Several years ago, Mr. A. Eisen, a German, of Coldwater,
Michigan, who devotes his leisure to collecting moths,
gave me as pinned specimens a pair of Eacles Imperialis,
and their full life history. Any intimate friend
of mine can testify that yellow is my favourite colour,
with shades of lavender running into purple, second
choice. When I found a yellow moth, liberally
decorated with lavender, the combination was irresistible.
Mr. Eisen said the mounted specimens were faded;
but the living moths were beautiful beyond description.
Naturally I coveted life.
I was very particular to secure the history of the
caterpillars and their favourite foods. I learned
from Mr. Eisen that they were all of the same shape
and habit, but some of them might be green, with cream-coloured
heads and feet, and black face lines, the body covered
sparsely with long hairs; or they might be brown,
with markings of darker brown and black with white
hairs; but they would be at least three inches long
when full grown, and would have a queer habit of
rearing and drawing leaves to their mouths when feeding.
I was told I would find them in August, on leaves
of spruce, pine, cherry, birch, alder, sycamore,
elm, or maple; that they pupated in the ground; and
the moths were common, especially around lights in
city parks, and at street crossings.
Coming from a drive one rare June evening, I found
Mr. William Pettis, a shooter of oil wells, whom I
frequently met while at my work, sitting on the veranda
in an animated business discussion with the Deacon.
“I brought you a pair of big moths that I found
this morning on some bushes beside the road,”
said Mr. Pettis. “I went to give Mr. Porter
a peep to see if he thought you’d want them,
and they both got away. He was quicker than
I, and caught the larger one, but mine sailed over
the top of that tree.” He indicated an
elm not far away.
“Did you know them?” I asked the Deacon.
“No,” he answered. “You have
none of the kind. They are big as birds and
a beautiful yellow.’
“Yellow!” No doubt I was unduly emphatic.
“Yellow! Didn’t you know better
than to open a box with moths in it outdoors at night?”
“It was my fault,” interposed Mr. Pettis.
“He told me not to open the box, but I had
shown them a dozen times to-day and they never moved.
I didn’t think about night being their time
to fly. I am very sorry.”
So was I. Sorry enough to have cried, but I tried
my best to conceal it. Anyway, it might be Io,
and I had that. On going inside to examine the
moth, I found a large female Eacles Imperialis, with
not a scale of down misplaced. Even by gas light
I could see that the yellow of the living moth was
a warm canary colour, and the lavender of the mounted
specimen closer heliotrope on the living, for there
were pinkish tints that had faded from the pinned
moth.
