E-text prepared by Simon Gardner, Chris Curnow,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)
from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive
(http://www.archive.org)

BUTTERFLIES AND MOTHS
(BRITISH)

Plate I

Danielsson & Co., del. ad. Nat. et Chromolith.

BUTTERFLIES AND MOTHS
(BRITISH)

BY

W. FURNEAUX, F.R.G.S.

AUTHOR OF ‘THE OUT-DOOR WORLD, OR YOUNG COLLECTOR’S HANDBOOK’

WITH TWELVE COLOURED PLATES
AND NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT

LONDON

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
AND NEW YORK. 15 EAST 16^th STREET

1894

All rights reserved

[Pg v]

PREFACE

The favourable reception with which the ‘Out-door World’
has been greeted has encouraged the publishers to issue
a series of volumes dealing in fuller detail with the various
branches of Natural History treated of in that work.
Necessarily each subject was only briefly touched upon, but
the study is of so enticing a character that ‘appetite grows
by feeding,’ and the students of the ‘Out-door World,’
having tasted the sweetness of companionship with Nature,
will not rest satisfied with the help afforded by that handbook.
Each one will want to go deeper into that particular department
which most appeals to his own inclinations.

The present volume is written expressly for those who
desire to extend their knowledge of the British Lepidoptera,
or, to use the more popular names, ‘Butterflies and Moths.’

The general characteristics of this interesting order of
insects are described somewhat fully, but, of course, it would
be impossible to give an individual account of all the British
Lepidoptera in a work of this size, so a selection has been
made such as will satisfy the requirements of the great majority
of those who intend to take up this particular branch[Pg vi]
of entomology. The number of British Butterflies, however, is
so limited that a place has been found for a figure and a description
of every species; and, of the larger moths, many
of the common and typical kinds have been included. An
introduction to the study of the Micro-lepidoptera has also
been added.

No trouble has been spared to render this work thoroughly
practical. In addition to the verbal descriptions of so many
species, twelve coloured plates and a large number of woodcuts
have been specially prepared to help the student in his
work. It is believed that the extreme care with which these
have been produced will render them of the greatest assistance
to the collector in the recognition of his specimens.

But he has not only to recognise his specimens—he must
first catch them; and here full directions have been given to
insure success in this part of his work, as well as in the
management, preservation, and arrangement of his captures.

The Author hopes that this volume may be the means of
adding many happy hours—hours of the purest enjoyment—to
the lives of those whom he has succeeded in luring into
the fields and lanes and woods of the Out-door World.

[Pg vii]

CONTENTS

[Pg ix]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

COLOURED PLATES

Full references accompany the Plates.

ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT

[Pg 1]

PART I

STRUCTURE AND LIFE-HISTORY
OF THE LEPIDOPTERA

CHAPTER I

GENERAL CHARACTERS

The word Lepidoptera, which you see at the head of this page, is
the name of the order of insects to which this volume is to be
devoted. It is formed from two Greek words, one (lepis) signifying
a scale, and the other (pteron) denoting a wing; and was
applied by the great naturalist Linnæus to the scaly-winged insects
popularly known as Butterflies
and Moths.

Fig. 1.—Scales from the Wings of
Butterflies.

Every one of my readers
has undoubtedly handled some
of the interesting creatures of
this group—having been led
to do so either by the extreme
beauty of their clothing, or,
perhaps, from a murderous
intent in order to protect his
own garments from the ravages
of a supposed marauder. A light mealy powder will probably have
been observed afterwards on the fingers that have touched the
victim’s wings.

This powder, although it sometimes presents a beautiful glossy
surface when spread over the skin, does not exhibit any definite
form or structure without a more minute examination. Yet these[Pg 2]
are the scales that led the immortal naturalist to invent the somewhat
long but useful term Lepidoptera.

The very next time the opportunity offers itself, dust off a little
of the mealy powder with a small and very soft brush on to a
strip of white paper or a slip of glass, and examine it with a
powerful lens or the low power of a compound microscope. What
a sight you will then behold! Each little particle of dust is a
beautifully formed scale, stamped with a number of minute
rounded projections, and often displaying the most gorgeous colours.
A great variety of designs and tints are often exhibited by the
‘dust’ from a single wing. Take, for instance, for your inspection,
scales from the wing of one of our commonest insects, the Small
Tortoiseshell Butterfly (Plate
III), and you will be surprised
at the pleasing contrasts. But
when your curiosity leads you
to deal with others in the same
manner, the varied display of
forms and colours is simply
amazing.

Fig. 2.—Portion of the Wing of a
Butterfly from which some of
the scales have been removed.

In order that we may learn
still more of the structure of
the wings of the Lepidoptera,
we will examine a portion of
one from which some of the
scales have been removed,
again bringing the lens or the
microscope into our service.
We now see that the scales
are arranged in rows with great regularity on a thin and transparent
membrane, which is supported by a system of branching
rays. And the membrane itself, in parts which have been laid
bare, is marked with regular rows of dots—the points at which
the scales were originally attached by means of short hollow
rods.

The framework that supports the thin membrane we have
spoken of as consisting of a system of rays, but to these the terms
veins, nerves, nervures, or nervules are more commonly applied by
various naturalists. We cannot do better, however, than adhere
to the name originally used, for the structures in question do not
perform the functions of veins, though at first they contain blood,[Pg 3]
nor are they themselves parts of the nervous systems of the insects
to which they belong.

The result of our examination of the wings of butterflies and
moths has been to justify the application of the term Lepidoptera;
but we must now study other equally important and interesting
features of the structure of these insects. First, let us note the
general form of the body.

Fig. 3.—Body of a Butterfly—Under
Side.

1-7, segments of the abdomen;
8, anal extremity; a, antennæ;
b, tarsus; c, tibia; d, femur;
e, palpi; f, head; g, thorax.

A cursory glance at this portion of the
creature’s anatomy will show that it consists
of three distinct and well-defined
parts. In front there is the head, the size
of which is somewhat small in proportion.
Two very large eyes make up the greater
portion of its bulk. It is remarkable, too,
that butterflies possess eyes proportionately
much larger than those of moths.
Now, since butterflies always fly by day,
and moths are, generally speaking, nocturnal
insects, we might be led to suppose
that the reverse of this arrangement would
have suited the creatures better; for a
small eye, we should think, would be able
to collect sufficient light in the daytime
to form a bright image, and a larger light-receiving
area would be necessary during
the darker hours for the same purpose.
But it is evident that the sense of vision
must depend on other conditions besides
the size of the eye; and as these conditions
are not understood in relation to the
eyes of insects, any attempt at an explanation
would be quite useless.

The eye of a butterfly or moth is worthy
of a closer examination, for it is a most beautiful and marvellous
structure. The outer globular transparent membrane—the cornea—is
divided into a large number of minute polygonal facets, each
one of which admits light into a small conical compartment surrounded
by a coloured membrane, and supplied with a fibre of the
nerve of vision (the optic nerve). Hence the eye is often spoken of
as compound.

If you look closely into the eyes of various butterflies and moths[Pg 4]
you will generally see a ground colour of grey, blue, brown, or
black; but when viewed at certain angles in a strong light the
most gorgeous hues of metallic brilliancy—gold, copper, and bronze—are
to be observed. All such colours are due to the reflection of
light from the colouring matter that lies between the numerous
conical compartments.

Fig. 4.—Section of the
Eye of an Insect.

A glance at the section of a compound eye will show
you that all the little cones radiate from a common centre.
And, as each little compartment is surrounded by opaque
colouring matter, it is clear that perpendicular rays only are
capable of penetrating to its base and exciting the nerve fibre that
lies there. Thus each little division of a compound eye forms its
own image of the object that happens to be exactly opposite its
facet. But how many facets do we find in a single eye? Sometimes
only a few hundreds, but sometimes
as many as seventeen or eighteen
thousand! We must not, however,
conclude that the nature of the vision
of butterflies and moths is necessarily
very different from our own. We have
two eyes, but the images formed by them
are both blended, so that we do not see
double. We can understand, therefore,
that the thousands of images formed in
a single eye may be blended together so
as to form one continuous picture. Still
there remains this difference: while in our own case the two images
formed by the two eyes are practically the same, in the case of
insects every one of the little conical tubes of a compound eye
forms an image of an object that cannot possibly be formed by any
one of the others. Thus, if the lepidopterous insect sees a continuous
picture of its surroundings, such a picture is produced by the overlapping
and blending, at their edges, of hundreds or thousands of
distinct parts.

There is yet another interesting difference between the vision
of these insects and that of ourselves. As already stated, our two
eyes are both turned toward the same point at the same time.
But look at the butterfly’s eyes. Here are no movable eyeballs,
and the two eyes, placed as they are at the sides of the head, are
always turned in opposite directions. The corneæ, too, are very
convex; and consequently the range of vision is vastly wider than[Pg 5]
ours. A boy is often easily surprised by a playmate who approaches
him stealthily from behind, but did you ever try the same game
with a butterfly? I have, many a time. After getting cautiously
so near to a butterfly at rest as to be able to distinguish between
its head and its hinder extremity, I have quietly circled round it so
as to approach it from behind, being at the time under the impression
that it wouldn’t see me under those circumstances. But not
the slightest advantage did I derive from this stratagem, for the
position and construction of its eyes enabled it to see almost all
ways at once.

