Nature Reader:

Butterflies & Moths

Butterfly House.

A great party of caterpillars together on a

tree in Mexico determined to build themselves
a house. Nature taught them how to do it.
They began by spinning a silk web about a
twig that descended from a large branch. This
done, they constructed their walls, spinning
and weaving the silk as they proceeded, not
building upward, as men do, but downward
from the roof.

The walls of the house were constructed of

silk, so closely woven that they seemed made
of parchment, and the whole habitation when
finished was shaped like a bottle. The only
opening in the house consisted of a circular
door at the bottom. Through this door the
inmates were to escape when the proper day
came for them to do so. Before this, however,
and waiting for their time, they hung
themselves up on the wall by their tails and
entered the pupae state, which, you know,
caterpillars do by changing their skins and
becoming pupse or chrysalids.

The little door was too small to allow the

butterflies to escape after their wings had expanded and dried, so that they had to be
careful to get out while they were yet moist and flexible. Before this happened,
however, a gentleman saw the nest, captured it, and carried it away with him to
England, where it now is in the museum at Oxford, together with specimens of the sort
of butterfly that builds such nests.

From Curious Homes and Their Tenants by James Carter Beard

 Wings of Gossamer and Gold.
"On the crimson cloth
Of my study-desk,
A lustrous moth
Poised, statuesque.
Of a waxen mold
Were its tight limbs shaped,
And in scales of gold
Its body was draped ;
While its delicate wings
Were netted and veined
With silvery strings,
Or golden grained,
Through whose filmy maze
In tremulous flight
Danced quivering rays
Of the gladsome light."

1. BUTTERFLIES and moths, because they are so light and airy, have been called "winged
thoughts." Their beauty is all that the poet sees in them, and all that we, who are not
poets, usually see. This beauty charms us, as it should; but it also misleads us. Nearly
everybody gives the butterfly a chance of life, because she is beautiful, while less
attractive insects are stepped upon because they appear disgusting. This is unjust to the
butterfly, as well as to their companions, and unjust to ourselves. Our treatment of
insects is a mistaken one, because we know so little about them. We must walk into
their world, and find out what they are, and what they do. We must know who among
them are, and who are not, our true friends.

2. Butterflies and moths are insects; but what are insects? Feel of one, and see how
hard and often shiny is its body. They wear their skeletons on the outside, while birds,
snakes, and fishes carry their skeletons inside their bodies. The insect has no real bones,
but it has a head, a thorax, or chest, and a body, or abdomen, each protected by a case,
and connected with the other parts by a movable joint. Joined to the thorax, it has six
legs, and usually four wings.
 3. The mouth of insects contains jaws that work toward each other horizontally,
instead of up and down, as in the dog or horse. Some of them, like the cockroach and
grasshopper, have jaws for crushing and chewing, and they trouble us by chewing too
much. The mouth of others, like the butterfly, that sucks sweet juices from flowers, has
softer jaws. And the under lip is turned into a tube, which, in some, rolls up, and, when
unrolled, is long enough to reach to the calyx of a deep flower. From the sides of the
mouth run out long feelers, or antennae, which carry the sense of touch; though insects
have some power of feeling in their lips and feet.

4. For breathing, the insect has holes nearly all over the whole body; and tubes
connect these holes with the living organs within. But the most wonderful thing of all
about them is the change of form through which they pass. First is the , egg; then the
living thing that is hatched from the egg, which is called the larva, or caterpillar; then
the pupa, or chrysalis, in which the larva is wrapped up like a baby in its blanket; and,
last out of the pupa, the perfect insect. Like birds, insects live in the air, the earth, and
the water.

5. Those of showy wings are grouped together. They are called scale-winged. You
have noticed a fine dust, or bloom, on the wing of the butterfly, which is easily rubbed
off. Under the microscope these patches of dust prove to be scales, and they give to the
wing its colored and metallic hues. And, what is still more curious, these fine particles
have the form of perfect scales, and they lap over one on the other like the scales of a
fish. So, the butterfly, by its wings and its scales, is cousin to both birds and fishes.

6. Now for the difference between butterflies and moths. Butterflies are on the wing
in the day-time, while moths fly at night. The antennae of the former end in knots or
clubs; those of the latter are pointed. When at rest, the butterfly erects its wings on its
back unfolded; the moth folds its wings lengthwise, like a fan. The beauty of the wing
often serves for a protection; when laid back or folded, the insect can scarcely be
distinguished from the flower or leaf on which it has alighted.

7. Butterflies among insects are what hummingbirds are among feathered beings.
Sporting their bright colors in the sunlight, and gamboling from flower to flower,
sipping sweet juices, they live but a few weeks. So, they have been thought to picture a
vain life of ease and show that ends in nothing. This is all wrong. Mrs. Butterfly is a
great worker. She is serious and earnest, as much so as any robin or blue-bird that
builds a nest and cares for its young. Her beautiful dress is her protection. As long as
she is admired, she will escape harm: and that is just what she wants, while she is busy
as a bee hunting nests for her eggs, and providing for her young when born. 8. And this
gay Mrs. Butterfly, while she seems to be airing her fine clothes for the benefit of
admiring eyes, is all the time, with the industry and affection of a real mother,
providing, it may be, for a future brood of destroyers. Look at the crawling green or
hairy caterpillars: these are the dear children of the beautiful Mrs. Butterfly. When you
are gazing at these infants, the mother, perhaps, has gone to her grave. Life with her
was a great success. A dozen boys tried to catch her with their hats, but failed. Little
girls praised her beauty and said sweet things about her, but never thought of doing her
harm—least of all that she might be doing harm.
 9. In the garden she was fluttering about, and with white wings, bordered and tinged
with black, she was wantonly skipping from flower to flower. Little children pursued
her, and the gardener cautioned them not to kill the delicate little creatures. To-day,
perhaps, the gardener is hunting over his cabbage for the little creepers that are robbing
him of the fruit of his labor, wondering where the wicked pests come from. And the
little girl is asking her mother to brush the horrid creature from her neck. Yet, while
they were admiring the beauty of Mrs. Butterfly, she was slyly making nests for her
ugly and destructive children in the gardener's cabbages. Her scheme worked well.
Fifty robber caterpillars now rise up and call their mother blessed.

10. So, there are busy hands at work early in the summer-day trying to find the great
green caterpillar, that strips the plants of
tobacco, potato, or tomato. It did not occur to
the heads that bend over those hands that they
had possibly met the mother of these detested
worms. She was so beautiful, with wings
extended four inches, delicate as gossamer, and
glorious in colors of brown, yellow, and black.
This was Mrs. Moth, or Mrs. Hawk - Moth. She
was too beautiful to kill; yet she was the mother
of at least sixty of those destructive infants. She
was cunning. She produced just the impression
she intended. How much easier to destroy the
mother than to hunt for her sixty children!

11. The peacock-butterfly, however, may live, and display to admiring eyes its wings
of russet brown and black, each adorned with the mark of the peacock's tail. The
tortoise-shell butterfly, with wings of yellow and brown, edged with dark bands and
spots, may also live. These please the eye, and their children are harmless. But it is the
duty of Mrs. Cabbage-Butterfly, Mrs. Hawk-Moth, and the more unattractive parents of
cut-worms and cankerworms, to die early; and it is our privilege to help them to die.

12. The way that Mrs. Hawk-Moth, or Mrs. Butterfly, becomes a citizen of the
community of insects reminds us of the way Jack's house was built. Her mother laid the
egg that hatched the caterpillar that turned into the chrysalis that brought forth Mrs.
Hawk-Moth, or Mrs. Butterfly. A cluster of eggs was glued to the underside of a leaf. In
about ten days the hungry infants appeared, each moving on sixteen legs. Lively infants
they were. All the nursing they required was done for them by their mother before they
were born. They are born on a breakfast-table, and begin at once to eat. They continue
to eat. They eat continually. They eat enormously. In one month they eat ten thousand
times their own weight. By and by they grow tired of eating and of life.
 13. Then each caterpillar crawls on the underside of a leaf, and spins from its mouth a
tuft of silk, with which its hind legs are fastened to the leaf. Here it hangs, head
downward, and seems to die. In twenty-four hours its rough coat is gone, and in its
place is a long case like an acorn, which is often bright-green, and sometimes covered
with dots of gold. For this reason it is called chrysalis, golden. This is the pupa. It lives
on what the caterpillar ate. But soon the green grows purple; the gold turns pale; the
front of the chrysalis opens like the parting of curtains, and out comes the perfect
creature, in robes of gorgeous velvet, with wing of gold.

14. As no artist with color and brush can paint anything so beautiful as the wing of
some butterflies and moths, so, no engineer has ever contrived anything so light and yet
so strong as the four gossamer wings of the dragon-fly. From its long, sharp body,
stretching away out behind its wings, it has acquired a bad name, and is called the
devil's darning-needle. This is a slander, for the dragon-fly is one of our friends. It is a
dashing warrior, and eats everything of the insect kind—flies, gnats, mosquitoes, and
butterflies. This fact should warm our sympathies toward the dragon-fly.

15. The life of the dragon-fly is mostly about

the water. In the water it deposits its eggs. Here
the larvae are hatched. They are greedy eaters,
and live in this state for about a year. Then they
crawl up the bank, perhaps climb a bush, and
become pupas, not inactive, like the chrysalis of
the butterfly, but eating all insects that come in
their way. When the pupa is complete, it seizes
a twig, and swings back and forth until an
opening is made. Then the perfect insect, in
tints of white, scarlet, blue, and green, comes
forth, and is an object of great beauty.

From Some Curious Flyers, Creepers and Swimmers by

James Johonnot (1888)
 The Flower-Fairies.
Where have the fairies gone?
Long ago, you know, there were
plenty of them to be found by
the fortunate, hiding in the
moss, or peeping out of flower-
cups; or putting on invisible
caps, they would play all
manner of pranks on the
mortals that might meet them in
the forest. Sometimes they
would come into farm-houses
on winter evenings, and dance
in the chimney-corner; while in
summer they preferred their
fairy-rings, sporting in the
moonlight, and making the
grass inside the circle greener
than it was anywhere else by
their magic. They built their
elfin homes and lived their elfin
lives, and happy was the mortal
who gained their favor.

But we do not hear so much about the fairies now. Perhaps we have grown too wise,
or perhaps, again, we have not grown wise enough. Either way, people have fallen into
a fashion of laughing at fairies; and no doubt that is the very reason they will not let us
see them anymore, for they do not like to be treated so disrespectfully. But, after all,
have the fairies all gone away? Do we never see them—the Good People of old English
traditions, the Little People that the Indians believed in? Fairy-land, you know, is a
curious place; it is hard to tell just where it begins and where it ends, and people may
walk right through it without knowing it, if the great Fairy Queen does not choose to let
them into her secrets. Besides, many people refuse to believe in fairy-land; and though
the queen may bring out one wonder after another to spread before their dull eyes, they
will look at it carelessly, or not look at it at all, and say, "Oh, that is nothing!"

