Surprises await us at every turn in wood and field if our senses are
sufficiently alert and responsive. I well remember the singular
revelation which rewarded my curiosity upon a certain occasion in my
boyhood, an incident which now seems trivial enough, but which marked
a rare day in my youthful entomological education, and which, as it
relates to an insect of exceptional peculiarity, I may here recall.
I was returning homeward after a successful day of hide-and-seek with
the caterpillars and butterflies and beetles, my well-stored
collecting-box being filled with squirming and creeping specimens, and
my hat brim adorned with a swarm of Idalias, Archippus, yellow
swallow-tails, and other butterflies--the butterfly-net on this
particular occasion being rendered further useless by the occupancy of
a big red adder which I wished to preserve "alive and sissin'." I had
taken a short cut through the woods, and had paused to rest on a
well-known mossy rock. The welcome odors of the woods, the mould, the
dank moss, and the spice-bush lingered about me; and I well remember
the occasional whiff from the fragrant pyrolas somewhere in my
neighborhood, though unseen. It was a very warm day in the middle of
July, and even the busiest efforts of millions of cool, fluttering
leaves of the shadowed woods had barely tempered the languid breeze,
laden as it was with the reminders of the glaring hay-field just
outside its borders.
Among all the various odorous waftings that came to me, I caught a
whiff which was entirely new, and which in its suggestions seemed
strangely out of place here in the woods. What was it like? It
certainly reminded me of _something_ with which my nostril was
familiar, but which I could not now identify. I only knew that it had
no place here in the woods, and even as I sought to take one extra
full sniff for further analysis, it was gone. After the lapse of a few
moments, however, its faint suggestion returned, and, increasing
moment by moment, at length seemed to tincture the air like incense.
It was now so strong as to be pungent, and my wits were keyed to their
utmost, until at length a vision of a banana peel seemed to hover
against the dried leaves. "Some one has been eating a banana here, and
thrown the peel away," thought I. But no, this is hardly the odor of
banana, either; it is more like pineapple. Yes, it _is_ pineapple. No,
that is not quite it either; it is strawberry. "Nonsense. Strawberry
season was passed two weeks ago." And while I am debating the matter
the spice-bush at my elbow has sent out a pungent challenge which has
chased the enchantment all away. The next time it returns in a new
guise, and the only suggestion which it brings is a reminder of my
mother's red leather travelling-bag. Russia-leather? Yes, that is
it--Russia-leather. No. Russia-leather, pineapple, strawberry, and
banana peel mixed.
Whatever it was and wherever it came from I now determined to
discover. The direction of the breeze was soon ascertained, and I
started out to follow up the scent like a hound. I had walked about
ten feet, with my nose tingling, when the odor suddenly left me. I
paused at a large maple-tree, and awaited the trail. It came. This
time it proved to be a hot scent, in truth. I needed only to follow my
nose around the trunk of the tree at my elbow to be brought face to
face with my game. It was no banana peel, nor pineapple, nor
Russia-leather bag, but only a company of beetles sipping in the sun.
A banquet of beetles! There were ten or a dozen of them, congregated
about a hole in the maple trunk, all sipping at a furrow in the bark
from which sap was oozing. At my approach they started to conceal
themselves in the hole, but were most of them captured. They were
about an inch in length, and of a purplish-brown color, and glistened
like bronze.
I took my prizes home, and determined to announce my great discovery
to the world in an early issue of some scientific paper, fully assured
that I had made a "great find." Before accomplishing this purpose,
however, I thought I would consult my "oracle," "Harris's Insects
Injurious to Vegetation"--a most beautiful and valuable entomological
work, by-the-way, which should be in every boy's library. There, on
page forty-two, behold my odorous specimen, true to life! And what
does Harris say about him? "They are nocturnal insects, and conceal
themselves through the day in the crevices and hollows of trees, where
they feed upon the sap that flows from the bark. They have the odor of
Russia-leather, and give this out so powerfully that their presence
can be detected by the scent alone at the distance of two or three
yards from the place of their retreat. This strong smell suggested the
name Osmoderma, 'scented skin,' given to these beetles by the French
naturalists."
"Nocturnal" they may be, but that they are diurnal also I have many
times proved. Almost any hot sunny day I am even now sure of my
specimen upon a certain oozy cherry trunk near by, the presence even
of one beetle being distinctly announced at a distance of ten feet.
There are two common species of these beetles, the present insect
being the _Osmoderma scabei_, as given by Harris.