In addition to the two compound eyes, the Lepidoptera, or at
least most of them, are provided with two small simple eyes;
but these are generally so hidden among the closely set hair that
covers the head, that it is doubtful whether they are of much
service as organs of vision.

Fig. 5.—Antennæ of
Butterflies.

Fig. 6.—Antennæ of
Moths.

The antennæ proceed from two points close to the upper
borders of the eyes. They are jointed organs, and are of very
different forms in the various species of Lepidoptera. They are
generally long, slender, and clubbed at the extremity in butterflies,
but exhibit several minor points of difference which we shall have to
note later on. In moths the antennæ are sometimes long, slender,
and pointed. Some are thick, and more or less prismatic in form;
while others are slightly or deeply pectinated or comb-like. The[Pg 6]
antennæ of butterflies are always straight, or only slightly curved;
and, although the insects can sway them bodily, they have no
power to bend them, or to stow them away in any place of shelter.
Moths, on the other hand, when at rest, are almost invariably found
to have their antennæ snugly tucked under the wings, and brought
so closely against the side of the head for this purpose that even
the uncovered portion is often difficult to find.

There are two other prominent appendages belonging to the
heads of the Lepidoptera. These are the labial palpi or feelers of
the lips. They are generally easily seen, projecting forward on the
under side of the head, sometimes so long and conspicuous as to
give one the idea of a snout or long nose. The palpi are
jointed—usually
in three parts—are covered with scales, and often furnished
with hairs or bristles.

Fig. 7.—Section
of the Proboscis
of a
Butterfly.

If you watch a moth or butterfly when it is feeding on the
sweet juices of a flower, or on some kind of artificial sweet with
which you have provided it, you will observe its long trunk or proboscis,
by which food is sucked up. This instrument is so long and
slender that it seems almost impossible that it can be a tube
through which a liquid freely passes. But a careful examination
will show that this is the case. It is composed of two separate
pieces—two half tubes, which, when closely applied to each other,
form a very thin and flexible pipe, perfectly air-tight and adapted
for suction. Sometimes you can see a butterfly or moth manipulating
with its proboscis as if it required readjustment in some way
or other. It has split the tube throughout its length, so that it now
looks like two exceedingly fine hairs. Then, after a short time, the
two halves are put together again, and immediately, as if by magic,
become a single tube in which no kind of seam is to be observed
without a powerful magnifier.

In order to observe the nature of such a wonderful arrangement
we must have recourse to the aid of a good microscope. Thus
assisted, we can see at once how the junction of the two sides of
the proboscis is brought about so quickly and so perfectly. The
inner edges of each half are very regularly fringed with lines of
closely set hairs—so regular, in fact, are they, that they give one
the idea of long yet minute beautifully formed combs. When the
two parts are brought together, the hairs of two opposite edges
interlock, those on one side exactly filling the spaces between those
of the other.

The microscope also reveals another interesting fact, viz. that[Pg 7]
the proboscis is not a single tube, but, although so remarkably thin,
is really a set of three distinct pipes, one lying on each side of the
central one. It is said that the central tube only is used for sucking
up the liquid food, and there seems to be some doubt as to the
uses of the other two. Some naturalists are of opinion that the
latter are air tubes, and are connected with the respiration of the
insect; while others say that through these the insects eject a thin
watery fluid with which to dissolve or dilute those sweetmeats
that are not sufficiently liquid to be readily sucked up. But possibly
both these opinions are correct, the proboscis serving all three
of the purposes here named. The only observation of my own
bearing on the subject is this. While a moth was feeding on a
drop of syrup in a strong light, a powerful lens revealed drops,
of liquid, mingled with bubbles of air, passing
alternately up and down the two lateral tubes of
the proboscis. At the same time the upward
current of syrup in the central tube was by no
means steady and continuous.

When this organ is not in use, it is beautifully
coiled into a close spiral which lies between the
labial palpi. The length varies considerably in
different insects, and consequently the number of
turns in the spiral must differ also. Sometimes
there are less than two turns, while some of the
longer ones form spirals of from six to ten turns.

In concluding our brief account of the head
of lepidopterous insects it is, I suppose, hardly
necessary to add that there is no kind of chewing
apparatus to be described; all the members of this order, at least in
the perfect state, deriving the whole of the little nourishment they
require entirely by suction through the proboscis or ‘trunk.’

The second division of the body is the thorax. This is much
larger than the head, and consists of three ring-like segments,
joined one behind the other so intimately that the lines of junction
are hardly visible, even after the thick clothing of fine hair has been
brushed off. Behind the thorax is the abdomen, which is composed
of several segments, the junctions between the rings often being
most distinct.

Fig. 8.—Diagram of the Wings of a Butterfly.

I. Fore wing.—1-5, subcostal nervules; 6, 7, discoidal nervules; 8-10, median
nervules; 11, submedian nervure; 12, internal nervure; 13-15, disco-cellular
nervules; 16, interno-median nervule; 17, median nervure; 18, subcostal
nervure; a, costal nervure; b, costa or anterior margin; c, apex or anterior
angle; d, posterior or hind margin; e, posterior or anal angle; f, interior or
inner margin; g, base; h, discoidal cell.

II. Hind wing.—1, 2, subcostal nervules; 3, discoidal nervule; 4-6, median
nervules; 7, submedian nervure; 8, precostal nervure; 9, subcostal nervure; 10,
median nervure; 11, 12, disco-cellular nervules; a, costal nervure; b, costa or
anterior margin; c, apex or anterior angle; d, hind margin; e, tail or caudal
appendage; f, anal angle; g, abdominal or inner margin; h, base.

From the sides of the thorax proceed the two pairs of wings, the
general structure of which we have already to a certain extent
examined. But when we are a little farther advanced in our[Pg 8]
insect studies, we shall have to become acquainted with detailed
descriptions given as aids to the identification of species. Now,
such descriptions cannot be satisfactory, either to the one who
gives or to him who receives, unless expressed in such definite
terms as render a misunderstanding impossible. A botanist cannot
give an accurate and concise description of a flower without the use
of certain names and expressions which have gradually become an
almost necessary part of his vocabulary; neither can an entomologist
give a really useful, and, at the same time, a succinct
description of an insect unless he is acquainted with the names of its
parts. Therefore, seeing that we distinguish the various species of
butterflies and moths mainly by the arrangement and colour of the
markings of their wings, it is really necessary that we should know
the names of the different parts of these organs. For this reason I
have inserted drawings of a fore and of a hind wing of a butterfly,
together with the names of the various parts of the wings, and also
the names of the principal rays or nervures. Yet I would not
advise any young entomologist to attempt to commit to memory
all the names given. Rather use the diagram for reference when
occasion requires, more particularly when you have an insect in
your possession that you desire to study. In ordinary descriptions
of butterflies and moths the names of the nervures are not so
generally used as those of the parts of the wing. Consequently it
is exceedingly useful to know what is meant by the terms base,
costal margin, apex, hind margin, anal angle, inner margin,
discoidal cell &c. as applied to the wing.

The two pairs of wings are attached to the second and third
segments of the thorax; but of the three pairs of legs, which we
have next to consider, one pair arises from each of the three
segments. The arrangement of these limbs is well shown in the
sketch on page 3, as are also the names of the different parts of
the limb, the latter being given for reference by the reader when
the need arises.

All insects, in their perfect state, we are told, have three pairs
of legs; but if you examine the under surface of certain butterflies,
such as the Marbled White, or any of the Vanessas, Browns, or
Heaths, it is quite likely that you will raise objection to such a
statement; for in these you may possibly see only four legs. But this
is the result of a too cursory observation. Look a little more closely
at your specimen, and you will see a pair of smaller legs folded
up under the fore part of the thorax. By means of a blunt needle[Pg 9]
you can straighten out these limbs, and then the difference in
length to be observed between them and the other four is very
striking indeed. They are also thinner than the middle and hind
legs; and, unlike these, are not provided with claws.

Fig. 9.—The Undeveloped
Fore Leg
of a Butterfly.

These imperfectly developed legs are, of course, quite useless as
far as walking is concerned; indeed, it is extremely doubtful as to
whether they are of any service whatever to the owner. On one[Pg 10]
occasion, however, while watching a Peacock Butterfly apparently
engaged in cleaning its divided proboscis, I observed that this organ
was frequently passed under the thorax, and that the front pair of
legs were pressed against it on each side, while it was being drawn
outward between them. It is probable, therefore, that these limbs
constitute a pair of brushes by means of which the fine grooves of
the divided trunk are cleared of any solid or sticky matter that may
lodge therein. It is certain that moths, and those butterflies that
possess six equal legs, use the front pair for this same purpose. The
former, also, employ them for brushing their antennæ, which seem
to be, by the way, particularly sensitive to different kinds of
irritation.

