ing appetites. \\ illow no longer tasted 

 good. Then we became aware of new 

 possibilities. In the jHiouth of each had 

 grown a little spinning machine. It was 

 a tiny tube, the end of a duct which con- 

 nects with silk glands in the abdomen. 

 Gummy fluid secreted by these glands 

 can be forced to the mouth of the spin- 

 neret, and applied to some support when 

 it can be drawn out, the air hardening it. 

 its use was clear; it was for making our 

 case for the long winter's sleep. Cling- 

 ing lengthwise of a twig, the head could 

 be moved slowly back and forth till a 

 large loose skeleton of a coccoon was 

 spun. As you know, our family are fa- 

 mous spinners, one of our cousins, the 

 Silk Worm, being especially an adept in 

 the art. Inside the frame work we toiled, 

 running threads back and forth till a 

 close mesh was formed, which grew 

 darker by exposure to the air; and we 

 had shut ourselves out from the light of 

 day. Then a lining was made of a closer 

 network of threads, and our house, 

 double-walled with plenty of air space 

 between, was finished after two days of 

 incessant toil. Our quarters even in the 

 big tin box were decidedly too close for 

 so many of us, and we had to plaster 

 ourselves in close proximity to the sides. 

 I am sure that we could have done bet- 

 ter out of doors with a large dark twig 

 for a foundation. And then, just at this 

 critical period, we had to go on another 

 trip. It seems that vacations are made 

 for traveling. But this job of spinning 

 once begun had to be carried on, even 

 though we were riding on cars and stay- 

 ing in strange places. The last of us fin- 

 ished our work just after the end of this 

 journey, the last, we hope, that we shall 

 ever take. To our surprise, we were 

 told that we were now back where we 

 were first at the end of our first journey, 

 when we were still eggs. 



But the discomforts of captivity were 

 more than made up for in the greater 

 safety of our lives. Left to ourselves, 

 had we succeeded in our spinning, our 

 strong rain-proof and inconspicuous 

 case might not always have protected us 

 from the new enemies that awaited us. 

 More fortunate than some Moths, we 

 usually escape the birds in the caterpillar 



stage, to whom, fortunately, our flesh is 

 distasteful. But in the fall, the bluejay 

 and other birds go a-coccooning, and 

 their sharp eyes may spy us out, and 

 their sharp bills will then cut through our 

 tough cases like a knife, and we will 

 be dragged out in our helpless condition 

 to satisfy their voracious appetites. 



But if well built coccoons in well se- 

 lected places save us from all perils, 

 great changes go on inside the pupae- 

 cases, not often seen by mortal eyes. The 

 body shortens, the organs change, the 

 tissues are absorbed. The larval skin is 

 shed, and lies a useless covering, while 

 the body is now covered by a hard case 

 bearing on the outside the marking 

 which foreshadows the structure of the 

 organs of the adults — head, thorax, ab- 

 domen, limbs, wings — reformed out of 

 the old larval organs. The change from 

 the larval to the adult Moth is enormous, 

 and it takes Mother Nature all winter 

 to complete it. 



Our warm winter quarters will hasten 

 the change. Some bright day in March, 

 I shall awake from this long dormant 

 stage, eat a way out of my coccoon and 

 emerge with wet and heavy wings, a 

 wonder to myself and the center of an 

 admiring crowd of school children. We 

 are the largest of the Moths, with some- 

 times a spread of six inches to the wings. 

 Head and thorax rusty red, abdomen red 

 with bands of red and white, furry 

 skins, long delicately jointed legs — we 

 are simply superb. But the crowning 

 glory will be my wings of gray with 

 black and white and red markings, eye 

 spots on the front pair, a crescent of 

 white bordered with red and black on all 

 four. Formed of pads of skin, richly 

 supplied with air canals, they will spread 

 and dry when waved slowly in the air. 

 I shall need no food, indeed I shall 

 have no mouth in this short but bril- 

 liant career of a few days. I shall fly by 

 night, after a day or two spent in drying 

 my wings. I shall find my mate, who will 

 be smaller than I, but have larger and 

 more beautiful antennae or feelers. And 

 then after the eggs are laid on some con- 

 venient twigs, this short but eventful 

 life will be ended like the lives of our 

 pirents before us. Ruth Marshalt. 