But if you will set out with a firm faith in fairy-land, and a pair of eyes ready to look
at anything the queen may show you, I am quite sure you will find a great many
wonderful things before you get home

Suppose we take a journey into fairy-land now—it is not far away—and see if the Little
People are not as delightful as they were in the days of Puck and Titania. They have a
very great queen to rule them, I must tell you; and though she has different names, the
simplest, and the one you can most easily remember, is Nature. And Queen Nature's
dominions are so large that nobody has ever seen the end of them; so that, instead of its
being a hard matter for us to find fairy-land, it is not very easy to get out of it, unless we
shut ourselves up in the very heart of a city. Even there we see signs of her power in
every crack and crevice, and when we know her better, we shall discover that we can
never quite get away from her and still remain ourselves. Nor must we forget that in
everything she obeys our heavenly Father, who made her and gave her all her power,
and who cares for the tiniest of the Little People, and is glad to have us know and love
them.

Now let us go forth into the sunshine, to find the fairies. It is a very warm July day,
but that is just what the flower-fairies like best; and we shall find plenty of them over in
the pasture, where the blackberries bloom, and the butterfly-weed hangs out its clusters
of bright orange-colored flowers. The common milkweed blossoms look quite dull by
the side of their gay cousins, and we can see that the flower-fairies like the brilliant ones
better, for they are fluttering over them by the score, on golden wings.

"Why, these are butterflies!"

Oh, yes, that is what we have come to look for. And if they are not the most wonderful
of the Little People, they are the prettiest and gayest, and their life passes like a
midsummer dream. Just see this large one,* that has come on four great orange-colored
wings, marked with velvety black, to flutter over the flowers, no brighter than itself. It
must measure nearly three inches across the wings. See it uncoil that long, black tongue,
looking like a horse-hair, that has been curled up and tucked away in a little pocket
until now. How easily it dips into one flower after another, sipping the honey from the
red-gold horns, just a little here and there. Evidently Archippus is not very hungry to-
day. Perhaps he has been dining more heartily in the garden yonder, and is only taking
a dainty little dessert from his favorite butterfly-weed.

As he floats so lightly over the milk-weed plants, I wonder if he remembers when he

lived there before, crawling slowly over their stems, and nibbling their thick leaves.
Queen Nature has caused a very wonderful change in his life and fortunes since that
time, and yet he does not seem to think much about it as he flies through the sunshine. I
fear he thinks more of sunshine than anything else, but as he flies away we will examine
the milk-weed, and try to find some of his relations.

Can this slow-moving, striped caterpillar be any kin to our bright-winged butterfly in
the summer air above? Watch him as he crawls clumsily along on his sixteen short feet,
greedily munching the leaves as he goes, with the keen jaws that work sideways, like a
pair of scissors. How different from the butterfly's airy flight; his long, graceful
proboscis, or trunk, through which he takes his dainty fare of honey and dew; his small
body and brilliant wings! To be sure, the caterpillar is rather handsome in his way; he is
round and smooth, with lines of black, gold, white, and violet, running around his
body. Yet his beauty is quite unlike that of the butterfly, and I am sure only Queen
Nature's magic wand could work such a wonderful change as that which is to come
over him before the summer dies.

What feeling does young Archippus have, that tells him his change is near, his existence
as a crawling caterpillar will soon end, and that he must prepare for the great event of
his life? That is a secret Queen Nature has not told us. We do not know how the
caterpillar feels, but we can see what he does.

First he loses his appetite and crawls about languidly, then leaves the milk-weed on
which he has lived and fed ever since he came out of the egg, and seeks a sheltered spot
in which to pass through his strange experience. Sometimes he finds a twig or leaf,
sometimes a fence rail, and to this he hangs, fastening himself by spinning some sticky
threads that soon harden into a tuft of silk. There he swings, head downward, his poor
little feet curling up helplessly, and his striped body swaying in the wind—hangs there
all night, perhaps, without change; but at last he begins to stir. His pretty skin ' cracks
right open down the back—but that, indeed, he is used to; for he has lost it several times
before, and always found that a new one had grown underneath. But this time, instead
of coming out dressed in a fresh new caterpillar-skin, he creeps forth a strange-looking
green object, without feet, without head, without wings, and can only cling feebly to the
skin he has just pushed off, and which still hangs to the fence-rail.

What has he to cling with, you ask, if he has neither head nor feet? Well, part of his
body is formed of rings, one within the other, like a travelling cup or a tiny telescope,
and looking as if they would shut tip every minute. They do not; but with their
overlapping edges the chrysalis, as he is now called, can catch the caterpillar-skin, and
actually climb to the very top, where he hangs himself again to the silken tuft by a little
hook at the end of his body. Now he swings free, side by side with his own old skin; but
the latter does not stay there long. The chrysalis squirms about vigorously till he pushes
it off, and it drops shriveled to the ground; and then he quiets down and settles himself
for a nap of two weeks.

Now the fairy queen must take care of him; for he is quite helpless, and so still you
would never think him to be alive. He is rather a pretty little creature, bright green, with
shining golden dots here and there; but as time passes the color fades, and through his
horny skin can be seen faint marks and dots that remind us of a butterfly's wings. Yes,
Queen Nature is doing her part; and when the two weeks are at an end, the chrysalis
skin cracks open, and out crawls a feeble creature, with six long black legs, and a long
black trunk or proboscis, a small body, big eyes, slender feelers, and four crumpled
brownish wings. He doesn't look much like the gay butterfly we saw flying over the
flowers, but remember what a tiny place he has been shut up in—for the chrysalis is
only an inch long—and his wings have been folded so tightly it will take him some time
to get them wide open. Besides, he is very weak after his long imprisonment, and must
rest a while, letting the warm air blow over him and the sun shine upon him, giving
him strength. And now he moves his damp wings, raises them, waves them about.
Slowly they unfold, slowly stretch larger and larger, till they spread out like four orange
sails; and when they are quite dry, they carry the happy butterfly away over the sunny
fields, to revel in the flowers over which he once crawled so patiently. Did Cinderella's
fairy godmother, when she changed the rats into horses, do anything more wonderful
than the fairy Nature has done in changing a caterpillar into a butterfly?

Now let us look about the pasture and see how many different kinds of butterflies we
can find.

We may see an Ephestion butterfly in the orchard, for he is very fond of fruit; and for
this reason is often called a fruit-butterfly, which may be an easier name for you to
remember than his long one. A thievish rogue is he. Not satisfied with the dainty sweets
to be found in the cups of lilies and honeysuckles, he must go off with vagabond wasps
and hornets in search of some ripe peach or pear on which the skin is broken; and how
the winged marauders cluster around such a one, drinking the rich juice that the sun
has been warming for them! When you see a beautiful black butterfly, his hind wings
brushed over with blue, and the under sides spotted with red, flying through the air,
you may know him to be the mischievous Ephestion; who, leaving his daintier
companions to their flower-sipping, is off to the nearest fruit-trees to rob them of their
fullflavored wine.

But we have not noticed that beautiful creature fluttering about the thistles; and as
she and her sisters are related to the butterflies we have been talking about, we really
must pay them some attention. This one is nearly as large as the Archippus, but shaped
a little differently; and while her fore wings are orange, spotted with black, her hind
wings are blue-black, with two rows of creamy dots. Wait till she raises them, and you
will see that the under sides are covered with silvery spots, that glisten in the sunshine.

We may always know Idalia and her sisters by these shining ornaments, for they are
the badge, or mark, of the family; the lovely Aphrodite, with her shaded golden wings,
spreading as widely as the Idalia's, being the one you would notice most readily. But
we have not time to search for her and her smaller sisters, that we would recognize by
their black-spotted orange wings, and the silvery dots beneath; so will go a little nearer
to the thistles, and take a closer look at another butterfly, named Antiopa, who is a
distant relation of the others. Her family name is Vanessa; and you may know them all
by their wings, whose edges are not smoothly rounded, but are rough and jagged as if
they were torn. But the Antiopa is very handsome in her way, with her rich dark
crimson wings, so dark they look almost black, while the cream-colored border is
spotted with light blue. That is she, with outspread wings, in the lower part of the
frontispiece. Do you not remember seeing her in the early spring, before the violets had
dared lift their heads in the woods, flying round and round among the trees in the first
warm sunshine? The Antiopa butterflies we see then are generally very ragged and
shabby, though the tatters do not show so plainly in their jagged wings as they would
in some others; but when we consider it is a last year's dress, it is not surprising that it
looks rather worn out.

The Antiopas flutter, over the last fall flowers ; and when the frosty days come, they
just creep into some little crevice in the barn, or wood-pile, or brush-heap, or any
sheltered place, and there sleep all through the bitter cold of our winter days and
nights. Then when the warmth comes back to earth, and the sun shines very brightly
from the spring sky, out crawls Antiopa, to take a little flight through the trees, and see
if their brown buds are swelling into blossoms and leaves yet.

And what are they like in their caterpillar-days? Did you ever see a great company of
ugly black caterpillars, all over thorns, and spines, and spikes, like the one in the corner
of the frontispiece, crawling on the trees and fences in some country road, or village
street ? When you do, look about you sharply, and you will find some hanging to the
fence-rails with their bodies curled up in the shape of a hook, or a letter J ; and if you
remember the strange thing that befel baby Archippus, you will know what these baby
Antiopas are going to do. For caterpillars are just baby butterflies; even these ugly
creatures, which will grow up into something very different from their present shape, I
am glad to say. Don't be afraid of the black spikes, but look at this one that has pushed
off his caterpillarskin and swings on the fence, a chrysalis. He has not changed so very
much in appearance, for the chrysalis, like the caterpillar, is ugly and thorny; but if you
take it off the rail very gently, and carry it home, by and by the beautiful Antiopa
butterfly will come out, spread its rich wings, and fly away.

All this time, there have been two handsome butterflies dancing over the field, now
hovering about the butterfly-weed, now dipping into the thistles. You must look at the
long tails on their hind wings, for this distinguishes the Papilios from all the others we
have seen to-day, and proves them to be quite a different family. This handsome black
one, with the bright yellow spots on his velvety wings, is called Asterias, which means
starry, and the yellow spots do seem a little like bright stars shining from a midnight
sky. He has his wife with him, and she is a little larger than he, with a good deal of blue
in her hind wings, and fewer yellow spots; yet the caterpillars are all just alike.

When we go back to the garden, we will try to find some in the parsley-bed, for the
young Asterias lives altogether on these feathery green leaves, and his own color is so
nearly like that of the plant that he is hard to find.* You may know him in the picture by
the spotted black bands that cross his body; while the butterfly is nearby, in the corner,
and the chrysalis above them. Did you notice how much the pale body of the Archippus
caterpillar was like the whitish-green leaves of the milk-weed, and how hard it was to
see the rough, dark Antiopas against the bark over which they crawled? This is one of
Queen Nature's wise plans for the safety of the Little People; who might all be devoured
by birds, or captured by naturalists, or killed by thoughtless boys, if they could be
found very easily.