It is a well-known fact that tobacco smoke has a powerful
influence on certain small insects; and even though it can hardly
be regarded as a perfect all-round insecticide, it is certainly more
or less objectionable to the larger and hardier species. A short time
since, while watching a number of newly
emerged moths of the Sphinx group, and at
the same time enjoying the solace afforded by
the luxurious weed, a puff of the smoke was
accidentally allowed to play into the box in
which my pets were for the time imprisoned.
Immediately they rubbed their front legs
vigorously over the antennæ, as if to remove
the obnoxious irritant that had thus intruded on their presence.
Similar observations have led many naturalists to suppose that the
antennæ are the seat of various senses, such as those of touch,
hearing, and smell. Seeing that insects do not, as far as we know,
possess special organs for all the five senses which we enjoy (and it
is interesting to note here that some insects certainly experience
other sensations which are quite beyond our ken), we can quite
understand the common tendency to locate the seats of certain of
the senses in such easily affected parts as the antennæ. But little,
I believe, has been definitely proved save that the antennæ are
sensitive to touch and to irritants generally.

While speaking of the senses of insects, I cannot refrain from
mentioning a most remarkable example of a peculiar sensitiveness
that has been observed in certain moths of the family Bombyces
(page 217)—notably the Oak Eggar, the Emperor, and the Kentish
Glory. Take a newly emerged female of either of these species,
shut her up in a small box, conceal the box in your pocket, and then[Pg 11]
walk about in some country spot known to you as being one of
the haunts of that species of moth. Then, if any of the males of
the same species happen to be in the neighbourhood, they will
settle or hover about close to the female which, although still
concealed and quite out of their reach, has attracted them to the
spot.

What a marvellously acute sense this must be, that thus enables
the insects to scent out, as it were, their mates at considerable
distances, even when doubly surrounded by a wooden box and the
material of a coat pocket! You would naturally expect that
entomologists have turned this wonderful power to account. Many
a box has been filled with the beautiful Kentish Glories of the male
kind, who had been led into the snare by the attractions of a virgin
Glory that they were never to behold. Many an Emperor has also
been decoyed from his throne to the place of his execution, beguiled
by the imaginary charms of an Empress on whom he was never to
cast one passing glance. And these and other similar captures
have been made in places where, without the employment of the
innocent enchantress, perhaps not a single male could have been
found, even after the most diligent search.

Speaking of this surprising sense, I am again tempted to revert
to the antennæ; for it is a remarkable fact that the males of those
species of moths which exhibit the power of thus searching out their
mates, are just those that are also remarkable for their very broad
and deeply pectinated antennæ—a fact that has led to the supposition
that the power in question is located in the antennæ, and is
also proportional to the amount of surface displayed by these organs.

Up to the present time we have been considering the butterfly
and moth in their perfect forms, but everybody knows that
the former is not always a butterfly, nor is the latter always a
moth; but that they both pass through certain preparatory stages
before they attain their final winged state.

We shall now notice briefly what these earlier stages are, leaving
the detailed descriptions of each for the following chapters.

The life of the perfect butterfly or moth is of very short
duration, often only a few days, nearly the whole of its existence
having been spent in preparing itself for the brief term to be enjoyed

… in fields of light,
And where the flowers of Paradise unfold.

It may be interesting to consider of what use the metamorphoses[Pg 12]
of insects are, and to what extent these metamorphoses render them
fit for the work they have to do.

It is certain that the chief work of insects, taken as a whole, is
to remove from the earth the excess of animal and vegetable matter.
If they are to do this work effectually, it is clear that they must
be very voracious feeders, and also be capable of multiplying their
species prodigiously. Now each of these powers requires the special
development of a certain set of organs, and an abnormal development
of one set must necessarily be produced at the expense of the
other. Hence we find insects existing in two distinct stages, with
or without an intermediate quiescent state, during the first of which
the digestive apparatus is enormously developed, while the reproductive
organs occupy but very little space; then, during the other
stage, the digestive apparatus is of the simplest possible description,
and the organs of reproduction are in a perfect state of
development.

Allowing, then, that the chief work of the insect is the removal
of surplus organic matter, we can see that a large share of its life
should be spent in the larval or grub stage, and that the perfect
state need not occupy any more time than is necessary for the
fertilisation of the eggs that almost completely fill the body of the
female at the time of her emergence from the chrysalis shell.

Many insects undergo their metamorphoses by slow degrees,
but the Lepidoptera, after existing for some considerable period
without any important visible change in structure, pass by a rapid
transition into the next state. Thus, a caterpillar, that has not
altered in general form for several weeks, changes into a chrysalis
within the course of a few days; and again, after a period of quiescence
that may extend throughout the whole of the colder months,
becomes a perfect butterfly or moth within twenty minutes of the
moment of its emergence.

But this suddenness is more apparent than real, as may easily be
proved by internal examinations of the insect at various stages of
growth; showing that we are led astray by the rapidity of external
changes—the mere moultings or castings of the skin—while the
gradual transformations proceeding within are not so readily
observed.

We have already said that the life of the perfect butterfly or
moth is short. A few days after emergence from the chrysalis case,
the female deposits her eggs on the leaves or stems of the plant
that is to sustain the larvæ. Her work is now accomplished, and[Pg 13]
the few days more allowed her are spent in frolicking among the
flowers, and sucking the sweet juices they provide. But males
and females alike—bedecked with the most gorgeous colours and
overflowing with sportive mirth when first they take to the wing—soon
show the symptoms of a fast approaching end. Their colours
begin to fade, and the beauty-making scales of the wings gradually
disappear through friction against the petals of hundreds of flowers
visited and the merry dances with scores and scores of playful
companions. At last, one bright afternoon, while the sun is still
high in the heavens, a butterfly, more weary than usual, with heavy
and laborious flight, seeks a place of rest for the approaching
night. Here, on a waving stalk, it is soon lulled to sleep by a gentle
breeze.

Next morning, a few hours before noon, the blazing sun calls
it out for its usual frolics. But its body now seems too heavy to
be supported by the feeble and ragged wings, and, after one or two
weak attempts at play, incited by the approach of a younger and
merrier companion, it settles down in its final resting place. On
the following morning a dead butterfly is seen, still clinging by its
claws to a swinging stem, from which it is eventually thrown during
a storm.

The tale of the perfect moth is very similar to the above, except
that it is generally summoned to activity by the approach of
darkness.

We see, then, that butterflies and moths exhibit none of that
quality which we term parental affection. Their duty ends with
the deposition of the eggs, and the parents are dead before the
young larvæ have penetrated the shell that surrounds them.

Yet it is wonderful to see how unmistakably the females
generally lay their eggs on the very plants that provide the
necessary food for their progeny, as if they were not only conscious
of and careful concerning the exact requirements of their offspring,
but also possessed such a knowledge of botanical science as
enabled them to discriminate between the plant required and all
others.

Has the perfect insect any selfish motive in this apparently
careful selection of a plant on which to lay its eggs? Does the
female herself derive any benefit from the particular plant chosen
for this purpose? In most cases, certainly not. For it often
happens that the blossom of this plant is not by any means one of
those that supply the sweets which insects love, and still more[Pg 14]
frequently does it occur that the eggs are deposited either before
the flowers have appeared or after they have faded.

Fig. 10.—The Four Stages of the
Large White Butterfly (Pieris
Brassicæ).

a, larva; b, pupa; c, imago; d, egg.

Neither can we easily impute to the insect an acquired knowledge
of the nature and wants of her offspring, or an acquaintance
with botany sufficient to enable her to distinguish plant
forms. Our only solution of the problem (which is really no solution
at all) is to attribute the
whole thing to that inexplicable
quality which we are pleased
to term natural instinct. It
is to be observed, however, that
it is not all butterflies and
moths that display this unerring
power. Some few seem to
deposit their eggs indiscriminately
on all kinds of herbage.
But, I believe, the larvæ of
these species are generally
grass feeders, and would seldom
have to travel far from
any spot without meeting with
an acceptable morsel.

But we must now pass on
to a brief consideration of the
other stages of the insect’s
existence. After a time, varying
from a few days to several
months, the young caterpillars
or larvæ make their appearance.
They soon commence
feeding in right earnest. Their
period of existence in this state
varies from a few weeks to
several months, and even, in
some cases, to years. During this time their growth is generally
very rapid, and they undergo a series of moults or changes of skin,
of which we shall have more to say in a future chapter. Then,
when fully grown, they prepare for an apparently quiescent form,
which we speak of as the pupa or chrysalis, and in which they
again spend a very variable period, extending over a few days,
weeks, or months. Now, inclosed in a protective case, each pupa[Pg 15]
is undergoing a remarkable change. Some of its old organs are
disappearing, and others are developing; and, after all the parts of
the future insect have been developed as far as its narrow shell will
permit, it bursts forth into the world as a perfect insect or imago.

Its wings at first are small, shapeless, and crumpled in a most
unsightly fashion; but it is not long before they assume their full
size, beautiful form, and gorgeous colouring. Then, in about
another hour or two, the wings, at first soft and flaccid, have
become sufficiently dry and stiff to bear their owner rapidly
through the air.

We have thus observed some of the more striking features in
the structure of the butterfly and moth in its most perfect state;
and alluded in a very brief manner to the various stages through
which these creatures must necessarily pass before finally reaching
this stage. But now we must study these earlier stages more
closely, and watch the insects during the marvellous transitions
they are destined to undergo. This we shall do in the following
chapters.

[Pg 16]

CHAPTER II

THE EGG

I suppose you are all acquainted with the general structure of the
hen’s egg, having dissected several, in your own way, many a time.

