One can admire to fullest extent the complicated organism,
wondrous colouring, and miraculous life processes
in the evolution of a moth, but that is all.
Their faces express nothing; their attitudes tell
no story. There is the marvellous instinct through
which the males locate the opposite sex of their species;
but one cannot see instinct in the face of any creature;
it must develop in acts. There is no part of
their lives that makes such pictures of mother-love
as birds and animals afford. The male finds a
mate and disappears. The female places her
eggs and goes out before her caterpillars break their
shells. The caterpillar transforms to the moth
without its consent, the matter in one upbuilding the
other. The entire process is utterly devoid
of sentiment, attachment or volition on the part
of the creatures involved. They work out a
law as inevitable as that which swings suns, moons,
and planets in their courses. They are the
most fragile and beautiful result of natural law
with which I am acquainted.
CHAPTER III The Robin Moth: Cecropia
When only a little child, wandering alone among the
fruits and flowers of our country garden, on a dead
peach limb beside the fence I found it—my
first Cecropia. I was the friend of every bird,
flower, and butterfly. I carried crumbs to
the warblers in the sweetbrier; was lifted for surreptitious
peeps at the hummingbird nesting in the honeysuckle;
sat within a few feet of the robin in the catalpa;
bugged the currant bushes for the phoebe that had
built for years under the roof of the corn bin; and
fed young blackbirds in the hemlock with worms gathered
from the cabbages. I knew how to insinuate
myself into the private life of each bird that homed
on our farm, and they were many, for we valiantly
battled for their protection with every kind of intruder.
There were wrens in the knot holes, chippies in
the fences, thrushes in the brush heaps, bluebirds
in the hollow apple trees, cardinals in the bushes,
tanagers in the saplings, fly-catchers in the trees,
larks in the wheat, bobolinks in the clover, killdeers
beside the creeks, swallows in the chimneys, and martins
under the barn eaves. My love encompassed all
feathered and furred creatures.
Every day visits were paid flowers I cared for most.
I had been taught not to break the garden blooms,
and if a very few of the wild ones were taken, I gathered
them carefully, and explained to the plants that I
wanted them for my mother because she was so ill she
could not come to them any more, and only a few touching
her lips or lying on her pillow helped her to rest,
and made vivid the fields and woods when the pain
was severe.
