A MIDNIGHT EPISODE WITH VANESSA ANTIOPA. 



(THE MOURNING-CLOCK BUTTERFLY.) 



The year in which I began to gather 

 and study "worms" and the different in- 

 sects, held for me many a surprise as 

 well as some disappointments. I recall 

 a cold, wet afternoon in September, when 

 Charlie, a bright little neighbor, and I, 

 went out for what could be found, and to 

 learn if the caterpillar and butterfly folks 

 travelled without umbrellas. 



It was the boy who first discovered a 

 great tangled mass of black, spiney 

 "worms" on a limb of willow, and his 

 jack knife cut off the branch. We ex- 

 pected to see the 'bunch ' immediately 

 separate into individuals, each rushing to 

 shelter in as many different ways as there 

 were caterpillars, but not even one of- 

 fered to depart. If touched, they would 

 only curl or straighten. They seemed 

 chilled and dormant, so> my little assistant 

 carried the branch over his shoulder with 

 the nest dangling at the back, and we re- 

 turned home to pursue our investigations 

 in more comfortable quarters. As I in- 

 tended to drop the entire mass into the 

 breeding cage which was then empty, I 

 told Charlie to come into the house with 

 his find, but as I entered, I was greeted 

 with the information that my little 

 mother, who is a helpless invalid, was 

 again suffering, and at once went to her 

 side, where I remained for hours, for- 

 getting entirely my nest of "worms." At 

 midnight, as I was lying down on a 

 lounge in the sitting-room for a little 

 while, I soon noticed here and there on 

 the wall in front of me, several unfa- 

 miliar black things, and horrors of hor- 

 rors ! they were moving about. I hastily 

 looked at the other walls, and jumped up 

 with a sudden recollection of that bunch 

 of caterpillars. 



Charlie had dropped the branch inside 

 of the door, and learning of my mother's 



illness, had quietly stolen away. Not a 

 "worm" was left in the nest. I called for 

 assistance from every inmate of the 

 place, and for an hour we hunted, brush- 

 ing them from curtains, walls, pictures, 

 etc., and shaking them out from the sofa 

 pillows and all other available hiding 

 places. After a thorough search, quiet 

 was once more restored to the house- 

 hold, while only a few dark stains gave 

 evidence of our late callers. 



Before October we left the farm and 

 returned to town, but in May, when we 

 again went there for the summer, the 

 black spots upon the wall made new 

 paper a necessity. While clearing the 

 house, I decided to air and dust a small 

 attic, located above the sitting-room, out 

 of which led a steep, boxed-in stair way. 

 One sunny morning I unbolted and flung 

 open the door, and at once started back 

 in amaze. Was the place inhabited by 

 bats? A perfect swarm of brown wings 

 beat against my head and face, but there 

 was a glint of delicate yellow to be seen, 

 and also a bit of violet, as the frail creat- 

 ures swept down into the sitting-room 

 and so on into the sunlight of the outside 

 world. Evidently many of those black 

 caterpillars searched for on that Septem- 

 ber midnight, had escaped us and 

 crawled under the door leading to this 

 loft, where, unmolested, they had gone 

 into their chrysalis state and eventually 

 hatched into these beautiful butterflies, 

 wintering as such in a dormant condition, 

 needing neither food nor drink. 



Awakening to greet the spring sun- 

 shine, had some unknown instinct led 

 them to the place through which they 

 had crawled in their earlier existence? 

 It seemed as if they were but waiting for 

 the opportunity which I now gave them, 

 to go forth and reproduce their kind. 

 Ellen Robertson Miller. 