Its outer covering, which you speak of as the ‘shell,’ you have
observed is hard and brittle. It is composed of a calcareous or limy
substance, known chemically as carbonate of lime. If you put
some pieces of it into an egg cup, and throw over them a little
vinegar or any other liquid acid, you will see them gradually
dissolve away, and small bubbles of carbonic acid gas will rise into
the air. Then again, if you take a long and narrow strip of the
shell, and hold one end of it in a gas or lamp flame, after a short
time that end will become softer, and will glow brightly in the
flame, for it is converted into lime—the same substance that is
used by the builders for making their mortar—and the bright glow
is really a miniature lime light, such as is always produced when a
piece of lime is made intensely hot.

Just inside this shell you have seen a thin membrane or skin
that is easily peeled off the substance of the egg itself. Next to
this comes the ‘white’ of the egg, which is really colourless while
liquid, but turns white and more or less solid in the cooking. Last
of all, in the centre of this, you have noticed the oval yellow mass
that is termed the ‘yoke’ or ‘yolk,’ and which contains the
embryo of the future chick.

Now if you imagine this egg to be reduced in size till two or
three dozen of them would be required to form a single line about
one inch long, the outer calcareous shell to be entirely removed, the
skin or membrane to be converted into a firmer substance of a
horny nature, and, finally, the yolk to be absent and the whole
internal space to be filled with the ‘white,’ you will then have some
idea of the nature of the egg of a butterfly or moth.[Pg 17]

To put the matter more briefly, then, we will say that the eggs
of these insects are simply little liquid masses, usually of a colourless
substance, surrounded by a horny and flexible covering.

Such a description may certainly give you some idea of
the nature of the eggs of insects, but no amount of book reading
will serve the purpose so well or be so pleasant as the examination
of the eggs themselves. During the summer months
very little difficulty will be experienced in finding some eggs
in your own garden. Turn over some leaves and examine their
under surfaces, choosing especially those plants which show, by
their partially eaten leaves, that they are favourites with the insect
world. Or you may amuse yourself by catching a number of butterflies—common
‘Whites’ are as good for the purpose as any—and
temporarily confine them in a wooden or cardboard box, containing
a number of leaves from various plants, and covered with gauze.
In this way you are sure to obtain a few females that have not yet
laid all their eggs; and if you watch your prisoners you will soon
see them carefully depositing the eggs on the under surfaces of
leaves, bending their abdomens round the edges if there is not sufficient
room to get themselves completely under. And then, when
you are satisfied with the number of eggs thus obtained for your
examination, you can have the pleasure of seeing all your liberated
captives flying joyfully in the free air.

In giving these simple instructions I have assumed that the
reader has not yet learnt any of the characters by which female
butterflies are to be distinguished from their lords and masters; but
I hope that he will know soon, at least with regard to a good many
species, from which individuals he may most reasonably expect to
obtain eggs, and so be able to avoid the imprisonment, even though
only temporary, of insects which cannot satisfy his wants.

Again, it is not necessary, after all, that butterflies should be
captured for the purpose of obtaining eggs. Watch them as they
hover about among your flowers. Some, you will observe, are intent
on nothing but idle frolicking; and you may conclude at once that
these have no immediate duty to perform. Others are flying without
hesitation from flower to flower, gorging themselves with the
sweets of life: these are not the objects of your search. But you
will descry certain others, flying round about the beds and borders
with a steadier and more matronly air, taking little or no notice of
their more frivolous companions, and paying not the slightest heed
to the bright nectar-producing cups of the numerous flowers. These[Pg 18]
are seriously engaged with family affairs only. Watch one of them
carefully, and as soon as she has settled herself on a leaf, walk steadily
towards her till you are near enough to observe her movements.
She will not move unless you approach too closely, for, like busy
folk generally, she has no time to worry about petty annoyances.
You will now actually witness the deposition of the eggs exactly as
carried on in the perfect freedom of nature; and the eggs themselves
may be taken either for examination or for the rearing of the
caterpillars.

Some species of Lepidoptera lay some hundreds of eggs, and it
is seldom that the number laid by one female is much below a
hundred.

As already stated, the under surfaces of leaves are generally
chosen for the deposit of eggs, but a few of the insects we are considering
always select the upper surface for this purpose. Thus
the Puss Moth (page 235), and two or three others resembling it,
though much smaller, known as the Kittens (page 234), invariably
lay them on the upper surface. And this is the more surprising
since the eggs of these moths are brown or black, and consequently
so conspicuous on the green leaves as to be in danger of being
sighted by the numerous enemies of insects.

The Hairstreak Butterflies (page 183) afford another exception to
the general rule, for their eggs are deposited on the bark of the trees
and shrubs (birch, sloe, elm, oak, and bramble) on which their
larvæ feed.

At the moment each egg is laid it is covered with a liquid
sticky substance, so that it is immediately glued to the leaf or stem
as soon as it is deposited. The sticky substance soon dries, causing
the egg to be so firmly fastened in its place that it is often impossible
to force it off without destroying it completely.

Some of the Lepidoptera deposit their eggs singly, or in small
irregular clusters; but by far the larger number set them very
regularly side by side, in so compact a mass that it would be
impossible to place them on a smaller area without piling one on
top of another. This is not accomplished with the aid of the sight,
for the insect performing her task with such precision often has her
head on one side of a leaf or stem while arranging her eggs on the
other. If you take the trouble to watch her, you will see that she
carefully feels out a place for each egg by means of the tip of her
abdomen immediately before laying it.

The eggs are laid by moths and butterflies at various seasons[Pg 19]
of the year. In some cases they are deposited early in the spring,
even before the buds of the food plants have burst; and the young
larvæ, hatched a few weeks later, commence to feed on the young
and tender leaves. Then, throughout the late spring, the whole of
the summer and autumn, and even till the winter frosts set in, the
eggs of various species are being laid.

Those deposited during the warm weather are often hatched in
a few days, but those laid toward the autumn remain unchanged
until the following spring.

In this latter case the frosts of the most severe winter are not
capable of destroying the vitality of the eggs. In many instances
the perfect insect or the larva would be killed by the temperature
of an average winter day, but the vitality of the eggs is such that
they have been subjected to a temperature, artificially produced, of
fifty degrees below the freezing point, and even after this the young
larvæ walked out of their cradles at their appointed time just as if
nothing unusual had occurred.

Experiments have also been performed on the eggs with a view
of determining how far their vitality is influenced by high temperatures.
We know that the scorching midsummer sun has no
destructive influence on them, but these experiments prove that
they are not influenced by a temperature only twenty degrees below
the boiling point—actually a considerably higher temperature than
is necessary to properly cook a hen’s egg.

Let us now examine a number of eggs of different species, that
we may note some of the many variations in form and colour.

With regard to colour, we have already observed that the eggs
of a few species are black; but more commonly they are much
lighter—pearly white, green, yellow, and grey being of frequent
occurrence.

The great variety of form, however, will provide a vast amount
of enjoyment to anyone who possesses a good magnifying lens or
a small compound microscope. Some are globular, others oval;
while many others represent cups, basins, and domes. Then we
have miniature vases, flasks, bottles with short necks, and numerous
figures that must remind a juvenile admirer of the sweet
cakes and ornamental jellies that have so often gladdened his
longing eyes.

Again, the beautifully sculptured surfaces of a large number are
even more striking than their general shapes. Some are regularly
ribbed from top to bottom with parallel or radiating ridges, and at[Pg 20]
the same time marked with delicate transverse lines. Others are
beautifully pitted or honeycombed, some ornamented with the
most faithful representation of fine wicker-work, while a few are
provided with a cap, more or less ornamental, that is raised by the
young larva when about to see the world for the first time. A few
of these beautiful forms are here illustrated and named, and another
has already appeared on page 14, but an enthusiastic young
naturalist may easily secure a variety of others for his own
examination.

Fig. 11.—Egg of
the Meadow
Brown Butterfly.

Fig. 12.—Egg of
the Speckled
Wood Butterfly.

Fig. 13.—Egg of
the Vapourer
Moth.

It may be surmised from the accompanying illustrations that
the form of the egg is always the same for any one species.
This is really the case, and consequently an experienced entomologist
can often decide on the name of the butterfly or moth that
deposited a cluster of eggs he happens to find in his rambles and
searchings; but in such decisions he is always greatly assisted by a
knowledge of the food plants of the various insects, and sometimes
also by the manner in which the eggs are arranged.

We have seen that the period during which the Lepidoptera
remain in the egg stage is very variable, and depends largely on
the season in which they were laid; but it is often possible to tell
when to expect the young larvæ by certain changes which take
place in the appearance of the egg. As the horny covering of
the egg is transparent, the gradual development of the caterpillar
from the clear fluid can be watched to a certain extent; but
if you have a microscope, and would like to witness this development
to perfection, proceed as follows.

Arrange that some butterflies and moths shall lay their eggs on
strips of glass of convenient dimensions for microscopic work—three
inches long by one wide is the usual size for this kind of work.
This is easily accomplished by placing a proper selection of female
insects in a rather small box temporarily lined with such ‘slips.’
When a few eggs have thus been secured, all you have to do is[Pg 21]
to examine them at intervals with your microscope, always using
the reflector so as to direct a strong light through the eggs
from below.

