early in July, while the light was sufficiently strong
that a printable picture could be had by intensifying
the plate, and one good time exposure as a Celeus,
with half-folded wings, clambered over a hollyhock,
possibly hunting a spot on which to deposit an egg
or two. The hollyhock painting of this chapter
is from this study. The flowers were easy but
it required a second trial to do justice to the complicated
markings of the moth.
This evening lover and strong flyer, with its swallow-like
sweep of wing, comes into the colour schemes of nature
with the otter, that at rare times thrusts a sleek
grey head from the river, with the grey-brown cotton-tails
that bound across the stubble, and the coots that
herald dawn in the marshes. Exactly the shades,
and almost the markings ofits wings can be found on
very old rail fences. This lint shows lighter
colour, and even grey when used in the house building
of wasps and orioles, but I know places in the country
where I could carve an almost perfectly shaded Celeus
wing from a weather-beaten old snake fence rail.
Celeus visits many flowers, almost all of the trumpet-shaped
ones, in fact, but if I were an artist I scarcely
would think it right to paint a hollyhock without
putting King Celeus somewhere in the picture, poised
on his throne of air before a perfect bloom as he feasts
on pollen and honey. The holly-hock is a kingly
flower, with its regally lifted heads of bright bloom,
and that the king of moths should show his preference
for it seems eminently fitting, so we of the Cabin
named him King of the Hollyhocks.
CHAPTER VIII Hera of the Corn: Hyperchira Io
At the same time he gave me the Eacles Imperialis
moths, Mr. Eisen presented me with a pair of Hyperchiria
Io. They were nicely mounted on the black velvet
lining of a large case in my room, but I did not care
for them in the least. A picture I would use
could not be made from dead, dried specimens, and
history learned from books is not worth knowing, in
comparison with going afield and threshing it out for
yourself in your own way. Because the Io was
yellow, I wanted it— more than several
specimens I had not found as yet, for yellow, be it
on the face of a flower, on the breast of a bird,
or in the gold of sunshine, always warms the depths
of my heart.
One night in June, sitting with a party of friends
in the library, a shadow seemed to sweep across a
large window in front. I glanced up, and arose
with a cry that must have made those present doubt
my sanity. A perfect and beautiful Io was
walking leisurely across the glass.
“A moth!” I cried. “I have
none like it! Deacon, get the net!”
I caught a hat from the couch, and ran to the veranda.
The Deacon followed with the net.
“I was afraid to wait,” I explained.
“Please bring a piece of pasteboard, the size
of this brim.’
