THE OLD CHURCH AND THE CATERPILLAR 



I was Spending Sunday in an old New- 

 York town, which boasts, among other 

 ancient landmarks, a church built a hun- 

 dred and fifty years ago. This, my friend 

 wished me to see, and as we walked 

 down the grass-grown village road, I 

 spied on a young slippery-elm by the 

 church gate some badly eaten leaves, and 

 stopped to investigate. 



I think my dear Elizabeth jwas disap- 

 pointed, because I showed so little enthu- 

 siasm over the grey old building, but the 

 fact was, I had located and captured the 

 individual who had feasted upon the 

 slippery-elm leaves, and I wanted her to 

 see and understand how beautiful a crea- 

 ture it was. But it is not the easiest 

 thing in the world to interest one's ' 

 friends in one's hobbies. Elizabeth is 

 an authority on old buildings and old 

 furniture, but I care most for the myriad 

 forms of insect life which every where 

 abound, and we each think the other just 

 a wee bit foolish, because that other can 

 not view life through the same specta- 

 cles as those which we wear. Then again, 

 people in general have a cultivated (not 

 an inherited) dislike for caterpillars, and 

 it is most difficult to convince them that 

 creeping things are, as a rule, both harm- 

 less and entertaining. Elizabeth, how- 

 ever, was very kind and loaned me her 

 jelly mould as a temporary home for my 

 Violet-tip caterpillar, and really tried to 

 admire his spiny body which she ex- 

 amined through a reading glass. 



The larvae of the Angle-wings, the 

 family to which the Violet-tip belongs, 

 have heads that in profile resemble the 

 head of a cat, and the likeness is intensi- 

 fied because of the earlike tufts. The 

 body of the caterpillar is well defended 

 by dull red, yellow, and black spines 

 while its skin is finely lined with the same 

 colors. 



I knew the creeping days of my insect 

 were about over, for he measured two 

 inches in length and to all appearances 

 was a fine, healthy specimen. Monday 

 evening, he was obliged to ride to New 

 York City in the compartment occupied 

 by a family of lo caterpillars, and I was 



worried lest the los should realize the 

 presence of an alien and by using their 

 stinging bristles upon him, resent the in- 

 trusion. He appeared none the worse for 

 the journey when I removed him to an 

 old fruit can, and on Tuesday afternoon, 

 I was delighted to find a chrysalis dang- 

 ling from the lid of the jar, while a cast- 

 off caterpillar skin lay below. 



Now if Elizabeth could have seen this 

 irregular brown shell, with its double 

 row of gold buttons, I am quite certain 

 she would have acknowledged that its 

 lines and curves were as artistic and 

 beautiful as those of anySheriton chair 

 in her fine old parlor. The colonel, the 

 reporter, and even the little colored maid 

 where I board, pronounced it a charming 

 piece of realistic nature work, or words 

 to that effect differently rendered. A 

 week later to a day, there was an empty 

 chrysalis with its trap door lifted ; on the 

 bottom of the can a drop of red liquid 

 such as is secreted when an angle-wing 

 butterfly is born ; and on my window- 

 screen the butterfly waited. He had 

 tawny yellow, brown and violet wings ; 

 when these were waved, I could catch a 

 glimpse of the lavender border above, 

 while the silver semi-colons gleamed be- 

 neath. 



New York is a big city, but it has 

 its parks, so I trust that my Violet-tip 

 found his mate among the green trees, 

 and that she laid some eggs upon the 

 elm and hop vine, where they hatched in- 

 to little spiny caterpillars, and that 

 someone who reads this history will find 

 them or others of their kind, and care to 

 watch the strange and wonderful changes 

 called metamorphoses, through which 

 this insect, the Violet-tip, passes. 



I Wrote and told Elizabeth about the 

 chrysalis and the butterfly, and promised 

 that next summer I would spend half a 

 day in the old church and learn of its 

 historical past, its crumbling present, 

 and its possible future, for truly we 

 should be somewhat interested in what 

 interests our friends, even when their in- 

 terest is of things dead and buried. 

 Ellen Robertson-Miller. 



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