But even without such an arrangement some interesting
changes are to be observed. As a rule, the colour of the egg
turns darker as the time for the arrival of the infant larva approaches,
and you will often be able to see a little brown or
black head moving slightly within the ‘shell.’ You may know
then that the hatching is close at hand, and the movements of
the tiny creature are well worth careful watching. Soon a small
hole appears in the side of the case, and a little green or dark
cap begins to show itself. Then, with a magnifier of some kind,
you may see a pair of tiny jaws, working horizontally, and not
with an up-and-down motion like our own, gradually gnawing
away at the cradle, till at last the little creature is perfectly free to
ramble in search of food.

Strange to say, the young larva does not waste a particle of
the horny substance that must necessarily be removed in securing
its liberty, but devours it with an apparent relish. Indeed, it appreciates
the flavour of this viand so highly that it often disposes
of the whole of its little home, with the exception of the small
circular patch by which it was cemented to the plant. When the
whole brood have thus dispensed with their empty cradles, there
remains on the stem or leaf a glittering patch of little pearly
plates.

After the performance of this feat the young caterpillar starts
off in life on its own account with as much briskness and confidence
as if it had previously spent a term in the world under the same
conditions; but we must reserve an account of its doings and sufferings
for our next chapter.

[Pg 22]

CHAPTER III

THE LARVA

In almost every case the young caterpillar, on quitting the ‘shell’
of the egg, finds itself standing on and surrounded by its natural
food, and immediately commences to do justice to the abundant
supply. It will either nibble away at the surface of the leaf, removing
the soft cellular substance, so that the leaf exhibits a number of
semi-transparent patches when held up to the light, or it will
make straight for the edge, and, closing its horizontal
jaws on either side, bite the leaf completely
through, and thus remove a small piece each time.

Fig. 14.—The
Caterpillar of
the Clouded
Yellow Butterfly.

Several naturalists have amused themselves by
performing experiments and making calculations
on the efficiency of the masticating and digesting
powers of the caterpillar. The illustrious Réaumur,
for example, proved that some of the cabbage
eaters disposed of more than twice their own
weight of food in twenty-four hours, during which
time their weight increased one-tenth. Let us see
what this would be equivalent to in human beings:
A man weighing eleven stone would devour over
three hundred pounds of food in a day, and at the
end of that day weigh about fifteen pounds more
than he did at the beginning!

So the young caterpillar eats, and rests, and
grows, till, while still young, its body has become too large for the
already tightened skin. It evidently feels very uncomfortable. Its
appetite fails, and it remains for a time perfectly quiet in one spot,
having previously spun a little carpet of silk to form a firm foothold
during its temporary indisposition. Its colours have also
become dingy, and anyone, not understanding the character of its[Pg 23]
growth, might easily be led to suppose that the poor creature was
displaying the earlier symptoms of a serious and perhaps fatal
illness.

But soon an encouraging symptom is observed. The caterpillar
begins to get restless. Its front segments are turned alternately
right and left, and are also made to swell out much beyond their
normal size. Then in a very short time—often less than a minute
from the first appearances of restlessness—the skin, which has
become somewhat dry and brittle, splits along the back over the
second, third and fourth segments, revealing a new and bright coat
beneath. The caterpillar continues its struggles and, in addition
to the previous movements, causes the swelling to move backward
along the body. This, acting like a
wedge, causes the rent in the old coat
to extend in that direction.

Fig. 15.—The Caterpillar of
the Dark Green Fritillary
Butterfly.

The caterpillar now draws its head
backward, and, with a few convulsive
struggles, pulls the front segments
out of their old skin, and passes its
head out of the rent in the back.
With its foremost segments thus
rendered perfectly free, it walks
straight out of the old garment,
which is left still fixed by the legs to
the silken carpet.

The larva, although now fresh and smart in its appearance, is
exhausted by these struggles and its prolonged fast. The new skin,
moreover, is very soft and tender, even to the cases of the head
and legs, which are normally very hard. But a short period of
rest suffices to dry its skin and sharpen its appetite, and then it
eats more vigorously than ever.

We will now leave the caterpillar for a moment while we look
at its cast-off clothes. They are still clinging to a stem so firmly
that they can scarcely be removed without injury. The hard shell
that covered the head and jaws is perfect in form, and so are the
claws and cases of the legs. All the hairs or spines that happened
to adorn the previous owner still retain their positions; and the
whole skin, although always more or less shrivelled, is sometimes
so slightly altered in form that it might be mistaken for a living
caterpillar if not closely examined.

But this is not all. For, according to the accounts of some[Pg 24]
authoritative observers, the lining of the digestive organs, which is
really a continuation of the outer skin, is cast off (or rather cast
out) at the same time, as are also the linings of the larger breathing
tubes which are presently to be described.

Fig. 16.—The Caterpillar
of the
Purple Emperor
Butterfly.

We have seen that some caterpillars, on quitting their egg cases
(which may really be regarded as the first moult), make their first
meal of the old covering. So also some of them, in their future
moultings, exhibit an apparently useless economy (seeing that they
are surrounded by an abundance of their
natural vegetable diet) by devouring their
old coats! In the face of this fact we can
hardly describe them as strict vegetarians.

Having thus passed through its first hardship,
the caterpillar has by no means seen
the end of the troubles and dangers that beset
it; for, during its existence in the larval state,
it has to go through a series of three, four, five,
or even six moults, all of which are periods
of considerable inconvenience, and perhaps
even pain, and frequently prove fatal. And
it is by no means an uncommon thing to
meet with the lifeless body of an unfortunate
individual who, as shown by its shabby
appearance and the silken carpet under its
feet, has evidently fallen a victim to the
dangerous process of ridding itself of an old garment.

But this is only one of the many dangers to which caterpillars
are exposed. Throughout every hour of the day the sharp and
hungry eyes of the numerous insect-eating birds are searching the
leaves for such delicacies to satisfy the wants of themselves and
their broods. The lively little lizards, too, during the sunny
hours are busily engaged in searching them out among the foliage
of heaths and banks.

Very formidable enemies also exist in the form of Ichneumon
and other species of flies, which pierce the skins of caterpillars with
their sharp ovipositors, and lay their eggs within the bodies of
the unfortunate victims. As soon as the young larvæ are hatched
from these eggs, they commence feeding on the fatty substance
stored beneath the caterpillar’s skin. They carefully avoid, at
first, attacking the vital organs of their host’s body, and in this
way secure for themselves a more lasting supply of fresh food.[Pg 25]
When the fatty substance is nearly all gone, they eat their way
into the more important structures, of course steadily growing all
the time; and so, even though the body of the caterpillar is rapidly
diminishing, the total bulk shows often no very appreciable decrease
in size. When the larvæ of the flies are fully fed, they either
change to the pupa within the carcase of their host, or eat their
way out of its body and construct for themselves a cocoon in which
to undergo the transformation.

Fig. 17.—An Ichneumon Fly
(Cryptus Migrator).

Fig. 18.—Another Ichneumon
Fly (Pimpla Instigator).

As for the caterpillar itself, it sometimes dies before the time
for its metamorphosis has arrived; but it often changes to the
chrysalis before its fate is sealed. In this latter case, a number of
flies, having undergone their final transformation within the
chrysalis shell (there being but little else than shell remaining
of the victim’s body), break forth from the remains of the carcase
somewhere about the time at which the butterfly or moth should
have appeared.

Caterpillars have also their nocturnal enemies and devourers,
among which may be mentioned frogs, toads, newts, and insect-eating
mammals.

We must now learn something of the structure of caterpillars;
and then become acquainted with their habits, and the change to
the chrysalis or pupa.

Take a caterpillar from your garden, preferably a full-grown
one of a rather large species, that is not very densely covered with
hair, and examine it carefully as we note the main points in its[Pg 26]
structure. The first point that strikes our notice is the division of
its body into segments or rings, separated from each other by a
more or less distinct line or slight constriction of the body.

There are thirteen of these segments, reckoning, as is usual, the
head as the first.

The head is usually very hard, and often of a much darker
colour than the rest of the body. It is also frequently divided into
two lobes by a couple of oblique lines, between which the parts of
the mouth are situated. The two powerful horizontal jaws, to
which we have already referred, are very hard and sharp, and
curved like a sickle, and therefore splendidly adapted for biting from
the edges of leaves. The head is also provided with a pair of
antennæ, usually very short and inconspicuous and protected by a
horny covering.

Unlike the perfect insect, the caterpillar has no large compound
eyes, but twelve very small simple eyes, situated on the cheeks,
very near the mouth—six on each
side.

Fig. 19.—The Caterpillar of
the Angle Shades Moth
(Meticulosa).

If you examine them with a magnifier,
you see that each one is provided
with a small and very convex
lens—a lens of very short focus, such
as would be used for the examination
of small objects held very near to
the eye. From this arrangement we should be inclined to conclude
that the caterpillar can see only those objects that are
close to its mouth; and this idea is strengthened if you place
one in a box containing a number of leaves, one of which is
that of its own food plant. It will wander about the box, apparently
looking at every part of every leaf it passes, after the
manner of a very short-sighted individual, and never taking a
general look round. A butterfly or a moth can see a flower in
the distance, for it flies unhesitatingly from one to another in
the straightest and shortest path, but if you place a caterpillar
in the centre of a ring composed of a leaf of its food plant and
nine others from other plants, the chances are (nine to one) that it
will not walk towards what it would like to have.

