Back Aa

Little Busybodies: The Life of Crickets, Ants, Bees, and Others

Close

<h2>XI</h2> <h3>CAMPING OUT</h3> At last the day, expected all summer long, had come. The children, Hope and Betty, Jack, Peter, and Jimmy, Mrs. Reece and Ben Gile, were gathered on the edge of the pond, their packs in the canoes, their paddles at bow and stern. Other guides had taken the food and tents ahead the day before. Their friends had gathered to bid them good-bye, and finally, amid the farewells, they were off, Jimmie in a canoe by himself, Jack and Peter paddling Mrs. Reece, and Ben Gile with the two little girls. Everybody was so excited that all talked at once, and nobody could hear any one else. Hope and Betty had never been camping before, and the boys meant to show the girls all the wonders of sleeping and eating out in the woods. Finally they came to a "carry"—that is, a path leading from one lake to another, across which the food and canoes have to be lugged. The girls and Mrs. Reece carried the packs and food over, making several trips in order to do so; and the boys and the guide, crossing their paddles under the thwarts of the canoes and raising the blades on their shoulders, balanced the canoes and trotted swiftly over the carry. Nothing seemed any trouble that glorious, beautiful day—nothing too heavy, nothing too hard. Betty and Hope could have skipped over every inch of the trail, and they were quite sure that they could have done all the paddling, too. And Betty did learn, in after years, not only to paddle, but also to carry her own canoe, for she grew to be a big, strong, athletic girl, with rosy cheeks and a quick, sure step. Hour after hour they went from one pond to another. The ponds were larger and wilder at each crossing, and already they were in a wilderness of woods and lakes, and heard the whistle of the hawk, the scream of the lonely eagle, and the crazy cries of the loon. Every once in a while a big heron mounted lazily upward and flew off solemnly to a place where his peace need not be disturbed. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-105.jpg" alt="moth, caterpillar" title="" /> A. Moth. B. Caterpillar. C. Side view of head of moth. D. and E. Scales from the wing of a butterfly. </div> Although Hope and Peter and Jack lived all the year around in Rangeley Village, yet they had never been so far away from home before, and to them it seemed very wonderful. Even in the midst of it all, however, Jack did not forget the prize Ben Gile had offered. He hurried over carry after carry, and at the end of each one might be found flat on his face studying some little hill of ants. At last, after travelling five hours, they came to a halt, ravenously hungry. Dinner was cooked and eaten, and then, after dinner, they began their long ascent of Saddleback, for they were going to a lonely little pond on the second highest mountain in the State of Maine. There, at Camp-in-the-Clouds, was a cabin in which Mrs. Reece could sleep, and the girls, too, if they wished, although they declared that they would not. Up, up the hill they trudged, stepping over blow-downs, following their footing carefully, and watching with interest the little animals that scampered out of their way. But never did packs grow so heavy, and at last Mrs. Reece, who was carrying nothing but Jack's camera, sat down panting and laughing. "I can't go a step farther," she declared, "until I catch my breath." "This is a good place to rest," assented the guide. "Some deer found it so this morning, I think. Here, catch that butterfly, Jack!" In a flash Jack had caught the butterfly, and brought it, gently, to Ben Gile. "You don't see this fellow up here often. Who knows the difference between a butterfly and a moth? No one? Well, that is because most children are going to bed about the time the moth begins to fly. Doesn't any one know? You have all seen moths and butterflies? Well, well, well! "The first thing you see is that when the moth lights on the edge of a flower-cup, instead of holding the wings up above the body, as the butterfly does, it spreads its wings flat over the body. Then a butterfly has little knobs at the tips of its slender antennæ, while the moth has slender ones without knobs, or pretty, feathery ones that look like plumes." "I supposed," said Peter, "that moths and butterflies were just the same, except that moths will fly into the house and burn their wings on the lamps." Peter didn't in the least care about moths and butterflies. He was longing to get to the top of the mountain, but he was too polite to seem impatient. "They are alike in many ways. You remember, do you not, that the locust has a pair of soft jaws covering over the dark, hard ones? In the moths and butterflies these jaws are different. Each one is long, and has a deep