But we have spent a long time in the pasture, and cannot linger to look for any other
Papilios; though Asterias has a good many brothers, who are all so handsome and
strong that they have been called Knights of the air. Perhaps we shall find the beautiful
yellow Turnus in the garden, with his trappings of black, and the handsome, velvety
black Troilus, his hind wings shading into green. All these you will learn to know by
and by, if you watch for them in the sunny summer days. But now we must go through
the pasture bars, down by the elder and swamp-raspberry bushes, till we reach the
road; and here in a shady spot, where the showers have left a small puddle between the
ruts, behold what a merry company! They are fluttering about the muddy little pool,
their dainty golden wings mingling in a butterfly dance, as we startle them ; and now, if
we are very quiet, they will all settle down again on the damp earth, looking as though
somebody had dropped a whole garland of daffodils there. You must know these little
butterflies well, for they may be seen in any country road, generally in groups; for they
are the most social little things in the world, and take no pleasure in long, lonely flights,
like the Knights and Nymphs of the air. The little Philodice finds his enjoyment in the
companionship of his kind; and above all things, delights in a roadside puddle. His
name means lover of the wayside, for he does not care for the dark woods nor the big,
broad fields, though the butterfly-weed does attract him to a pasture sometimes. He
loves the country roads as they wind along, now in the shade of over-arching trees, now
in the bright sunshine, and he brightens them with the flutter of his yellow wings, like
sunbeams. We will not disturb the contented little beings at their innocent revels, but
leave them to cluster about the wayside inn they have established; drinking each other's
health, dancing on golden wings, and forming such a pretty scene that, as we go on, we
wish all social merrymakings were as happy and harmless as those of the little
Philodices.

But all these creatures of the sunshine are not the only flower fairies. There are many
more whose soft wings, marked with less vivid colors, but often more beautiful lines
and shadings, appear only after the sun has gone down, and the dew is falling. Then
their silent flight begins; and as we sit in the twilight, and the sweet breath of the
flowers comes to us through the dimness, we may hear a whir of wings in the still air,
or see a mysterious shape flit by, to vanish like a spirit amid the shadows.

They are kin to the butterflies, after all; and much like them in many ways, though few
of them can boast such brilliant colors. This creature, whose long gray wings are now
humming in the honeysuckles overhead, is not likely to attract attention at any time;
yet, if we could catch him, I think you would admire the delicate tracery on his plain
dress, and the five orange-colored spots on his sides, which ornaments have given him
the name of Five-spotted Hawk-moth.

Now, these hawk-moths are so called, not from any fierce or bloodthirsty traits, for they
are gentle, harmless creatures as one would wish to see; but their wings are so strong
and their flight so swift, that they have been likened to hawks. They are a little different
from other moths that come lazily forth later in the evening, and when you are more
familiar with them you will learn the differences very easily.

Another name for these moths is that of Sphinx and they are so called because in their
babyhood—the caterpillar state, you remember—they have a way of arching the fore
part of their long bodies like the neck of a proud horse, or like that strange monster of
old fables, the Sphinx.

Then have these dim, soft-flitting creatures the same life-history as the gay butterflies?

Yes, all the flower-fairies pass through the same transformations; and our swift-flying
hawk-moth was once a thick, green caterpillar, with cream-white slanting lines on each
side, feeding on a tomato-plant. Did you ever see such a caterpillar in the garden? After
spending the whole summer in this way, what does the Sphinx do but creep into the
ground; where, shedding his green skin, he becomes a hard, brown chrysalis, and lies as
in a grave all winter.

There it sleeps, while the winter storms rage over it, and the snows fall on its grave ; but
with the warm weather comes an awakening stir beneath the soil, the brown skin cracks
open, and the winged thing comes forth to breathe the air once more, fly in the summer
twilight, and sip the sweets from the honeysuckle's graceful vases.

This is the Sphinx's story, which, you see, is a good deal like the butterfly's; and the
great nightmoths that will come along a little later in the evening have, we shall find,
histories much like the others. For all these beautiful flying beings were once ugly,
helpless, crawling things, just as different from their happier full-grown selves as we
are from the angels we are going to be after we have passed through the transformation
we call death, and rise to a brighter world and purer life above. For we do not die any
more than the caterpillars die when they pass into the chrysalis state, and we ought not
to forget this when we have the butterflies and moths flying all summer to remind us of
it.

If we could only see in the dark, we might find many beautiful moths among the
flowers in the garden. We might see hawk-moths whose hind wings are tinged with red
or rose color, and others with olive markings. But there is one Sphinx that we can easily
find some day in the full sunlight; for, though a true hawk-moth, it has imitated the
butterflies' fashion of flying by day, and from the humming of its wings, as it hovers
above the flowers, we call it the humming-bird moth. It is a pretty little thing, and its
wings, instead of being covered thickly with colored scales, like other moths and
butterflies, are almost transparent, like the wings of a bee.

Perhaps you never examined the delicate scales that look like dust when they come off
on the fingers that would hold the frail wing; but if you were to put these dust specks
under a microscope, you would find each one to be a feather, or scale, of strange and
beautiful shape.

And now, as the evening advances, and even the western sky is quite dark, the night
fairies are all astir. Was that a bat whose wings fanned the soft air so near us, or one of
the great Attacus moths, whose size and beauty make them worthy of a high place
among their kind? The most common of these is the giant Cecropia; and the delicate
shades of brown, red, and drab, the four great spots, and the figured border, are too
beautiful for any words to describe. His brother Polyphemus is nearly as handsome;
and though he is named after a giant who had but one eye, our Polyphemus has two
bright ones of his own, and an eye-shaped spot on each yellow-brown wing besides.
The third brother, Prometheus, is smaller, and wears a modest dark-brown suit, with a
light creamy border, and a spot at the tip of each fore-wing; while his wife dresses in a
gayer costume, variegated with dull crimson, and bears on each wing an eye-shaped
spot.

But the prettiest of them all is their graceful sister Luna, named after the moon, in
whose light the artist has represented her to be flying (see initial), and called also "
queen of the night." She is wholly clad in delicate green, her hind wings being
prolonged into long tails of the same hue. No more beautiful fairy could be found; but
Luna moths are not taken very often, and he is fortunate who sees the delicate wings
reflecting the moonlight.

These slow, thick-bodied moths have learned something new. While the butterflies,
who stay in their chrysalides but a short time, leave them exposed to all weathers, and
the Sphinx caterpillars burrow in the ground to spend the winter, the other moths form
a strong covering of silk for their chrysalides, and within this cosy nest, lie without fear
of the coldest winter storm. Now if you can find some large moth-caterpillar wandering
about on a September day, and carry him home in a comfortable, airy box, or basket,
you will see a curious sight.

In the first place, the Attacus caterpillars are very large and handsome, with red, blue,
or gold ornaments on the ridges of their ringed bodies, which are generally green; and
you will not wonder that they turn into large moths. When young Cecropia or
Polyphemus is ready for his winter nap, and has fixed upon a place that suits him, he
does not suspend himself like the butterfly caterpillars, but, holding fast to the support
he has chosen, begins to spin a little sticky silk from his mouth. This is at first like soft
gum, but it quickly dries into delicate threads like a spider's web; and our caterpillar,
fastening one end firmly, draws a long strand across his body, fastening it again on the
other side. Then back goes his head, leaving another long thread; and so on, back and
forth, till his body is covered with a fine silken network, through which you may still
see the steady regular movements of the busy creature within. Fainter and fainter
becomes his outline as the web grows thicker, until at last only the firm, strong cocoon
can be seen; while Cecropia, hidden safely within, goes into the chrysalis state at his
leisure. This cocoon is two or three inches long, and of a brown color; one end is
pointed, while the other is round. When Cecropia is ready to come out as a moth next
summer, he will crawl through the pointed end. The other members of his family like to
build leaves into their cocoons, fastening them with the silk, unless you have put them
into a box where leaves are not to be had, and then they will get along very comfortably
without any.

Now you can understand how the silk-worms of China, that are often raised in this
country as well, spin the glossy threads that are woven into such beautiful fabric. The
cocoon of the silk-worm is a pretty little oval, yellow thing, so close and firm that it is
no easy matter to pull off the long threads without breaking them; so that in silk
factories it is done by machinery. Of course, if the moth came out of the cocoon it would
cut through the silken fibers and leave them short and useless ; so, to keep the cocoons
perfect, they are put in an oven for a few hours, when the heat kills the poor „ little silk-
worm within, and then the silk can be raveled off at any time. We realize how many of
these little caterpillars there must be in the world, when we consider how much silk is
made, and how many people are occupied in weaving it; and they are, perhaps, the
most useful of all insects.

There are many handsome moths whose silky cocoons you may find on leafless trees, or
among the fallen leaves; too many, indeed, for us to examine carefully just now.

There are the funny " woolly bears," as the hairy caterpillars are sometimes called,
which make coarse cocoons with their own hairs, and fasten them in crevices ; after a
while turning into " tiger moths," which are more or less gaily decked with bright colors
and markings, some being arranged so as to look like a harness across the insect's
wings.

There is the "red under-wing" and his relations, that, when at rest, look dull and gray
enough; but wake one of them up, and presto! a flash of crimson as the wings are lifted,
and away goes the moth before you have time to recover from your surprise.

Then there is the Beautiful Deiopeia, as she is always called; a lovely little insect, who
seems to know her beauty should not be hidden beneath the dark robe of night, for she
flies all day with the butterflies, chiefly in sandy places. Perhaps you have seen her—a
little moth measuring only an inch across the wings, the upper ones being pale yellow
and white, covered with fine black dots; the lower ones, rose-color, with a black border.

It seems strange that the moths, who so generally fly at night, should be attracted by
a light; but you must have seen how they come to the windows on a summer evening,
or into the room. A little moth or "miller," as we call it, will fly round and round the
flame of a candle or lamp till its wings are singed, and perhaps it is burned to death; yet
it cannot keep away from the brilliant thing that fascinates it so strangely. This is
something we do not understand; but as moths do fly toward a light, we can see and
catch plenty of them around a lantern on a summer evening.

But there are some of these Little People whose lives are less dreamy and poetical
than these spangled fays of the moonlight, yet their story is a very curious one, and well
worth repeating.

Have you never seen a tiny, brown-winged creature, no larger than a small fly, flitting
through the room; and have you not seen, too, the haste with which the careful house-
keeper springs up to chase the wee enemy and kill it, if possible, exclaiming that " the
moths will get into the furniture, and have already destroyed a whole bundle of
woolens “?

Now you would hardly think such a tiny, soft little thing could be capable of so much
mischief as all this; and, indeed, it is not the moth itself that has such a singular appetite
for woolen cloth. Moths, you remember, have only soft tubes for mouths, through
which they suck liquids, and therefore cannot bite cloth or anything else; but you must
not forget that their babies, the caterpillars, eat very differently.

So the mother clothes-moth, harmless as she is herself, lays her eggs among the folds
of any woolen garments or blankets that she can find snugly put away on an
undisturbed shelf, and from these eggs hatch the tiniest of caterpillars. The life they lead
is very different from that of their kindred out in the fresh air, with sweet green leaves
for dinner every day. Instead, they burrow into the dark folds of the cloth, eating their
way along, and leaving many a hole to tell of their greediness. It seems very strange
that they should have such a liking for dusty old woolens; but there is no accounting for
tastes, and the clothes-moth caterpillar would probably look with wonder at any
creature with such curious ideas that it would prefer fresh leaves—or still more
remarkable, bread and meat—to dry flannels, for food.

