Moths of the Limberlost | Page 2

swamp to study and reproduce the birds. I
never thought they could have a rival in my heart. But these fragile
night wanderers, these moonflowers of June's darkness, literally "thrust
themselves upon me." When my cameras were placed before the home
of a pair of birds, the bushes parted to admit light, and clinging to them
I found a creature, often having the bird's sweep of wing, of colour pale
green with decorations of lavender and yellow or running the gamut
from palest tans darkest browns, with markings, of pink or dozens of
other irresistible combinations of colour, the feathered folk found a
competitor that often outdistanced them in my affections, for I am

captivated easily by colour, and beauty of form.
At first, these moths made studies of exquisite beauty, I merely stopped
a few seconds to reproduce them, before proceeding with my work.
Soon I found myself filling the waiting time, when birds were slow in
coming before the cameras, when clouds obscured the light too much
for fast exposures, or on grey days, by searching for moths. Then in
collecting abandoned nests, cocoons were found on limbs, inside
stumps, among leaves when gathering nuts, or queer shining
pupae-cases came to light as I lifted wild flowers in the fall. All these
were carried to my little conservatory, placed in as natural conditions as
possible, and studies were made from the moths that emerged the
following spring. I am not sure but that "Moths of Limberlost Cabin"
would be the most appropriate title for this book.
Sometimes, before I had finished with them, they paired, mated, and
dotted everything with fertile eggs, from which tiny caterpillars soon
would emerge. It became a matter of intense interest to provide their
natural foods and raise them. That started me to watching for
caterpillars and eggs out of doors, and friends of my work began
carrying them to me. Repeatedly, I have gone through the entire life
process, from mating newly emerged moths, the egg period, caterpillar
life, with its complicated moults and changes, the spinning of the
cocoons, the miraculous winter sleep, to the spring appearance; and
with my cameras recorded each stage of development. Then on
platinum paper, printed so lightly from these negatives as to give only
an exact reproduction of forms, and with water colour medium copied
each mark, line and colour gradation in most cases from the living
moth at its prime. Never was the study of birds so interesting.
The illustration of every moth book I ever have seen, that attempted
coloured reproduction, proved by the shrivelled bodies and unnatural
position of the wings, that it had been painted from objects mounted
from weeks to years in private collections or museums. A lifeless moth
fades rapidly under the most favourable conditions. A moth at eight
days of age, in the last stages of decline, is from four to six distinct
shades lighter in colour than at six hours from the cocoon, when it is

dry, and ready for flight. As soon as circulation stops, and the life
juices evaporate from the wings and body, the colour grows many
shades paler. If exposed to light, moths soon fade almost beyond
recognition.
I make no claim to being an entomologist; I quite agree with the
"Autocrat of the Breakfast Table*", that "the subject is too vast for any
single human intelligence to grasp." If my life depended upon it I could
not give the scientific name of every least organ and nerve of a moth,
and as for wrestling with the thousands of tiny species of day and night
or even attempting all the ramifications of--say the alluringly beautiful
Catocalae family-- life is too short, unless devoted to this purpose alone.
But if I frankly confess my limitations, and offer the book to my
nature-loving friends merely as an introduction to the most exquisite
creation of the swamp; and the outside history, as it were, of the
evolution of these creatures from moth to moth again, surely no one
can feel defrauded. Since the publication of "A Girl of the
Limberlost"**, I have received hundreds of letters asking me to write
of my experiences with the lepidoptera of the swamp. This book
professes to be nothing more.
<<*Dec 1996 [aofbtxxx.xxx]751 Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,
Oliver Wendell Holmes>>
<<**April 1994 [limbr10x.xxx] 125 A Girl of the Limberlost, by Gene
Stratton-Porter>>
Because so many enemies prey upon the large night moths in all stages,
they are nowhere sufficiently numerous to be pests, or common enough
to be given local names, as have the birds. I have been compelled to use
their scientific names to assist in identification, and at times I have had
to resort to technical terms, because there were no other. Frequently I
have written of them under