Again, the eyes are situated on the lower part of the cheek,
directed slightly downward, and are therefore adapted for seeing
what is just under its jaws as it walks along. Had we no knowledge
whatever of the caterpillar’s twelve little eyes, we should probably[Pg 27]
have thought that it sought out its food by some sense other than
that of vision.

Another important and interesting feature of the head is the
silk-spinning apparatus, situated under cover of the lower lip. This
consists of two tubular glands, corresponding to our own salivary
glands, the special purpose of which is to secrete a viscid fluid that
solidifies on exposure to air. The opening by which the fluid
escapes is so situated that the caterpillar can easily apply it to the
surface of any object over which it is walking, and then, by drawing
or turning away its head, cause a silken fibre to be produced.

Some caterpillars make use of this spinning apparatus only on
a few special occasions, but others, more especially some of the
smaller species, seem to have it always in use, so that if at any
time you suddenly start them into the air by giving a smart tap to
the plant or twig on which they rest, they invariably fall slowly on
the end of a growing web, the spinning of which they stop as soon
as they consider they have fallen far enough. Sometimes, as you
are walking through a wood, you will see hundreds, nay, thousands
of little caterpillars thus suspended, swinging gently in the
breeze. Not long since, after only a few minutes’ walk among the
trees of Epping Forest, I found I was decorated with several dozens
of these swingers with which I had come into collision—in this
case consisting chiefly of the larvæ of the Green Tortrix Moth
(Tortrix viridana).

Fig. 20.—Walking Leg
of a Caterpillar.

Now let us examine the caterpillar’s limbs. Attached to each
of the second, third, and fourth segments is a pair of true walking
legs, corresponding with those of the perfect insect. These are
covered with a hard and shining substance, and are also each
provided with a hook. The fifth and sixth segments have no limbs
at all, nor have the eleventh and twelfth, but some or all of the
others (seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, and thirteenth) are furnished
with a pair of claspers which we shall presently describe.

First, as regards the number of claspers, it will be seen from
what has just been said that this is not always the same. Some
caterpillars possess five pairs, thus making up the total number of
walking appendages to sixteen. In fact, we must regard this as the
usual number. But there are at least a few hundred exceptions to
the rule. Many of the Bombyces (page 217), for example, have only
four pairs of claspers; and in others of the same group the fifth
pair is present, but only partially developed, and quite useless for
walking.[Pg 28]

Fig. 21—Larva of the Yellow Underwing
Moth (Pronuba).

Fig. 22.—Larva of the
Crimson Speckled
Moth (Pulchella).

Fig. 23.—Larva of the Lobster Moth
(Fagi).

Look at the peculiar caterpillar of the Lobster Moth (fig. 23)—a
creature that differs from most other caterpillars not only in its
claspers, but in many other respects too. Observe its long and
slender legs, its humped middle segments, and its upturned hindermost
segment, of enormous size and mounted with a pair of
clubbed ‘horns.’ This last segment you will observe, has no
claspers.

Another allied caterpillar is that of the Iron Prominent Moth
(fig. 24). This one also has humped segments, and the claspers of
the thirteenth segment are imperfectly developed.

A large number of other exceptions to the general rule are to be
found in the caterpillars of the Geometer Moths (page 268), one of
which is here represented. These have generally only two pairs of[Pg 29]
claspers, one pair on each of the tenth and last segments, so that
there is a distance equal to the combined length of six segments
between the hindermost true leg and the first pair of claspers. But
even among the Geometers there are variations to be observed in
the number of claspers, and some of these will be pointed out in our
brief descriptions of the commoner species.

Fig. 24.—Caterpillar of
the Iron Prominent
Moth (Dromedarius).

Fig. 25.—Larva of the Brimstone
Moth (Luteolata).

These limbs which we have been calling claspers are known by
several other names. Thus they are termed ‘pro-legs,’ ‘temporary
legs,’ ‘false legs,’ and ‘abdominal legs;’ but if you watch a
caterpillar as it walks up a stalk or along the edge of a leaf,
you will certainly agree that the term ‘clasper’ is everything that
could be desired. But why not call them legs, seeing that they
are used in walking? The reason is that they differ in many
respects from the three foremost pairs of
limbs as regards structure, persistency, and
function. The true legs, as we have called
them, continue to exist, though concealed, in the chrysalis state,
and again appear, far more perfectly developed, in the butterfly
or moth, but the claspers are no more to be seen after the
caterpillar has passed into the quiescent stage. We have noticed,
too, that the true legs are pointed and clawed, also that they are protected
by a hard and horny covering; but examine a large caterpillar,
holding it between the fingers and thumb with its under side
uppermost, and you will soon see that the claspers are not at all hard,
but soft and fleshy; not pointed, but often terminating in a broad
flat circular surface. You will also observe, as the creature struggles
to escape from your grasp, and tries to get a hold on something with
its claspers, that these limbs, if we may so call them, are retractile,
and are sometimes completely drawn into the body. Finally,
examine the broad end of a clasper with a magnifier, and you will[Pg 30]
see it surrounded by a circle of little hooks, turning in all directions.
You will no longer wonder how it is that a caterpillar can hold so
tenaciously to a piece of twig that it is often almost impossible
to remove it without injury.

Now put your caterpillar down, so that you may observe its gait.
If it happens to be one with the full complement of sixteen limbs,
you see that at each stride it makes but little progress. The
segments contract and relax alternately and in succession, thus
sending a series of wave-like motions along the body, and urging
onward the front segments while the claspers keep the hinder
portion firmly fixed.

Fig. 26.—The Claspers
of a Caterpillar.

But if your caterpillar is one of the Geometers, with only two,
or perhaps three, pairs of claspers, the mode of procedure is very
different. The creature stretches its body out at full length, often
raising its head high in the air, and swinging
its long body right and left with a most
furious motion, as if to hastily scan the
neighbourhood. Then, having satisfied
itself as to the direction of its proposed
course (which, by the way, is often changed
considerably at almost every stride), it
holds on by the true legs and pulls its
hinder quarters forward till the body forms
almost a closed loop, with the fourth segment
nearly touching the ninth. The
claspers now become the holdfasts. The
little hooks with which they are provided
are firmly fixed to the surface on which it is walking; and the
body being again straightened out to its utmost length, the same
manœuvre is repeated. So, you see, the insect progresses by
strides equal in length to about six segments of the body, and
these the longest segments generally; and the rate at which the
strides succeed each other, especially in some of the smaller species,
is really astonishing.

We have seen the caterpillar in the act of taking its walk, and
now we will give it a twig of its food plant so that we may see it
feed. It walks up the twig without hesitation—for caterpillars
(excepting those which feed on roots) always seem to move upward
when in search of food—and soon finds itself on a leaf. Over this
it walks till it reaches the edge; and, grasping the edge firmly
between the claspers, so as to give perfectly free play to its legs and[Pg 31]
head, it stretches its body at full length, and takes a series of bites
as it brings its head backward in a curve. When the head has
thus been brought close to its fore legs, the body is again extended,
and the same ground is gone over again.

If the caterpillar is a fairly large and hardy one, it will bite
through the smaller veins, and perhaps even the larger ones; but
the smaller species often change their position on reaching a
moderately thick vein, and so devour little else than the soft cellular
substance of the leaf. In any case, it is astonishing to see how
rapidly the leaf disappears under the influence of the powerful jaws
and marvellous digestive apparatus of the hungry grub.

Those who take a delight in watching the movements of caterpillars
are sure to be interested in observing them when at rest;
for at such times the various attitudes assumed are as pleasing
and instructive as are their active moments. And these attitudes
are all the more interesting on account of the mimicry by which
the creatures often baffle their numerous enemies. We may
profitably spend a little time in studying a few cases in point.

Many species, when at rest, fix themselves by means of their
claspers to a small twig or leaf stalk, or on the midrib of the leaf
itself. Here they remain perfectly still, with their bodies perfectly
straight or with head slightly raised. I need hardly say that these
generally fix themselves on the under side of the leaves and stalks,
thus securing themselves against the attacks of the feathered foes
above. But some birds are equal to the caterpillars in this matter;
and it is really amusing to see them hopping about beneath the
leaves in our gardens, every now and again slyly turning one
eye upward, and smartly plucking an unwary grub from its resting
place.

The precautions of the caterpillar, however, do not end merely
with the selection of an under surface. You will find that the
bright green species invariably settle on a leaf or a green stalk,
while the darkly coloured insects often choose a twig covered with
a brownish bark. Some even make for the trunk of the tree on
which they feed, and here remain quite still in a vertical position,
so that they look just like a ridge in the bark, the colour of which
is faithfully imitated by their skin. Further, many of the caterpillars
that resort to this stratagem have bodies that are notched
or knotted and spotted in such a manner that the resemblance to
their surroundings is so perfect as to defy any but the most
experienced eye. And even this is not all, for a number of these[Pg 32]
mimics of the insect world never venture to feed by day, but take
in their quantum of provisions during the dark hours, and practise
their deceptions throughout the day.