But the most curious part of the story is that the caterpillar, besides feeding on the
cloth, fashions a little house or case for himself out of the fine woolen fibers. In this he
lives as snugly as a snail in its shell, carrying it about with him quite easily; but he
grows very fast, and the case cannot grow at all. What does he do when he becomes too
large for it?
 No trouble at all. The caterpillar promptly opens a slit in the side, forms a neat little
patch, and puts it in as nicely as any tailor. Then, if he has become too long as well as
too thick, he easily builds a new layer around the open end of the case, thus lengthening
it as much as he needs.

When the time comes for him to change into a moth, he finds his case very useful. With
it he suspends himself in a dark corner; and inside of it can go through his
transformation in safety, and come out the tiny brown " moth miller " we all know so
well.

Perhaps this little moth has found the oddest way of living that any of the scale-winged
insects* have chosen; but we find among them all sorts of plans for getting through life
comfortably. Some caterpillars live crowded together in a great web, which they spin
about the branches of cherry and apple trees, devouring the leaves till they have to be
attacked and killed. These are called tent-caterpillars, and they turn into very small
brown moths.

Then there are the curious tussock-caterpillars, with a long brush at each end of their
bodies, and a head that looks like a bit of red sealing-wax. Strange to say, the mother
tussock-moths have no wings, and when they leave the cocoon are not much better off
than they were in the old caterpillar days. As she cannot fly about, mother tussock lays
her eggs upon her own empty cocoon; covering them with a curious white substance
for safe-keeping.

Now you have made the acquaintance of several moths and butterflies, and must
learn the difference between them, that you may make no mistake when you see them
together. As a few moths fly in the day-time, you might think they were butterflies
unless you knew how to tell them apart; but let one rest for a moment on a flower, and
you shall see. A moth closes his wings flat, laying them down with one edge generally
lapping over the other; but a butterfly holds his up straight in the air, back to back.
Then look at the feelers, called antenna, that grow from the head. Those of the butterfly
are smooth, with a little knob on the end; while the moth's are pointed, and generally
branched or feathered. There are other differences about their bodies and wings, but
you can easily remember these two; and they will be enough to let you know in a
minute whether the bright-winged little insect fluttering in the vines yonder is a child of
the warm sunshine, or a lover of the peaceful moonlight and dark evening shadows.

From Little People and Their Homes in Meadows, Woods and Waters by Stella Louise Hook, 1907.
 The Birth of a Young Lord.
ONE very hot day in July, Mrs. Papilio1 decided to give a select party.

And it was very select, I assure you; for none but the swallowtail family were invited.

Now this family are noted for their fine array, there being over three hundred different
styles of dress among them; and had all the guests that were invited accepted, Mrs.
Papilio's garden could not have held one half of them.

The list was headed with the names of Lord and Lady Asterias2 so they came early.

I was glad of this, for it gave me a very good opportunity to watch their movements;
and so pleased was I with their fine appearance that I hardly cast a glance at any other
member of the party.

My lord and lady came sailing in upon their four showy wings (the hind wings of
each having tails), and seated themselves at once near a bed of parsley.

My lord was gaily dressed in a black swallowtail suit, banded with a double row of
bright-yellow spots; and on each of the hind wings was a row of seven blue spots
between the outer and the inner line of yellow ones. But this was not all; for on the
lower, inner edge of the tailed wings was an eyelike spot of orange yellow, having a
black center.

1
Pa-pil'i-o. The Latin name of the butterfly.
2
As-te'ri-as. The name of a peculiar species or kind of butterfly.
 He also had a double row of bright-
yellow spots on his back that looked
like gold buttons, and his shining black
head was adorned with the same color.

Gold and black, black and gold, — ah,

it was a fine suit indeed! You should
have seen it.

My lady was dressed in about the

same style, but she had not so many
spots on her fore wings. I saw, at a
glance, that she was a good deal larger
than he; and I thought that maybe
there had not been quite enough of the gilded band for both suits.

I noticed, also, that they each had six tiny legs, and that the hind pair had small spurs.

The antennae were long and threadlike, and there was a knob at the end of each; they
were not feathered like those of the moth.

As soon as my lady lit on the parsley bed, she folded all four of her wings together, so
that they stood upright on her back. Then she slowly opened and closed them, as if
trying to fan the hot July air.

Her mate lit very near her and did the same thing. But they did not remain quiet very
long; for pretty soon my lady began to dart here and there about the parsley bed.

Then she stopped quite still, as if to say, "This is just the

place for my eggs. I like it much better than the carrot, the
parsnip, the celery, or even the sweet blossoms of the
phlox."

"Ah," said I to myself, "so you are the mother of those hungry, pale green caterpillars
that I find creeping about my garden, are you? I will watch those eggs of yours, my
lady."

From Short Stories of Our Shy Neighbors by Meriba Ada Babcock Kelly.
 The Mourning Cloak.
IT was a very sunny day in March, just such a day as one might mistake for April.

But April had not come yet; for there were patches of snow here and there upon the
hilltops, and the air was not without a touch of frost.

Yet it really did seem so much like spring that many a shy thing peeped out from its
hidden nook, as if wondering whether the long, wintry months were really over. The
little pussy cats of the willow sat in double rows along the stem, all ready to throw off
their scaly cloaks so as to make a fine display of their soft, mouse-colored fur.

And the squirrels and chipmunks sported about as if they had never seen a hard,
crusted snowdrift in all their lives.

Far down in the meadow there was a great heap of stones, from which the snow had
melted away; and even this rough, hard pile held its share of winter's hidden treasures,
as you will presently see.

For in a deep space between two large stones there was the faint flutter of a tiny sash
of gold. Was it the gilded border of a fairy queen's mantle? Ah, but there was another,
and still another! And some of them had the edges badly soiled and torn.

There were so many, in fact, that it looked as if there might be a whole band of fairies
shut up in that strong, stone fortress.

And so it proved that a large troupe of fairy beings had been caught in a November
snowstorm, and had fled to this stony refuge for safety. And there they had remained
during the long, dreary winter, waiting for the warm breath of spring to float over their
hiding place and set them free.

Now can you guess what this fairy circle was? I will tell you. It was nothing more nor
less than a family of butterflies that had hidden themselves away during the winter, so
as to come out and greet the pale sunbeams of the early spring.

The helpless, almost lifeless little creatures were very closely huddled together as if to
keep one another warm; and they had no doubt found it quite a safe stronghold for
their winter quarters.

Each one had its wings folded closely together above its back, as if it had settled
down for a very long nap.
 The wings of this family of butterflies are of a purplish brown above, prettily edged
with a broad band of buff; and near this yellow edge there is a row of pale-blue spots.

But the under part of the wings is of a much darker color; it is of a dull blue-black,
marked, here and there, with a few faint streaks of a lighter hue. It is perhaps on
account of its somber shade that this insect is sometimes called the mourning cloak.

Not very many butterflies are able to live through the cold weather; but quite a
number of this family may often be found in midwinter, sticking fast to the rafters of
old buildings, and in the cracks of stone walls.

When found in this way, they appear to be dead; but if they are placed in the warm
sunshine, they will soon show signs of life, and become as active as ever.

They are very welcome visitors in early spring, even though their pretty wings are often
somewhat faded and torn.

A very close observer of insects and of their habits tells us that this butterfly, if
disturbed, will often fold up its legs and appear to be dead. I wonder if it thinks it will
escape harm by doing that!
 Its larval babies are homely things, and they are hungry things too; they feed on the
leaves of the poplar, the elm, and the willow.

And like their parents, they huddle together as closely as possible; so closely, indeed,
that it does seem as if they would all feed on the same leaf if they could.

Sometimes they crowd so thickly upon a single branch that they bend it down very
low with their weight. So you may be sure that it does not take them a great while to
strip a tree of its green leaves.

These black, bristly creatures are marked with very small, white dots; and there is a
row of eight brick-red spots along the back.

As they creep along over the trees, they eat and grow, and eat and grow, while all
along their track may be found their shriveled, cast-off clothing.

And now, should you chance to come across a family of these ugly larval children,
you need have no fear of their black, bristly spines, for they will not harm you.

And if you will gather a few of them, and feed them on the leaves that they like best,
they will enter the pupa state after a time; and then, in a little less than two weeks, they
will all come forth, each one clad in a mourning cloak.

From Short Stories of Our Shy Neighbors by Meriba Ada Babcock Kelly.

An Object of Terror.

Yes, this Moth—innocent and harmless as he looks, and as he is, too—has long been
an object of terror to the ignorant, merely because of the curious marks he has on his
back. These marks look like a skull with the crossed bones under it, and the innocent
Moth is regarded as the messenger of pestilence or trouble of some sort, and it has
thrown a whole country into consternation. Some people have even believed it was a
witch, and that it had the terrible habit of whispering into the ear of human witches the
name of any person who was going to die.

All this is, of course, perfectly absurd. The Moth is far more harmless than the beetles
I have been telling you about, and though he can make a noise when caught—which is
unusual for Moths— that proves nothing against him.

Mr. Wood tells an amusing story about seeing one of these poor little creatures near a
village church. The people were gathering around, and no one dared to come near it, till
the blacksmith — braver than the rest—gave a tremendous jump, and crushed it with
his boots. Mr. Wood preserved the flattened Moth as an example of popular ignorance.

The Death's-head Moth is very large, sometimes spreading its wings nearly six
inches, and it is dressed in sober black and brown, with yellow lower wings. The
antennae, or feelers, are very stout, and have hooks on the end, as you can see, and are
covered with long soft hair. It belongs to a family called Hawk Moths, because of their
swift flight.

But I must tell you about this Moth before he came out with wings. He was a big fat
Caterpillar, perhaps five inches long, of a bright yellow color striped with green, and
covered with tiny black dots. There is a picture of him on next page.

At the end of his body, is a sort of a horn, you see. He feeds upon potato plants in
general, though he could eat other plants. But both the Caterpillar and the Moth feed
only at night, and hide during the day, so it is difficult, even for a professional Moth
hunter, to find them.

When the Caterpillar is ready to stop eating and become a pupa, he burrows into the
ground, and stays there till ready to come out a Moth.

Another Moth that I want to tell you about, is the Goat Moth, called so because it has
a strong odor, something like that given out by the goat. It is soberly dressed in
different shades of brown, and it is not particularly remarkable, except in its grub state.
The eggs of this Moth are always put deep into some crevice, in the bark of a tree, and
as soon as it hatches out, the young grub proceeds at once to bore into the tree. Here
they spend four years, eating and boring all the time.