groove on the inner side. These two grooves fit together, and make a slender tube called a proboscis. When flying this long tube is rolled up in a tight coil under the head; alighting, the proboscis is quickly uncoiled and dipped into the throat of the flower, and the sweet nectar sipped from it. See here, Jack, what have you on your fingers?" "The dust from the butterfly's wings, sir." "No, not quite dust, or powder, either. That dust is tiny hair and scales. If I had a powerful lens in my pocket I could show you how deeply some of these tiny scales are scalloped, so that they look like a hand with fingers. If you rubbed all the scales off that wing there would be no color left, for the scales are like little sacs, and many of them contain grains of color called pigment—red, yellow, or brown. You have all seen the rainbow of colors on a soap-bubble? Well, the brilliant colors of the wing are made in just the same way as the colors on a bubble: by the light striking the little ridges on the overlapping scales." "It is not only we who are fearfully and wonderfully made," said Mrs. Reece, "but even the tiniest creatures God has created, and all with a purpose, all with a place." The guide nodded his head. "The more you study, the more you see how every least thing is part of a great mysterious whole. If you look at a butterfly's wing from which the scales have been rubbed you will see plan and purpose in the placing of even those scales; for the little pits into which the stems of the scale fit are turned all one way, toward the base of the wing." "They are so beautiful!" exclaimed Betty. "Are they always pretty?" "That depends," replied the old man, "whether in their caterpillar youth you think them pretty. They have a bad name, then, for being homely, and do a good deal of damage." "Oh, I hate caterpillars!" cried Hope. "Fuzzy caterpillars hump so and crawl," said Betty. "You mean woolly bears?" "Woolly bears!" exclaimed the children. "Yes; not Teddy bears. They have to play somehow, so they wiggle for joy, and this takes them along very fast—that is, fast for a caterpillar. Sometimes they spin a long thread by which they take a flying short cut and land—on your back." Jimmie dropped a tiny twig down Betty's back, which made her scream. "But they don't harm us," said Ben Gile. "They are so fussy about what they eat for dinner that they wouldn't think of biting even the sweetest little boy or girl. They prefer something far more tender. Ah, you wouldn't like Isabella!" The old man shook his head sadly. "Isabella! Who is Isabella?" questioned the children. "Isabella is always in a hurry," said the guide—"always. She is brown in the middle, and black on the head and tail end, Isabella is, and she walks rapidly, as if she had a great deal to do before she could take time to be made over into a tiger-moth. She stops every once in a while to make sure she is on the right road; then she hurries along in a nervous, fidgety way, looking for a nice, comfortable stone under which to have a winter home, for Isabella is in such haste that she could never think of taking time to spin a cocoon." "But do all caterpillars turn into moths or butterflies?" asked Jack. "Yes, every one, my son, that lives long enough, just as surely as a boy will turn into a man. The butterfly lays the egg, and after the egg has been quiet for a while out comes a little worm; the worm spins the cocoon, and out of the cocoon comes a perfect moth, or butterfly. It is a wonderful cycle, a wonderful series of changes. Little boys and girls seem to be surrounded with more love and don't change their skins as moths do, but the mystery of life belongs quite as much to the helpless moth as it does to any one of us." "But is a caterpillar an insect, and is a butterfly an insect?" asked Betty. "Of course, you goose," said Jimmie; "you don't expect to hatch a duck from a hen's egg, do you?" But Ben Gile, who was older than Jimmie and decidedly more patient, explained, carefully: "If you look at a caterpillar and a moth you will see that their bodies aren't so unlike, after all. They are made up of rings, and both the moth and the caterpillar have six legs apiece. Most caterpillars have little prop legs, but these aren't real legs and shouldn't be counted. Caterpillars eat and eat and eat; they are such solid little chaps they must need a good many legs, real and false, to keep moving at all. Well, heigho! stretch your own legs, boys! We'll leave the caterpillar where it is, and move on to the top of the mountain, or we'll never be there in time to eat our own supper. One, two, three, march!" And off they went, talking and laughing and scrambling up the side of the mountain, which swung dark and steep above them. <hr class="major" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2