One beautiful day last May my mother laid a tiny green egg on the under
side of a leaf on a milkweed plant. I know that its color was green and
that it was laid on the back of the leaf because Mother Milkweed
Butterfly did not want any fly or worm to eat me up, so she made its
green like the leaf and hid it away in a safe place. There I rested
quietly within the egg for about four days, when I burst open the shell
to see what was out in the world.
I shook myself and found that I could crawl. I was also very hungry. I
had come out a green caterpillar with a black head. How strange that
was! Now I expected to be a butterfly with wings to sail through the
air. Never mind, I thought, if I am a caterpillar I must do all that a
caterpillar ought to do, and not make a fuss because I am not a handsome
butterfly.
The first thing a caterpillar has to do is to eat his eggshell so that
the ichneumon fly—the fellow is an enemy to my family—will not be able
to find any traces of him on the leaf. Where did I learn that? I think
Mother B. must have folded that thought in the eggshell, for it came out
with me. After doing that duty I was so hungry that I ate the leaf on
which I found myself, all day long and far into the night. Then I curled
up and went to sleep feeling very quiet and comfortable.
When I awakened the sun was up. I was warm and hungry, so I began to eat
again. Suddenly I heard a buzzing noise overhead. Oh, dear me! I was
frightened and kept perfectly still, for I thought it was that miserable
fly after me, but it proved to be only a jolly bumble-bee, and I went on
eating.
After several days of this life—eating, and watching for
enemies—something happened. I suppose that I had eaten so much milkweed
that my skin got too tight to hold me, for it felt very uncomfortable
and then began to crack. I had spun a little silk on the leaf to get a
better foot-hold and remained very quiet for I did not feel like moving.
I stretched my head a little, after awhile, and the old head-case came
off, falling to the ground. Then I made violent exertions, or movements,
with the muscles of my body, and finally the old skin came off. I was
very much fatigued and was quiescent, not caring to stir, for several
hours. I thought of the fly too, that might sting me now while my new
jacket was soft, and that kept me still also. When it became harder I
had to eat up the old one, and then was hungry as ever.
Eat! Why I did nothing for about four weeks but devour milkweed, keep a
watch out for enemies and grow too big for my jacket. I moulted four
times in all, and at the end you should have seen me. My body was
striped yellow, black and green, and was nearly two inches long. My head
was black-banded; my face yellow with two parallel black bows, and I had
two pairs of long slender, flexible filaments, like a hair, on my body.
I had grown so large and strong that I wanted to see more of the world.
I crawled off my leaf, down the stalk of the plant onto the ground. What
a queer sensation it was, to be sure, to feel the grass and the ground!
There was a rail-fence near my old home. I began to feel very weary and
sleepy. I crept cautiously along until I reached the fence; crawled up
to next the top rail and under it to rest awhile. My, how tired I was! I
did not want anything to eat. I did not care to move, nor to speak. I
caught hold of the rail and hung there for about twelve days.
I have learned since, that I was a chrysalis and was a beautiful object
of emerald green, with gold and black dots. I was fastened to the
fence-rail by a slender shining black peduncle, or stem. Nothing
disturbed me, and on the eleventh day the bright green disappeared, the
golden spots faded, and on the twelfth day I burst open the shell of the
chrysalis, found that I had wings and sailed away through the air. How
delightful! So much easier than crawling. At last I was a butterfly.
This is what patience and perseverance does for the “ugly duckling,” at
least that is what a friend on the milkweed leaf told me one day.
I saw another butterfly a short distance ahead of me having the same
colors I had—yellow and black with white dots on the wings—and I flew
faster to catch up with her. She was very beautiful and knew more of the
world than I did, therefore I determined to keep close to her. I found
her very modest and unassuming. She made me feel as if I knew it all,
and that is the chief qualification that even a butterfly wants in a
wife. After a little hesitation I asked her to be my mate. She said she
would, and away we raced in the sunshine to a field of clover. She
showed me how to get honey out of the flowers with my tongue, which is
like a watch-spring coiled up in the lower part of my head. When I am
excited in probing to the bottom of a flower it uncoils and half coils
again, “acting like a little force-pump” to bring up the juice of the
flower.
My mate and I had a jolly time flying over the clover-field, where we
met more of our family, the milkweed butterflies, and others. The
flowers we like best are the clover, milkweed, goldenrod, thistle and
phlox.
I soon discovered that birds and insects did not trouble us much,
because we do not suit their appetites. They say that we taste bitter
and disagreeable, like the milkweed, so they seldom disturb us, and we
lead a happy-go-lucky life. We often spread our wings wide and float
along in the air with little fear of foes. They see our colors—yellow
and black, the badge of the milkweed butterfly—and off they go seeking a
choicer tidbit.
Whenever there is a heavy wind storm I fly out to battle with it. What
fun to have the angry wind hurl you back—only to get your wings
fluttering again, and flying a distance to meet another fling! It is
great sport.
I must tell you of something that happened to my mate one day. She was
flying near a piazza where there were some phlox plants. She darted down
towards them, keeping an eye out on a sparrow that had been flying after
her, when her right wing caught in a spider-web that was in the piazza
rail. She fluttered and fluttered, frightening the spider out of his
web, until she got her wing loose; but it was not so strong after that,
as a little piece was torn off.
I saw some beautiful flowers lying on a table on the same piazza soon
afterwards and, as no one was out there, winged down on them. Queer:
they had no honey in them. A little girl in the window exclaimed, “Oh,
sister! a butterfly is on our paper flowers.”
Then a boy sprang out with a hat in his hand and I flew quickly away. My
mate and I were so terrified that we did not go near that piazza again.
The lovely warm summer passed very soon and I had such a happy time that
I was sorry when our family flocked together and began to talk of going
South in September. We held our meetings on the underside of the
branches of trees and, perhaps, some of you saw us there.
Oh! the life of a butterfly is sweet, and there is just enough
excitement in keeping out of the reach of enemies to make the struggle
for existence interesting.