As the grub grows larger, the tunnel he makes gets larger also, and many a tree has
been killed by the destructive little fellow. He's not so little either, after he is grown;
sometimes he is three inches long, and as large as a man's finger. His head is wedge-
shaped,
haped, and he has very powerful jaw jaws. Naturalists—whowho like to keep these creatures
and study out their ways—havehave a great deal of trouble in keeping this Caterpillar. He
will eat his way out of wooden boxes, of course, and tin boxes need their covers tied on,
for he has a way of pushing his head around the edge till he gradually gets it open, and
if a crack can be found in tin or zinc, he will take the edge in his jaws and twist it open.

When full grown, he makes for himself a snug home of bits of wood held together by
silk threads which he spins. The cocoon is oval, and yellow in color. Before he is ready
to come out, he pushes himself, through his burrow till he reaches the entrance, and
when he crawls out, a Moth, he leaves the old shell in the door to his house.

There is a Moth called thee Ghost Moth, from a curious habit he has. He is bright
silvery white on the upper part of his wings, while the under part is a dull brown. He
has the habit of hovering about in one spot a long time, of course showing his white
wings very plainly in the darkrk—which is the time for Moths, you know— — but if he is
disturbed he will drop into the grass, or hang on a twig, in such a way as to show only
the brown side of his wings. Of course that cannot be seen, so he seems to have
vanished. If the observer keeps w watch,
atch, he will see him again soon, in about the same
spot, and white and ghost-like
like as ever.

Many people have been very much frightened by this innocent little creature.

If any of my readers have a fancy for making collections of Moths and other night-
night
flyingg creatures, they may like to know how to catch them. It is by a process familiar to
naturalists, and called "sugaring."
 First, some common sugar is boiled in water, or beer, and corked up for use. Choose a
dark, calm evening, pour some of the mixture into a basin, add a few spoonfuls of rum,
(Moths are not temperance men, you see) and soak some pieces of cloth in it. When
thoroughly saturated, take them out, drain them off, and start out.

Provide yourself with some small boxes, a butterfly net, pins, a small bottle of
chloroform, and a lantern. Go where there are plenty of trees, and pin the strips of cloth
on to the trunks of the trees. The odor of rum and sugar will soon attract the Moths
from all directions, and turning the light of the lantern on to the rags, you will soon see
plenty of them. You have only to select which you want, catch them with the net, kill
them with a drop or two of chloroform, pin them into your boxes, and go on. When you
have enough, take down your rags, and save them till you want them again.

But the bodies of Moths are so large, they do not keep well, but shrink in drying, so if
you want a really handsome array, you must stuff them. That seems funny to talk
about, but it is not hard to do. Carefully cut off the abdomen of the Moth, and take out
all its contents through the small hole at the end. Then stuff it with cotton wool, adding
a drop or two of benzole, which will keep off insects. When it is dried, you can join it to
the rest of the creature so that it will not show.

Scale Winged.

Did you know that Butterflies are scale-winged—that is, that their wings are covered
with little scales, which lap over each other like shingles on the roof of a house?
Beautiful scales they are, too, of various shapes and most wonderfully painted with all
the exquisite shades of color you can imagine.

But you cannot see half their beauty, unless you can look through a microscope.

There's another wonderful thing about a Butterfly, and that is its trunk. To you—with
the naked eye—it looks like a little thread coiled up at the end, when not in use; but
examined with a glass, it proves to be a perfect and beautiful contrivance for sucking up
the juices of flowers. One French naturalist watched the living Butterfly feed himself
from a lump of sugar, through a glass, and thus saw just how it was done. First, the
little fellow would send down from his mouth some liquid, which seemed to dissolve
the sugar, and then he would suck up the dissolved fluids into his mouth. Thus he
could eat sugar, and thick honey and syrup, which he could not get through his dainty
little tubes otherwise.

But the trunk is not the only beauty about him; he has lovely eyes, and so many of
them that it's no wonder he is hard to catch. They are what are called compound eyes,
and our little Butterfly will sometimes have as many as thirty-two thousand of them. He
needs all he has, however, for he has hosts of enemies, swifter to fly than he is—such as
birds, and dragon-flies—and if he did not have eyes looking every way, he would stand
little chance for his life.

Another help to the Butterfly is his zigzag sort of flight. Birds who fly after him are
constantly dodged, and thus he gets away. I have somewhere read an account of a bird
chasing one Butterfly about for a long time, utterly unable to catch it, yet evidently very
much astonished at his failure.

Another safety for the Butterfly is the color of his wings. However gaudy the outside
may be, you will notice that the inside or underside of the wings is generally of a duller
color. Now, when a Butterfly is at rest, he holds his two wings (four wings rather) up
over his back, nearly touching each other, so, of course, the bright side is hidden, and
the dull colors on the underside harmonize with the tree on which he rests, and he is
almost invisible.

The picture at the head of this article is the Swallow-tailed Butterfly. He gets his name
from the long sort of tails which you see on his second pair of wings. He is a great
beauty, yellow and black, with six cloudy-blue spots on the lower wings, and a large

When Mamma Swallow-tail, or Mrs. Papilio Machaon (which is her book name, you
must know), gets ready to provide for the next generation, she lays a quantity of light-
green eggs, fastening them on to some twig or plant with a sort of
sticky gum, and leaves them to their fate. In due time, the green
eggs grow black, the shells burst, and outcome the small
Caterpillars. Their first business is to eat, and they begin on the shell
they have just come out of, and as they go on and grow, and throw
off one skin after another, they never fail to eat up the old garment.
Think of eating up one's old clothes!

The Caterpillar with that curious habit is a beauty, and perhaps

you have seen it. It lives on fennel, or parsley, or carrot leaves. It is
of a beautiful green color, with black bands around its body, and on the bands beautiful
yellow spots.

Here he is, as he looks when he is full grown, done feeding, and about to turn into a
chrysalis; and on the right hand side of the same twig you can see how he looks when
he is in that bundled-up state.

You see he is engaged in binding himself on to the twig, which he does in such a nice
way that all through his chrysalis life he is safe from falling.

I spoke of Butterflies feeding on honey, but there are some of them which live on
quite a different diet. There is the Purple Emperor Butterfly, a most beautiful creature,
of a rich purple—almost black—ornamented with white. This elegant insect prefers the
juices of bad meat to all the flowers of the garden. If he can find a dead dog or cat lying
about, he has a great feast. It isn't very pleasant to think of, is it? But something must be
done with such objects, and this beautiful Butterfly does his share.

Naturalists take advantage of this strange taste to catch the beautiful creature.

They look for an open place in the woods, and set a trap for Mr. Butterfly, consisting
of a piece of unpleasant-smelling meat; or rather they set several traps, laying down a
dozen or more pieces—some ways apart, of course. In a short time the hunter comes
back, and if the weather is favorable, and there are any Purple Emperors about, he will
be apt to find one or two on every piece.

I told you about some superstitions regarding Moths, and now I must tell you of the
terror caused by an innocent little Butterfly of the Vanessa family. When it leaves the
pupa—or chrysalis skin—a red-colored liquid, looking exactly like blood, drops from it.
The ignorant people, seeing these drops, have been very much terrified, and accounts of
several such "showers of blood" have been related by historians. But on one occasion,
when the people of a certain town in France were nearly frightened out of their wits by
such a sign, a learned man, seeking into its cause, discovered the facts about this
Butterfly. He noticed that multitudes of them were flying about, so he collected some of
the chrysalides and let them hatch in a box, and finding the same drops of blood, he
made it public. But, of course, though entirely explained, the ignorant people could not
be cured of their terror.

From Little Folks in Feathers and Fur by Oliver Thorne Miller, 1886.
 A Real Live Fairy.
ONE September morning I took Hermie and went over the hill to the windmill. The
hillside was covered with wild carrot, goldenrod, asters, white, purple, and pink. Near
the windmill was a late wild rose, in full bloom.

Right in the golden centre of the rose, on the stamens and pistils, I saw what might be
two fine jewels and the coiled-up spring of a fairy watch. On the ground, among the
rose leaves, lay four lovely fans, in black and gold. They looked as if the fairy-queen
and her court ladies might have dropped them as they came home late from a ball.

I put all these things on a piece of white paper. Then I sat on a stone, took out my
microscope, and said to Hermie, "Look here! "

"Oh!" cried Hermie, "these are the head and wings of a poor butterfly ! But where is
his body gone? "

"A bird has eaten it," I said; "see, the bird's bill has taken in the body and clipped off
the wings, and just missed the head, which has dropped off. These are not the relics of a
fairy ball, but of a cruel murder."

"I do not see," said Hermie, " how a butterfly, which flits so fast, could be picked up
so."

We looked about the leaves of a wild carrot, and, on the underside of two or three,
safe from the wet, we found a cluster of pale greenish eggs. "See," I said, "the bird
dipped down, and picked up the butterfly while it was clinging to the leaf laying its
eggs.

Or, perhaps the eggs were all laid, and the butterfly was resting on the bush. Many of
these insects die soon after the eggs are laid. When the eggs are safely placed, the insect
seems to feel tired and dull."

Then we looked at the black and yellow wings through the microscope. "See all these
little scales and plumes!" said Hermie. "They lie thick as a bird's feathers! Once I put a
butterfly in a box. When I let him out, the box was all dusted over with gold dust. But
the butterfly did not look bare. He seemed as well dressed as ever."

Then we looked at the head. "What big eyes!" said Hermie, "and that curled-up thing
in his mouth. I have seen him drinking with it out of flowers. I do think butterflies are
the prettiest things that are made!"
 Many persons think the butterflies are the most beautiful of all the insects. Next to the
beetles they are the most numerous order. They have, also, been the most studied. Let
us look at them a little.

The butterflies belong to the great order of the scale wings. To this order belong two
groups of very beautiful insects. We will look at them. They are the butterflies and the
moths.

The butterflies are insects of the day. The moths are generally insects of the night.
Even when the moths fly by day they can be easily known from the butterflies. The
butterfly always has a knob or a point on the end of his horns. The ends of the moth's
horns are pointed.

When the butterfly is at rest, his wings are held up and laid flat against each other.
Thus the top sides are hidden, and the under sides show. His wings are called vans.

The moth rests with his wings folded along his body or laid out flat. They cling close
to what he rests upon. If they bend at all, they bend downward, not upward. The body
of the moth is shorter and thicker, more wedge-shaped, than that of the butterfly.

Now, for a look at our butterfly. The head is small and moves freely. It is not set in a
socket to the body, but held by a little neck. On each side of the head is a great, bright
eye with many thousand facets, or surfaces, while at the back of the head are generally
two small, simple eyes. But these are usually hidden under long hairs.

Do you see the soft hairs which clothe all the butterfly's body? For you must notice
that the butterfly wears an elegant, soft, velvet coat of fine hairs. This coat is usually
black or brown. But it has often stripes or spots of a lighter color.

On the top of the head the butterfly carries a pair of many-jointed horns. As I told
you, the ends of these are little knobs.

The chief part of the mouth of the butterfly is a tube, called a trunk. Did you ever
notice the big trunk of an elephant? The butterfly's trunk is small. It is coiled up like a
watch-spring when it is not in use. When he wishes to use it he unrolls it and it is so
slim that he can thrust it into the longest and narrowest flowercups.