Most of the Geometer caterpillars, of which we have already
spoken, are well trained in the art of deception. You are out
on a caterpillar hunt, and engaged in carefully turning over the
twigs of the hazel or some other shrub, so that you may the more
readily examine the under surfaces of the leaves. At last you lay
hold of a small broken twig for this very purpose. To your
astonishment it is very soft, and readily bends between your
fingers. You look more closely at this peculiar piece of stick, and
find, to your surprise, that you have grasped a looper caterpillar
that was standing out at an angle just like a broken twig,
supported by its two pairs of claspers, and coloured and knotted
exactly like the little branch on which it rested.

At other times you meet with little green caterpillars of the
same group, supporting themselves in exactly the same manner on
a small twig, and looking just like a leaf stalk from which the
blade had fallen or been devoured.

What a wonderful power is exhibited in the grasp of the
claspers and the tension of the muscles, enabling the caterpillar to
fix itself and retain its position for so long a time! Imagine an
acrobat fixing himself by his hands on an upright pole, throwing
out his body at an angle, and without any further support retaining
his position motionless for several hours!

Other experiences of the larva hunter are equally interesting
and, perhaps, even more tantalising. He is engaged in very
cautiously turning over the leaves of a certain food plant from
which he hopes to obtain the larva of a much-coveted species.
Then, just as his eye catches a glimpse of the very object of his
search, down falls the caterpillar, rolled up into a little ball, among
the herbage below. This latter is diligently and patiently examined.
But no, the anticipated prize is nowhere to be seen.
It is probably a green one, and this adds to the difficulty of the
patient entomologist. Then, as he carefully separates the low
herbs, hoping to find the spot where the larva had fallen, the
insect, rolled up into a compact little ball, only sinks deeper and
deeper into the maze.

Many caterpillars avoid capture in this manner, while others
seek to avoid detection by remaining perfectly motionless, even
when roughly handled. They allow themselves to drop from their[Pg 33]
resting place on the slightest sign of danger, and, when the alarm
is over and all is quiet again, they ascend the food plant and
resume their position.

Some caterpillars not only rest, but even feed under cover,
quite secure from most, if not all, of their enemies. Several of
them feed on roots, and many a farmer can relate sad experiences
of the havoc committed by these caterpillars on his turnips and
other crops. Then there are those which feed on flowers and buds,
completely burying themselves in the dense mass of food.

Fig. 27.—The Homes of Leaf Miners and Leaf Rollers.

We must conclude this brief account of resting and hiding
places and attitudes of caterpillars by a few observations on the
leaf miners and leaf rollers.

The former are very small caterpillars—the larvæ of certain
small moths—that eat burrows into leaves without doing any considerable
injury to the outer epidermis, and thus prepare a safe
resting place within the substance of their food.

The latter, also mostly of small size, make themselves secure
by curling a leaf or a portion of a leaf into a cylinder, and holding
it in position by means of a number of silken threads.

If you examine a leaf thus curled you will soon be convinced[Pg 34]
that a considerable number of the extremely delicate threads must
be necessary to hold it in position; but, if you would like to know
how a very small and feeble caterpillar can manage to roll up a
comparatively large and rigid leaf, you must watch the little creature
at its work.

You need have but little difficulty in finding a willing worker,
for such caterpillars are extremely numerous. Take a few out of
their self-made homes, place them on a sprig of the food plant,
and you will soon have the pleasure of seeing one start its extraordinary
work.

At first it spins a number of threads stretching from the edge of
a leaf to about the middle of the surface. These threads are not
tight by any means, and the leaf is, as yet, unchanged in position.
But now the little mechanic exhibits a tact that almost seems to
prove a knowledge of the principles of its art. Each thread in turn
is pulled at right angles at its middle, and then fastened by means
of the creature’s spinneret. Each time this is done the edge of
the leaf is bent round a little; and when at last the cylinder is
completed, a number of other threads are stretched across from the
scroll to the flat part of the leaf to secure it firmly in its place.

Many caterpillars are solitary in their habits: that is, they are
always found singly, whether walking, resting, or feeding. But a
large number of species are gregarious, living in dense clusters
either throughout their larval state or, perhaps, only while young.
In many such cases it is difficult or even impossible to find any
reason for this gregarious tendency—to discover any advantage
that the insects may derive from the habit. Many species, however,
are true co-operators in the defence of their communities.
The caterpillars of such live in clusters, sometimes several scores
in each, and all help in the spinning of a complicated mass of silk
fibres, which, with the leaves and twigs they join together, form a
safe home in which they can rest, feed, or change to the chrysalis
state. In early summer hundreds of such caterpillar ‘nests’ are
to be seen in many of our hawthorn and other hedgerows.

Before closing our general account of the caterpillar we must
have a word to say about the breathing apparatus, more especially
as in our future descriptions we shall frequently have to mention
the colours and markings which surround the openings in its body
through which the air supply is admitted.

If you examine the sides of the segments of a caterpillar, using
a lens if the insect is a small one, you will observe some little[Pg 35]
round holes, often inclosed in a ring or a patch of some prominent
colour. These are the spiracles or openings of a series of air tubes
called tracheæ. These latter divide and subdivide within the body
of the caterpillar, the branches of one often uniting with those of
another, thus forming a really complicated arrangement of air pipes
by which the supply of oxygen is distributed.

A microscopic examination of a portion of one of the tracheæ
will show that its walls are supported by an elastic spiral of a firm
substance. This arrangement serves to keep the air passages open,
and secures for the caterpillar a free supply of air at times when a
contraction of the segments would otherwise cause the tubes to
collapse.

There are nine spiracles on each side of the caterpillar’s body,
and never more than one in the side of the same segment. The
head, which we have been regarding as the first segment, has no
spiracles. The second segment has a pair—one on each side.
There are none in the third and fourth; but all the segments, from
the fifth to the twelfth inclusive, have each a pair; the last
(thirteenth) segment has none.

We have already observed the general arrangement of the caterpillar’s
limbs; but perhaps it may be interesting and even convenient
to the reader to give here a little table that will show at a
glance the disposition of both limbs and spiracles.

[Pg 36]

We must now watch the caterpillar through its later days, to
see how it prepares for passing into the pupal stage, and to
witness the various interesting changes that take place at this
period.

When fully grown, it ceases to eat, and begins to wander about
in search of a convenient spot for the coming event. Its colours
fade, and the body becomes appreciably smaller, especially in length,
as it ejects the whole contents of its digestive apparatus. According
to some accounts, it even evacuates the lining of the intestines
with their contents.

A great variety of situations are chosen by the different species
at this time. Some will fix themselves on their own food plant,
and there remain till they finally emerge in the perfect state,
suspending themselves from a silken carpet, hiding themselves
in a rolled leaf, or constructing a cocoon of some kind. A large
number walk down the food plants, and undergo their changes
in moss that happens to lie at the foot; or construct a cocoon
on the surface of the ground, utilising for the purpose any decayed
leaves, fragments of vegetable matter, or pieces of earth or small
stones. Many seek a further protection than this, and burrow
into the soil, where they either lie in a little oval cell that they prepare,
or in a cocoon constructed by spinning together some particles
of earth. Again, there are those caterpillars, chiefly of butterflies
that frequent our gardens, which find their way to the nearest wall
or fence, and there secure themselves in a sheltered nook. We
will watch a few of these varied methods of procedure, taking as
our first instance the caterpillar of the common Large White or
Cabbage Butterfly.

When fully fed, this larva seeks out a sheltered spot, generally
selecting the under surface of some object, or of the ledge of a
wall or fence. Sometimes it will not even leave its food plant,
though it generally walks some considerable distance before a suitable
shelter is found. Having satisfied itself as to the site of the
temporary abode, it sets to work at spinning a silken carpet. At
first the threads spread over a rather wide area, and seem to be
laid in a somewhat irregular and aimless manner; but after a little
time its labours are concentrated on one small spot, where it spins
several layers of silk fibres.

This done, it fixes the little hooks of the claspers firmly in its
carpet bed, and then proceeds with a highly interesting movement.
It is not satisfied with only the one mode of suspension. In fact,[Pg 37]
this alone would hardly be safe, for when it casts its skin, as it is
shortly about to do, its claspers will all disappear; and although it
afterwards secures itself by the ‘tail,’ it would be dangling in such
a manner as to swing with every breeze—a very unsatisfactory
state of affairs, especially with those that pupate late in the summer
and remain in the pupal state throughout the winter storms.

Its next procedure, then, is to make a strong silk band round the
middle of its body, so as to keep it close to the surface against which
it rests. But how is this to be done? It bends its head round till
the spinning organ can be applied to a point close beside the middle
of its body. Here it fixes one end of a thread; and then, gradually
twisting its body, brings its head round to the other side, still keeping
it close to the same segment, and fastens the other end of the
thread exactly opposite the point at which it started.

The head is now brought back to its former position, thus
adding another thread to the band; and the process is repeated
several times, till at last the caterpillar is satisfied with the thickness
and strength of the cord formed.

