as I passed among them, I thought them huge bees. The
bright colouring of their golden olive-green, and red-wine striped
bodies had attracted me in passing. Then one of them approached a
thistle head opposite me in such a way its antennae and the long
tongue it thrust into the bloom could be seen. That proved it was
not a bee, and punishment did not await any one who touched it.
There were so many that with one sweep of the net two were captured.
They were examined to my satisfaction and astonishment. They were
moths! Truly moths, feeding in the brilliant sunshine all the day;
bearing a degree of light and heat I never had known any other moth
to endure. Talk about exquisite creatures! These little day moths,
not much larger than the largest bumble bees, had some of their
gaudiest competitors of moonlight and darkness outdone.
The head was small and pointed, with big eyes, a long tongue,
clubbed antennae, and a blood-red nose. The thorax above was
covered with long, silky, olive-green hair; the top of the abdomen
had half an inch band of warm tan colour, then a quarter of an inch
band of velvety red wine, then a band nearer the olive of the
shoulders. The males had claspers covered with small red-wine
feathers tan tipped. The thorax was cream-coloured below and the
under side of the abdomen red wine crossed with cream-coloured
lines at each segment.
The front wings had the usual long, silky hairs. They were of
olive-green shading into red, at the base, the costa was red, and
an escalloped band of red bordered them. The intervening space was
transparent like thinnest isinglass, and crossed with fine red
veins. The back wings were the same, only the hairs at the base
were lighter red, and the band at the edge deeper in colour.
The head of the male seemed sharper, the shoulders stronger olive,
the wings more pointed at the apex, where the female's were a
little rounded. The top of the abdomen had the middle band of such
strong red that it threw the same colour over the bands above and
below it; giving to the whole moth a strong red appearance when
on wing. They, were so fascinating the birds were forgotten, and
the hillside hunted for them until a pair were secured to carry
home for identification, before the whistle of the cardinal from
Rainbow Bottom rang so sharply that I remembered this was the day
I had hoped to secure his likeness; and here I was allowing a
little red-nosed moth so to thrust itself upon my attention, that
my cameras were not even set up and focused on the sumac.
This tiny sunshine moth, Hemaris Thysbe, was easy of identification,
and its whole life history before me on the hillside. I was too busy
with the birds to raise many caterpillars, so reference to several
books taught me that they all agreed on the main points of Hemaris
history.
Hemaris means 'bloody nose.' 'Bloody nose' on account of the
red first noticed on the face, though some writers called them
'Clear wings,' because of the transparent spaces on the wings.
Certainly 'clear wings' is a most appropriate and poetic name for
this moth. Fastidious people will undoubtedly prefer it for
common usage. For myself, I always think of the delicate, gaudy
little creature, greedily thrusting its blood-red nose into the
purple thistle blooms; so to my thought it returns as 'bloody
nose.'
The pairs mate early after emerging, and lay about two hundred
small eggs to the female, from which the caterpillars soon hatch,
and begin their succession of moults. One writer gave black haw
and snowball as their favourite foods, and the length of the
caterpillar when full grown nearly two inches. They are either
a light brown with yellow markings, or green with yellow; all of
them have white granules on the body, and a blue-black horn with
a yellow base. They spin among the leaves on the ground, and the
pupa, while small, is shaped like Regalis, except that it has a
sharper point at each end, and more prominent wing shields. It
has no raised tongue case, although it belongs to the family of
'long tongues.'
On learning all I could acquire by experience with these moths,
and what the books had to teach, I became their warm admirer. One
sunny morning climbing the hill on the way to the cardinals, with
fresh plates in my cameras, and high hopes in my heart, I passed
an unsually large fine thistle, with half a dozen Thysbe moths
fluttering over it as if nearly crazed with fragrance, or honey
they were sipping.
"Come here! Come here! Come here!" intoned the cardinal, from
the sycamore of Rainbow Bottom.
"Just you wait a second, old fellow!" I heard myself answering.
Scarcely realizing what I was doing, the tripod was set up, the
best camera taken out, and focused on that thistle head. The
moths paid no attention to bees, butterflies, or humming-birds
visiting the thistle, but this was too formidable, and by the
time the choicest heads were in focus, all the little red fellows
had darted to another plant. If the camera was moved there, they
would change again, so I sat in the shade of a clump of papaws to
wait and see if they would not grow accustomed to it.
They kept me longer than I had expected, and the chances are I
would have answered the cardinal's call, and gone to the river,
had it not been for the interest found in watching a beautiful grey
squirrel that homed in an ivy-covered stump in the pasture. He
seemed to have much business on the fence at the hilltop, and raced
back and forth to it repeatedly. He carried something, I could not
always tell what, but at times it was green haws. Once he came
with no food, and at such a headlong run that he almost turned
somersaults as he scampered up the tree.
For a long time he was quiet, then he cautiously peeped out.
After a while he ventured to the ground, raced to a dead stump,
and sitting on it, barked and scolded with all his might. Then he
darted home again. When he had repeated this performance several
times, the idea became apparent. There was some danger to be
defied in Rainbow Bottom, but not a sound must be made from his home.
The bark of a dog hurried me to the fence in time to see some hunters
passing in the bottom, but I thanked mercy they were on the
opposite side of the river and it was not probable they would
wade, so my birds would not be disturbed. When the squirrel felt
that he must bark and chatter, or burst with tense emotions, he
discreetly left his mate and nest. I did some serious thinking on
the 'instinct' question. He might choose a hollow log for his
home by instinct, or eat certain foods because hunger urged him,
but could instinct teach him not to make a sound where his young
family lay? Without a doubt, for this same reason, the cardinal
sang from every tree and bush around Horseshoe Bend, save the
sumac where his mate hovered their young.
The matter presented itself in this way. The squirrel has feet,
and he runs with them. He has teeth, and he eats with them. He
has lungs, and he breathes with them. Every organ of his interior
has its purpose, and is used to fulfil it. His big, prominent eyes
come from long residence in dark hollows. His bushy tail helps
him in long jumps from tree to tree. Every part of his anatomy is
created, designed and used to serve some purpose, save only his
brain, the most complex and complicated part of him. Its only use
and purpose is to form one small 'tidbit' for the palate of the
epicure! Like Sir Francis, who preached a sermon to the birds,
I found me delivering myself of a lecture to the squirrels, birds,
and moths of Sunshine Hill. The final summing up was, that the
squirrel used his feet, teeth, eyes and tail; that could be seen
easily, and by his actions it could be seen just as clearly that
he used his brain also.
There was not a Thysbe in front of the lens, so picking up a long
cudgel I always carry afield, and going quietly to surrounding
thistles, I jarred them lightly with it, and began rounding up the
Hemaris family in the direction of the camera. The trick was a
complete success. Soon I had an exposure on two. After they had
faced the camera once, and experienced no injury, like the birds,
they accepted it as part of the landscape. The work was so
fascinating, and the pictures on the ground glass so worth while,
that before I realized what I was doing, half a dozen large plates
were gone, and for this reason, work with the cardinals that day
ended at noon. This is why I feel that at times in bird work the
moths literally 'thrust themselves' upon me.