Really, this trunk is made of two pieces with little points upon them. These two parts
lie together and seem one. Between them the honey is drawn up. You must know that
butterflies live chiefly on honey. It is not likely that they take much other kind of food,
but they are fond of water. Have you seen them in damp places?

When the fine trunk of the butterfly is curled up, it is kept safe by two hairy pieces
which grow on the front of the head.
 The butterfly has six legs that grow from the chest part of its body. But the butterfly is
not a walking insect. Bees, wasps, and beetles, you know, walk a great deal Butterflies
rarely use their legs for anything but standing, when they eat or rest. They move only
by flying.

The wings are made of two skin pieces laid upon a framework of nerves or veins.
They are covered with a double layer of scales. The edge scales are long and fringelike.
The upper and under sides of the wings differ in color.

The upper wings are widest. They have smooth edges, and are of a triangle shape.
The lower wings are rounded. They have waved or pointed edges. Sometimes they
have two long points like tails.

The body of the butterfly is made in rings, which are soft, not horny like those of a
dragon-fly. The body is slender and has no weapon. It has no sting to fight, and no saw
to cut wood to make a place for its eggs.

The Child of the Day

THE butterfly is the chief partner of the flowers. Its long, slim drinking tube helps it to
dip far into a flower's throat. As it reaches in, it gets the stamen pollen well upon it.
Then, since the butterfly rarely walks about, as the beetles do, it is not likely to waste
the pollen by rubbing it off where it is not wanted.

Not only is the butterfly the flower's best partner, but it wears the gay colors of the
flowers. Once I was walking in a garden with a very little boy. A flight of yellow
butterflies came over a tulip bed. "See! see !" cried the child, " the flowers are loose, and
are flying away ! " Poets, as well as children, have called the butterflies "flying flowers."

In very early times, people began to study butterflies. It was not only their number or
their beauty which made people notice them. It was the wonder of their changes from
egg to full-grown insect.

Who would think that this splendid thing, which scorns to use its feet, and lives on
the wing in the clear air, was once a worm, crawling on many legs, among the grasses
and leaves?

Who would think that this dainty creature, which drinks dew and honey, once spent
all its days chewing and gnawing leaves as the earthworm does.

Who would think that these bright wings, which are so crisp and stiff that they never
bend or wrinkle even by a single fold, were once like little flat buds, inside a crawling
caterpillar, or bound up in the tight, horny pupa case?
 Let us follow the journey of these little greenish eggs
stuck on the underside of a carrot leaf. Let us follow them
up their curious way until we see them sitting on the heart
of a rose, as on a throne of gold, and then suddenly sailing
off among the sunbeams.

Each kind of butterfly prefers some especial plant on

which the caterpillar feeds. On this plant the eggs are laid.
Some butterflies like oaks best; some cabbage; some choose
plants of the carrot family for a home.

The butterfly which we will now hear about is the

"swallowtail." It is one which likes fennel and wild carrot. It
lays its eggs on the underside of the leaf of one of these
plants. The eggs are placed in little patches. They are of a
greenish color, and nearly round. The eggs of some other
butterflies are of very odd shapes.

The first eggs of the swallowtail butterfly are laid in May.

In eight or ten days the eggs turn nearly black. Then out
comes the little caterpillar. The first thing he does is to turn
around and eat up his shell! Next he begins to eat carrot
leaf. He grows, and in a few days casts his skin.

The caterpillar keeps on growing. To get more room he

sheds his skin. He eats the cast-off skin each time. He is a
very pretty caterpillar. His color is bright green. On each of his twelve rings he has a
black band. On each black band there are gay, yellow spots. He is an inch and a half
long when full grown.

There is a queer thing about this caterpillar. If you touch him while he eats, he runs
out little forked horns from behind his head. He seems to want to frighten you! When
you let him alone, he draws in his horns. These horns can emit a strong smell.

His feet are made with rings and hairs, so that he can creep safely along the plants
where he feeds. His mouth is weak, so he can eat only soft leaves. In about two weeks
he has eaten all that he needs.

Then he creeps up a plant stem and spins a strong silk rope. He binds this rope about
his body and the plant stem. That ties him fast. The caterpillars of several kinds, which
tie themselves in this way for the pupa state, are called girdle caterpillars, or belted
caterpillars. He is also held fast by the tail as well as by this body belt. When he is tied,
his body shortens and thickens. His caterpillar skin bursts and drops off.
 He is now a pupa. The pupa skin hardens into a little case. Now he neither moves nor
eats.

How long is he a pupa? That depends upon the time of year. In spring, two weeks are
enough for the change. In hot summer, nine days or a week will do. If it is cold autumn
weather, the pupa will not change to a full-grown insect until the next spring.

If in the winter you find a pupa tied to a weed, and bring it into a hothouse, or a
warm room, in a few days you will have a fine butterfly out. A wise man, who studied
butterflies, put some pupae in a very cold place, and they did not change for two or
three years!

When it is time for the insect to come out of the pupa case, some motions like deep
breathing are made. These crack open the hard skin. Then the insect pulls itself out. It is
moist and weak. Its wings droop a little.

The new butterfly breathes hard, many times. At each breath air rushes through its
body and through the tubes of its wings. The frame of its wings stiffens and fills out.
The body and legs grow dry and firm.

Then the new-made butterfly rests a little — perhaps for several hours. After that it
seems to feel fine. It can move its wide wings! It can fly! It sails away!

Now it lights on a great white head of wild carrot or on a rose. Let us look at it. Its
wings are black and yellow. The black is in bands and streaks. It has six bluish spots on
each lower wing, and one large red and blue spot. Its body is like black velvet. Each
lower wing has a long, beautiful, curved tail.

The butterfly is an insect with far more beauty than sense. We may say it is an insect
with very little brains. It has none of the wise ways of the ant, wasp, bee, or spider; it
only flies and eats, and lays eggs. It builds no house, stores no food, takes no care of its
young.

The butterfly can see. It has wonderful eyes. It can hear. It can smell. It can taste. Its
flower partners spread out for it their finest colors, perfumes, and honey drops.

Life Among Snow and Roses.

I TOLD you that the butterfly did not work, built no house, and showed very little
sense. That is true of the full-grown butterfly. He seems so pleased with his wings that
he does nothing but enjoy them.
 But you must know that the caterpillar is only one state of the butterfly, and there are
caterpillars that build for themselves very curious houses.

There are caterpillars that leave the egg in the autumn. They live as caterpillars all
winter, and enter the pupa state in the spring. Let us watch them as they live with the
snowflakes flying about them. Then we will watch them to the time of roses.

Many butterflies lay their eggs singly. They put one egg alone on the tip of a willow,
hazel, poplar, or oak leaf. Other butterflies put their eggs in small clusters on the
underside of carrot, nettle, or blackberry leaves. Some put eggs in a ring around an elm
or birch twig.

Now and then you find the egg in a chain or pyramid hanging upon a leaf. There are,
also, some butterflies that drop their eggs on the ground among the grasses, or on the
lower parts of grass blades.

In all cases the caterpillar feeds on the plant on which he is hatched from the egg.
When he is ready to come out of the egg, all he has to do is to bite a hole in his shell and
crawl forth. Then, at once, he begins to eat.

He may begin at the tip of the leaf, and eat up to the midvein on both sides. He is
careful not to bite the midvein. When he has had a full meal, he goes and lies along the
midvein to rest. Then, when rested, he eats again. Many do this, but not all.

When one leaf is finished, he takes the next one on the twig. After the first leaf he is
not so careful to begin at the tip. He just bites out pieces anywhere, but he does not bite
the big vein. Perhaps it is too hard. Perhaps he knows he must have it for a roadway."

Do you remember what you read in the First Nature Reader about the spider, that has
in her body little knobs for spinning silk? The caterpillar has a silk spinner. It is in the
underside of his head. It is a little tube in the shape of a cone.

Did you ever notice the queer way a caterpillar has of wagging his head from side to
side ? He acts as if in great pain. But he is not in pain. He is only laying down a silk web
with that motion.

It is by means of this silk that the caterpillar makes his home. Let us look at him while
he works. He fastens his line to the edge of a leaf. Then he carries it to the other edge or
to the next leaf. Then another line, and so on. Each line is a little shorter than the one
before. This bends the leaf. At last it is bent into a tube, or box, or several leaves are
bound into a bower.

The caterpillar bites a notch, or line, in the tip of the leaf to make it bend over for a
roof. Is not that cunning?
 Think how strange it is, that a tiny thing, just out of the egg, away up alone on a tree,
should know how to build this pretty house!

The caterpillar of the swallowtail chooses a leaf for a home, weaves a silk carpet over
it, and lies along the midvein. What do you think he does on rainy days, when the
water begins to take his bent leaf for a spout, or gutter?

He builds a second floor of silk, a little higher up, between the edges of the leaf. That
makes a nice, dry, silk hammock. There he lies, while the water ripples along the
midvein below him. I suppose the sound of the water sings him to sleep.

A caterpillar that makes a bag of a nettle leaf for a nest, lies in it so snug that he is too
lazy to go out for food. So he eats up his roof for his dinner! Another caterpillar draws a
leaf together into a pretty little pocket. He weaves silk over it, outside and in, and then
— he eats up this dear little home, and has to make another!

These caterpillars make their homes for summer. There are some which need winter
homes. The caterpillar of the Viceroy butterfly is only half grown when winter comes.
He lives in a willow tree. He makes his warm winter house of a willow leaf.

How does he do it? He eats part of the leaf away to the midvein. Then he bends the
lower part together with silk. He fastens the edges tight, and lines the inside with silk.
Then he covers the outside with silk, and binds the nest to the twig with a silk thread,
by crawling around and around, drawing the silk with him.

The fierce winter storms will not tear off this house, which he has bound to the tree.
The silk he uses is of a brown, dry-leaf color. When the house is made, he crawls in,
head first. The knobbed hind end of his body fills up the open part of the nest.

Did you ever hear of caterpillars called "woolly-bears," because of their furry bodies?

This caterpillar has a little cousin who makes his winter home of a bent birch leaf. The
color of his silk, and the knobbed end of his body, are just the gray purple of young
birch buds. So, in the spring, no bird notices him. Thus, while the snow flies, these
caterpillars lie safe in their warm homes. They are torpid.

Early in the spring they become pupae, and then butterflies. Some butterflies pass the
winter as eggs, some as caterpillars, some as pupae. Some butterflies have two or more
broods in the summer. Thus we have new butterflies every week.

Full-grown butterflies sometimes live over winter. They come out in the spring,
looking rather shabby, and with the edges of their wings broken. When frost comes,
they creep into some crack, or under a piece of tree bark, or down among the roots. As
they lay their wings flat against each other, a small crevice will hold them.
 But the glad time of the butterflies is
in the summer, when they have wings,
honey, and sunshine. Some live from
May until September. Some come out in
April, and live only through May. Some
wait until July and August. Others
come for a little time in the spring, and
a second brood in October. Of these
many lie torpid in cracks over winter.

At night, and during rainy days,

butterflies hide, as they do in cold
weather. They seldom fly abroad before
nine in the morning. Between four and
five in the afternoon they begin to steal
off to bed. They are out in full force in
those bright, hot noon hours, when the
flowers are at their best. Happy
butterfly! He flits about in the sun and
drinks honey all the time of roses.

Joseph’s Coat.
MANY butterflies live alone. But some seem to go in what we call a swarm. A "flight"
of butterflies is a better name for many together than a "swarm." It is more common to
see a number of caterpillars together than a number of butterflies. The large, gay-
colored butterflies are generally seen only by one, two, or three, at a time.

No doubt you have seen a piece of damp ground, which looks as if it had burst into
blossom, so many yellow butterflies have lit upon it. They are fond of moisture.

Orange-and-black butterflies have been seen to settle on a dead bush, and cover its
branches like gay leaves. They hang in such a case with their wings folded against each
other, and their backs down. They do not cling one to another, as bees, when they
swarm.

A gentleman saw a great number of blue-spotted butterflies, rising from some low
pine trees, where they seemed to have spent the night. Another gentleman saw a great
swarm of orange-and-black butterflies, which hover about the milkweed. Hundreds of
small, copper-red butterflies sometimes light together on a hot, dusty road. Even the
fine swallowtails have been seen in numbers together, when attracted by the honey and
perfume of a lilac bush.
 Some butterflies eat less than others, and spend much time sitting in the sun, opening
and shutting their vans, or wings. They seem very fond of play. You will see them
whirling about, and chasing each other, like children at a good game.

Some butterflies have a way of flying at whatever they see in motion. If you toss a
glove, ball, or little basket into the air, they dart at it. They seem curious to know what it
is. Did you ever see a little copper-colored butterfly, with black spots, darting at a big
beetle or grasshopper?

These little fellows seem to lie in wait under the leaves, and rush out at whatever
goes by, just as little dogs dash out from gateways!

Let us now talk a little about the colors of butterflies. The upper and under sides of
the wings often differ much. The upper side is much brighter than the underside. Do
you see a reason for this?

The insect flies with the wings spread out in full view. Its flight is not even and
straight. It moves in jerks, called "flitting," and it dashes here and there, zig-zag. This
way of flying makes it very difficult for a bird to pick up a butterfly on the wing.

Thus the pretty insect is safe enough when he flies. But it would be easy to pick him
up when he lights. So the upper side of his wings shows most of his beauty, and the
underside, which only is shown when he rests, is shaded like a dry leaf, or is of the hue
of the plants upon which he often sits.

Not only is the butterfly protected by the graver color of the underside of its vans, but
it wears the general flower color of the season or of its home.

In spring you know how many of the flowers are blue or partly blue. The violets, the
hyacinths, the purple crocus, the liverwort, and many more, are blue and among them
fly blue butterflies. There are more blue ones in spring than at any other time of the
year.

Also, in spring, there are many yellow butterflies. You will hardly be able to
distinguish them, at first glance, from the buttercups, dandelions, crocuses, and
cowslips upon which they rest.

The little butterflies, which love the dusky woods, are brown, drab, and gray, with
black or reddish spots, and dull, yellow marks. Their coats are like the colors of the tree
trunks, the mosses, and dead leaves, where they live.

Then when the daisies and lilies are wide out, with the white roses and bright-hued
summer flowers, come the white butterflies. With them follow the splendid swallowtail
family, to swing around the tulips and gladiolas, and petunias, yellow lilies, and
geraniums.

In the autumn, among the marigolds, dahlias, and asters, all our gayest-coated
butterflies come out, — orange, gold, brown, scarlet, purple, — eyed like peacocks' tails.

You must not think from this, that you will see only such and such colored butterflies,
at certain times of year. You may see swallowtails very early in spring. They have lived
over winter.3 You may see in autumn the second brood of spring butterflies. You may
find the autumn butterflies sailing about in the summer. They have lived over winter as
caterpillars.

A little lad said to me, one day, when he saw a very gay peacock butterfly, "I think
Nature got tired of painting, and emptied her whole paint-box on that fellow! "Indeed,
it does seem as if there is no gay tint of earth, or sky, or sea, no hue of flower, or
rainbow, which the butterfly does not wear. They come to us in red, purple, green, blue,
white, black. They take all shades of these colors. Then the colors are put on in lines,
dots, streaks, bars, spots, fringes. They are made more beautiful by the waved line of
the lower wings, by the velvet body, the slender legs, the graceful feelers, the bright,
jewel-like eyes.

No silk dyer can bring out a new shade, but some butterfly has worn it for his
everyday clothes since the creation.

No king can buy any richer colors, or more finely put together, than our butterfly
wears. And all else about him sets off the splendor of Joseph's coat.

Cousin Moth.
IN the great order of the scale-wings the butterfly is of the family of the "club-horns."
His cousin, the moth, is of the family of the "varied-horns." The feelers of the butterfly,
up to the club, are straight and smooth. The feelers of the moth are curved and often
fringed. If you put them under a strong microscope, you might think that you were
looking at lovely ferns.

Do you remember what you read in the first and second book of Nature Readers, of
the hook-wing family? Almost all moths have a hook and catch to fasten the lower wing
to the upper one in flight. No butterfly has such a hook.

3
North of New Jersey and Pennsylvania the swallowtails never live over winter.
 I shall now tell you about cousin moth. He is the night flyer, with the big, thick body,
the furry coat, the fancy feelers, the hook for his wings. He is the flyer that rests with his
wings laid open and flat, or laid close down along the sides of his body, like a cloak.

The moth often flies by day. He has lovely, painted wings, but they do not gleam as do
those of the butterfly.

"I do not want to hear about moths," said a little girl; "I know all about them. I kill all I
can see. I killed a big, white one last night. They do so much harm. They ate up my
mother's best muff! "

"And did you kill the tiny, silvery-looking moth, which was flying close to the carpet?
He is a little fellow, who, when he lights, is folded in a roll, not so long as the nail of
your little finger."

"No," says the little girl; "he is too little to do any harm. I let him alone."

"Alas! my child. How easy it is, in this world, to be mistaken! How often the innocent
suffer for the guilty! That silent, white creature, looking like the ghost of a lily, never
has done any harm. That little silver roll is the meddler, who, in his early days, ate up
your mother's muff! Come, I see you know nothing about moths."

As we sat on the porch, last night, someone said: "Who ever before saw a humming-
bird flying at night? There is one now, at the honey-suckles." No! it was not a humming-
bird, but a large hawk-moth. He hung poised on his quivering wings, unrolled his long
trunk, thrust it deep into a flower, and drank honey.

It was hard to distinguish him from a humming-bird. Then, as he dashed across a

moonlit space, he looked like the swallows we have watched at sunset.
 The hawk-moths are large, with large furry bodies. They have a swift, birdlike flight.
One of the largest is called the "death's head." He is furry, even to his wings and legs.
On his shoulders he has black and white marks, like a skull.

The caterpillar of this moth is the largest of caterpillars. It is four inches long, and as
thick as a man's finger. Its color is green, gray, and yellow, with black dots. It lives on
potato vines. It has bluish stripes on the sides.

If you find one, you can raise a moth from it. You must keep it in a dark place, give it
potato leaves to eat, and some moist earth to burrow in. For this caterpillar hides in the
ground, to spend his pupa days. The pupa case looks, I think, much like a seashell.

A queer thing about this moth is, that it can squeak. If you touch its feet with a bit of
stick, it seems angry. It crouches down, and gives a squeak noise.

Another curious moth is the wasp-moth. It is a day flyer. It loves the hottest noons. It
does not look much like a moth. It looks like a wasp, or hornet. Its body is slim, and has
yellow and black bands. Its wings have very few scales. The wings are thin and clear,
like those of a wasp.

These wasp-moths live about trees and shrubs. They lay their eggs under the bark.
The caterpillars are able to eat wood. They gnaw the wood for food, and so dig their
way into the trees, and live there. When they have eaten all they want, they have made
a nice little hole in the tree. They line it with silk. Then they fall asleep in their pupa
state.

When they are ready to come out, they do not leave their hard pupa case in the tree.
They need it to protect their wings as they creep out. When they get to the door of the
hole, they pull their bodies out of the case. Then they fly off, and leave the pupa case
sticking in the hole.

The most useful moth, one worth all the rest, is the bombyx. He made your mother's
silk dress and your hair ribbon. "What!" Well, did you never hear of the silkworm? The
silkworm is the caterpillar of a moth.

This is a dull, plain, little insect. Its trunk is very short, in fact, it is almost gone, for
this moth never eats. It is very short-lived. All it lives for is to lay a great many hundred
eggs.

These eggs are laid on mulberry trees. The caterpillar soon hatches from the egg. It is
a small, homely thing. It eats much during thirty days. In one thing it is different from
all other caterpillars. It has a much better silk spinner in its head. It makes a great deal
of strong, yellow silk. Its body seems full of the sticky stuff, which, when it is drawn
out, hardens into silk.
 Of this silk the caterpillar spins its cocoon. It spins hundreds of yards of fine, silk
thread. Then it wraps itself in a cocoon and casts off its caterpillar skin. If left alone in
the cocoon, it eats its way out, when it has become a full-grown moth.

You must ask your mother or teacher to tell you how this ball of silk is turned into
ribbons and dresses.

From the moth which makes silk for our clothes, let us turn to the moth which eats up
our fur and woolen clothes. The name of this little plague is Tinea. You might as well
call him tiny, for he is the least of all moths. He looks as harmless as possible.

He is a mere little silvery, fringy roll, hiding in shady places, or flitting low and
silently on his little gray wings.

But little Mrs. Tiny, whose name tinea means that she is a spoiler of things, lays
hundreds of eggs. She hides her eggs in carpets, curtains, furniture, and clothes. As
soon as the little caterpillar is out of the egg, it proceeds to gnaw what it is lying on.

This small creature bites and pulls out hairs, or threads, and weaves for itself a nice
little rainbow case. As it grows larger, it builds more case with more threads. As these
hairs or threads are stolen out of our best things, soon we find great holes in our coats
and gowns.

Shake the clothes, and out fall hundreds of little larvae, or wee caterpillars. When the
case is all finished, the caterpillar likes to hang it up by the closed end. Then he hangs in
it, head downward, as a pupa. The case looks like a little roll of dust and fuzz. But the
fuzzy end is the head of little tinea, living out his pupa days.

From Seaside and Wayside Nature Readers, Vol. 3 by Julia McNair Wright.

The Buttefly That Went Calling.

As the warm spring days came, Mr. Yellow Butterfly wriggled and pushed in his
snug little brown house, and wished he could get out to see the world. He remembered
the days when he was a fuzzy little caterpillar, crawling slowly over grass and leaves,
and he remembered how beautiful the sky and the flowers all were. Then he thought of
the new wings which had been growing from his back, and he tried to move them, just
to see how it would feel. He had only six legs since his wings grew, and he missed all
the sticky feet which he had to give up when he began to change into a butterfly.

The more he thought about it the more he squirmed, until suddenly he found
something that looked like milk in his little home1, and he saw that where this milky-
looking stuff had made a little puddle at the lower end of his room the walls of his
house were melting away. They got thinner and thinner, until he could see the beautiful
sunlight shining outside. Then all the milky stuff leaked out, and there was a tiny hole
ready for Mr. Butterfly to crawl through. The thin dark brown wrapper around him
popped open, and out he went.

Poor Mr. Butterfly! He found his wings so wet and crinkled that they wouldn't work
at all, so he had to sit quietly in the sunshine all day drying them. And just as they got
big, and smooth, and dry, it grew dark, and Mr. Butterfly had to crawl under a leaf to
sleep.

The next morning, bright and early, he flew away to visit the flowers. First he
stopped to see the Daisies by the roadside. They were all dancing in the wind, and their
bright faces looked as cheerful as anyone could wish. They were glad to see Mr.
Butterfly, and wished him to stay all day with them. He said: "You are very kind, but I
really couldn't think of doing it. You must excuse my saying it, but I am surprised to
think you will grow here. It is very dusty and dry, and then there is no shade. I am sure
I could have chosen a better place."

The Daisies smiled and nodded to each other, saying, "This is the kind of place we
were made for, that's all."

Mr. Butterfly shook his head very doubtfully, and then bade them a polite "Good
morning," and flew away to call on the Cardinals.

The Cardinals are a very stately family, as everybody knows. They hold their heads
very high, and never make deep bows, even to the wind, but for all that they are a very
pleasant family to meet. They gave Mr. Butterfly a dainty lunch of honey, and seemed
much pleased when he told them how beautiful the river looked in the sunlight.

"It is a delightful place to grow," said they.

"Ye-es," said Mr. Butterfly, "it is very pretty, still I do not think it can be healthful. I
really cannot understand why you flowers choose such strange homes. Now, there are
the Daisies, where I just called. They are in a dusty, dry place, where there is no shade
at all. I spoke to them about it, and they acted quite uppish."

"But the Daisies always do choose such places," said the Cardinals.

"And your family," said Mr. Butterfly," have lived so long in wet places that it is a
wonder you are alive. Your color is good, but to stand with one's roots in water all the
time! It is shocking."

"Cardinals and Butterflies live differently," said the flowers. "Good-morning."

 Mr. Butterfly left the river and flew over to the woods. He was very much out of
patience. He was so angry that his feelers quivered, and now you know how angry he
must have been. He knew that the Violets were a very agreeable family, who never put
on airs, so he went at once to them.

He had barely said "Good-morning" to them when he began to explain what had
displeased him.

"To think," he said, "what notions some flowers have! Now, you have a pleasant
home here in the edge of the woods. I have been telling the Daisies and the Cardinals
that they should grow in such a place, but they wouldn't listen to me. The Daisies were
quite uppish about it, and the Cardinals were very stiff."

"My dear friend," answered a Violet, "they could never live if they moved up into our
neighborhood. Every flower has his own place in this world, and is happiest in that
place. Everything has its own place and its own work, and every flower that is wise will
stay in the place for which it was intended. You were exceedingly kind to want to help
the flowers, but suppose they had been telling you what to do. Suppose the Cardinals
had told you that flying around was not good for your health, and that to be truly well
you ought to grow planted with your legs in the mud and water."

"Oh!" said Mr. Butterfly, "Oh! I never thought of that. Perhaps Butterflies don't know
everything."

"No," said the Violet, "they don't know everything, and you haven't been out of your
chrysalis very long. But those who are ready to learn can always find someone to tell
them. Won't you eat some honey?"

And Mr. Butterfly sipped honey and was happy.

From Among the Meadow People by Clara Dillingham Pierson.

Story of the Small Green Caterpillar and the Beautiful White Butterfly.
(Adapted)
In a kitchen garden at the rear of an old, brick house in a country town, stood long
rows of stately corn, whose shining green blades glistened in the sun and rustled if a
passing breeze spoke to them. Near at hand were some thickly-leaved currant bushes
which looked as if they had been so busy bearing bunches of juicy, red currants that
they had found no time to grow tall like their neighbors, the com.

Just across the garden-path was a fine bed of feathery asparagus, separated from the
rest of the garden by a low wooden border about two inches high. I do not know as to
whether or not it was this exclusive life they lived that made them so lacking in
strength, but they were swayed by the slightest breath of air, now this way and now
that. In the same garden were many other vegetables, and towering far above them all
were some giant plum trees. At least they seemed like giants to the potato vine and
tomato plants nearby, both of whom were of a creeping nature and had a great
admiration for anybody, or anything, that was higher than themselves. The young
potato vines used to look up from the top of their hills and wonder if they would ever
get as near to the sky as the branches of the plum trees seemed to be. Silly things! They
did not know that their only value lay in their keeping close to the ground and bearing
as many fine, smooth-skinned potatoes as possible; that is, the younger vines did not
know this important fact.

Our story, however, is not about the potato vines, but of something very wonderful
which took place upon the outside leaf of a round, green cabbage-head which stood
along with the other cabbage-heads in one corner of the garden. I don't believe you
would have* understood much of what was going on if you had been there, any more
than did the happy-faced, little, black-eyed woman who owned the garden. She thought
she loved her garden, every tree, and shrub, and herb that grew in it; still she spent a
great deal more time looking at the swift-flowing river and the stretch of hills beyond
than she did at her cabbage-heads. Her neighbors said she was very far-sighted and
called her clever, but the ants and beetles which lived in the garden knew that she was
dull, because she spent hours each day poring over stupid books, while the most
wonderful things were happening all around her, under her very nose, as it were, or
rather, I should say, perhaps, under her very feet — things far more interesting than her
books could possibly have been.

Among these wonderful things of which her garden could have told her was the life
story of a little green caterpillar whose home was on the outside leaf of a large green
cabbage-head. He was not an inch long and not much bigger around than a good-sized
broom straw, yet he was an honest little fellow in his way, and spent most of his time
crawling about on his cabbage-leaf and nibbling holes in it, which you know, is about
all a caterpillar can be expected to do. The great, beautiful sun, high up in the sky, sent
his bright rays of light down to warm the little caterpillar just as regularly and with
seemingly just as much love as he sent them to make the thousand wavelets of the
swift-flowing river sparkle and gleam like diamonds, or as he sent them down to rest in
calm, still sunshine on the quiet hilltops beyond.

The little green caterpillar's life was a very narrow one. He had never been away from
his cabbage leaf, in fact he did not know that there was anything else in the world
except cabbage leaves. He might have learned something of the beautiful silvery moon,
or the shining stars, or of the glorious sun itself, if he had ever looked up, but he never
did, therefore the whole world was a big cabbage leaf to him, and all of his life
consisted in nibbling as much cabbage-leaf as possible.
 So you can easily imagine his astonishment when one day a dainty, white butterfly
settled down beside him and began laying small green eggs. The little caterpillar had
never before seen anything half so beautiful as were the wings of the dainty, white
butterfly, and when she had finished laying her eggs and flew off, he for the first time in
his whole life, lifted his head toward the blue sky that he might watch the quick motion
of her wings. She was soon beyond the tallest leaves of the tomato plants, above the
feathery tips of the fine asparagus, even higher than the plum trees. He watched her
until she became a mere speck in the air and at last vanished from his sight. He then
sighed and turned again to his cabbage leaf. As he did so his eyes rested on the twenty
small green eggs which were no larger than pin heads.

"Did she leave these for me to care for?" said he to himself. Then came the perplexing
question — how could he, a crawling caterpillar, take care of baby butterflies. He could
not teach them anything except to crawl and nibble cabbage leaves. If they were like
their beautiful mother, would they not soon fly far beyond his reach? This last thought
troubled him a great deal, still he watched over them tenderly until they should hatch.
He could at least tell them of how beautiful their mother had been and could show
them where to fly that they might find her.

He often pictured to himself how they would look, twenty dainty little butterflies
fluttering about him on his cabbage leaf for a time, and then flying off to the blue sky,
for aught he knew, to visit the stars with their mother. He loved the great sun very
dearly now, because it sent its rays down to warm the tiny eggs.

One day he awoke from his afternoon nap just in time to see a most remarkable sight!
What do you think was happening? One after another of the small green eggs were
breaking open, and out were crawling — what do you suppose! Little white butterflies?
No, nothing of the kind — Little green caterpillars were creeping out of each shell. Their
foster-father, as he had learned to call himself, could hardly believe his own eyes. Yet
there they were, wriggling and squirming, very much like the young angleworms in the
ground below.

"Well, well, well!" said he to himself, "who would ever dream that the children of that
beautiful creature would be mere caterpillars?" Strange as it seemed to him, there was
no denying the fact and his duty was to teach them how to crawl about and how to
nibble cabbage leaves. "Poor things," he used to say as he moved among them, "you will
never know the world of beauty in which your mother lived, you will never be able to
soar aloft in the free air, your lives must be spent in creeping about on a cabbage leaf
and filling yourselves full of it each day. Poor things! Poor things! "

The young caterpillars soon became so expert that they no longer needed his care.
Feeling very tired and sleepy, he one day decided to make for himself a bed, or bag and
go to sleep, not caring much whether or not he ever awoke. He was soon softly
wrapped from head to foot in the curious covering he had made, and then came a long,
long sleep of three weeks or more. When at last he awakened, he began to work his
head out of his covering. Soon his whole body was free and he began to breathe the
fresh air and feel the warm sunshine. He was sure that something had happened to him
though he could not tell what. He turned his head this way and that, and at last caught
sight of his own sides. What do you think he saw? Wings! Beautiful white wings! And
his body was white, too! The long sleep had changed him into a butterfly!

He began to slowly stretch his wings. They were so new he could hardly believe that
they were part of himself. The more he stretched them the more beautiful they became,
and soon they quivered and fluttered as gracefully as did other butterfly wings. Just at
this moment a strong, fresh breeze swept over the garden, and before he had time to
refuse, the new butterfly was lifted off the cabbage leaf and was dancing through the
air, settling down now on a bright flower, and now on a nodding blade of grass, then
up and off again. He rejoiced gaily in his freedom for a time, but soon came the longing
to try his wings in the upper sunshine.

Before attempting the unknown journey, however, he flew back to the round, green
cabbage-head on which he had lived so long. There were the twenty, small, green
caterpillars, still creeping slowly about and filling themselves with cabbage-leaf. This
was all they knew how to do, and this they did faithfully. "Never mind, little
caterpillars," said the new butterfly as he hovered over them," keep on at your work; the
cabbage leaf gives you food, and the crawling makes you strong. By and by you, too,
shall be butterflies and go forth free and glad into God's great upper world."

Having said this in so low a tone of voice that you would not have heard him had
you been standing close by, he flew far away, so far that neither you nor I could have
followed him with our eyes. As for the happy-faced, little, black-eyed woman, she did
not even know that he had been near her, for her eyes were fastened on her book, as
usual. But the small, green, caterpillars must have heard, for they went on crawling and
nibbling cabbage-leaves quite contentedly, and not one of them was ever heard to
complain of having to be a caterpillar, though occasionally one and then another of
them would lift his head, and I doubt not he was thinking of the time when he, too,
should become a beautiful white butterfly.

From In Story-Land by Elizabeth Harrison.