Now it straightens out its body as if to rest from its labours;
but the work is not yet complete. Soon it exhibits much restlessness.
Its foremost segments are seen to shorten, and consequently
become thicker. Then the skin splits, and the last moult of the
caterpillar commences. The movements that follow are exactly
similar to those we have already described in connection with one
of the earlier moults: the alternate and successive contractions of
all the segments gradually force back the old coat, and this is
finally thrown entirely off by a somewhat vigorous wriggling of the
‘tail.’

Then, for a moment, the creature is supported only by its silken
cord. But this lasts only for a moment. For, as soon as it is
quite free from the old garment, it applies its tail to the densest
part of the carpet it had prepared at the start, and secures its hinder
extremity by means of little hooks.

But what a change has now come over the creature! It is no
longer a caterpillar. Its head is no longer distinct, although we
can readily make out the positions of the eyes. Its mouth and
jaws have quite disappeared, and the legs and claspers are apparently
gone. The three segments that bore the legs are no longer distinctly
separable, though in reality they still exist. The head and thorax
are peculiarly shaped; and, instead of being cylindrical, are angled
and ridged; but, beneath the soft greenish skin—the new garment—we[Pg 38]
can discern the outline of a pair of small wings, and see a
proboscis and a pair of long antennæ. Also the six long legs of the
future butterfly can be traced with care.

The abdomen is conical in form, coming to a sharp point at
the end, and its segments are quite distinct.

No stranger to the metamorphoses of insects would connect
the present form with that of a caterpillar; they are so very
unlike. And yet the time occupied in the whole change, from the
spinning of the carpet, does not occupy more than about thirty or
thirty-five hours.

The apparent suddenness of this change is really surprising, but
in reality the transformation is not nearly so sudden as it appears.
Dissection of a caterpillar a few days before the final moult is due
will show that the changes are already going on. In fact, a
simple removal of the skin will prove that the organs of the
future butterfly are developing. Still, in proportion to the short
time occupied, the change is extremely great; and it may reasonably
be inquired, Why so great a change within so short a space of
time?—why is not the change continued steadily and equally
through the larval existence? The reason has already been hinted
at. Caterpillars are living eating machines, whose office is to
remove excess of vegetable matter. Consequently they must have
their jaws and bulky digestive apparatus in full development to the
end. If these organs were to gradually disappear as the caterpillar
reaches its non-eating stages, it would simply be starved to death.
So the change from the larval to the pupal state, which we may
regard as the final moult of the caterpillar, is a far greater change
than any of the preceding ones, and occupies a proportionately
longer time, although it is principally confined to the last few days
of the caterpillar life.

A number of caterpillars, and especially those of the butterflies,
suspend themselves when about to change; and the peculiarities of
the modes adopted must be left for our descriptions of species in a
future chapter; but we will find room here for one more interesting
example, taking this time the larva of one of the commonest of the
Vanessas (page 166)—the Small Tortoiseshell Butterfly.

The caterpillars of this insect are gregarious when young; and
if ever you meet with one, you are almost sure to be able to obtain
a hundred or so without much searching. But as they grow older
they feed singly, yet generally without straying very far from their
birthplace.[Pg 39]

When full grown they sometimes stray to a neighbouring plant
or fence to undergo the change to a chrysalis, but more commonly
they are perfectly satisfied with the protection afforded by the leaves
of their food plant. We will now watch one of these as we did the
larva of the Large White Butterfly.

Of course the under side of the leaf is chosen. Here a silken
carpet is spun as before described; but the caterpillar, instead of
clinging with all its claspers, suspends itself in a vertical position
by its hindermost pair only.

Here it hangs, head downwards, awaiting the coming events.
The splitting and casting of the skin goes on just as in the case of
the Large White, but there is this puzzle to be solved: how
can the insect shuffle itself out of its old coat without falling to the
ground, leaving the cast-off garments still hanging by the hooks
of the claspers? This really seems a matter of impossibility, since
the little hooks which alone suspend the insect are thrown off with
the skin of the claspers.

The thing is managed in this way. As the skin slowly splits
through the wrigglings of the apparently uncomfortable occupant,
it is gradually pushed backward—that is, upward—till it is in a
shrivelled condition, and the body of the insect is nearly free. But
the chrysalis thus brought to light is provided with little hooks on
the end of its ‘tail’ by which it can attach itself to the irregularities
of the crumpled coat. Its conical abdomen is also very flexible,
and it can, by bending this, seize hold of a ridge in the skin,
holding it between the segments. Thus, although practically quite
free from the old garb, it never falls to the ground.

There is now, however, another point to be attended to. The
newly formed chrysalis desires to be entirely independent of its
cast-off skin, and to suspend itself directly from the silky carpet it
has prepared. To this end it works steadily for a time, alternately
bending its supple abdomen from side to side, gripping the folds of
the skin between the segments, pulling its body a little higher at
each movement, and securing itself at each step by the little hooks
at its extremity.

So it climbs, and at last it reaches the network of silk fibres, and
thrusts the tip of its abdomen among them till some of the hooks
have taken hold. Not satisfied with this, it turns its body round
and round to get the little hooks so entangled between the silk
fibres that a fall is impossible, and in so doing it frequently pushes
the old skin out of its place so that it falls to the ground.[Pg 40]

Although the caterpillars of this species do not show any great
gregarious tendency when nearly full fed, yet it is not an uncommon
thing to find several hanging from the under surface of
one leaf, all being attached to the one common carpet at which all
had worked. And when bred in confinement, a number will often
spin in company in a corner of their cage. I have thus obtained a
cluster of thirty-seven pupæ, all hanging by the ‘tails’ to the
same mass of silk, which was so small that they formed quite a
compact mass of beings with their tails close
together.

Fig. 28.—The Cocoon of the
Emperor Moth.

Fig. 29.—The Cocoon
of the Six-spotted
Burnet (Filipendulæ).

We have seen that the Large White Butterfly
makes itself secure by a silk band round its
middle, while the ‘Tortoiseshell’ is fixed only
by its tail. But the extra provision for the safety
of the former is not so necessary in the case of
the latter, as it never spends more than two or
three weeks in the pupal state. Here it is the perfect insect that
braves the winter, and not the chrysalis.

There is a great variety in the means taken by the caterpillars
of moths to protect themselves during their metamorphoses, but we
shall have space for only a few illustrations.

A clever cocoon is spun by the larva of the Emperor Moth
(Pavonia). It is pear-shaped, and composed of a brownish silk;
and is so constructed that the newly emerged moth can easily walk
out of the small end without breaking a fibre, while the entry of an
insect enemy from without is impossible.

This is managed as follows. A number of rather stiff threads
are made to project from the small end of the cocoon, and these
converge as they pass outward so that the ends are all near[Pg 41]
together. The other portions of the cocoon are of compact silk,
and any insect intruder that ventures to enter by what we may
almost term the open end is met by a number of spikes, as it were,
that play on it at every attempt. Many of these wonderful cocoons
may be found during the winter months attached to the food plants
of this insect.

Of the silken cocoons spun by various caterpillars some are so
thin and light that the chrysalis can easily be seen through them,
and others are so densely woven as to be quite opaque. A
great difference is also to be observed in the adhesive power of the
silk fibres. In some cases little threads of silk can be pulled off
the cocoon; but some of them, that of the Oak Eggar (page 229) for
example, look as if they had been constructed of paper rather than
of silk, because, at the time of spinning, the moist silk fibres stuck
so closely together.

An extreme case of this character is to be met with in the
cocoon of the Puss Moth (page 235); for here the fluid from the
spinneret of the caterpillar does not harden at once on exposure to
air, and so the threads become thoroughly united together, thus
forming a solid gluey cocoon.

When the Puss caterpillar is about to change, it descends the
tree (poplar, willow, or sallow) till it is within a few feet of the
ground. Then it commences gnawing away at the bark, at the
same time cementing all the pieces together with the gluey substance
from its spinning glands. In this way it surrounds itself
with a very hard cocoon, which so closely resembles the surrounding
bark in colour that detection is difficult indeed.

But how will the caterpillar proceed if it is removed from its
native tree and has no bark to gnaw? That you can easily answer
for yourself, or rather Puss will answer it for you. Go and search
among the poplars, willows and sallows in the month of July. You
may possibly come across a caterpillar that is just in the act of
creeping down the bark in search of a resting place; but if not you
may be successful in obtaining a few either by examining the twigs,
or you may start them from their hiding places by smartly tapping
the smaller branches with a strong stick.

Having secured one or more larvæ, take them home, and they
will give some rather novel performances. If they are not fully
grown, you must supply them with fresh leaves every day till they
refuse to eat; and then is the time for your experiments. Shut one
in a little wooden box, and you will have the pleasure of watching it[Pg 42]
construct a cocoon of chips of wood that it has bitten out with its
powerful jaws, all joined together into a hard shell by means of
transparent glue. Shut another Puss in a glass vessel—a tumbler,
for instance—either by placing it under the inverted vessel, or by
covering over the top. Perhaps it will not be superfluous to mention
that, should you place it under an inverted vessel, this vessel
should not stand on a polished table, for, whatever be the material,
unless extremely hard, it is sure to be utilised in the manufacture
of the cocoon.

Let us suppose, then, that the caterpillar is under an inverted
tumbler that stands on a plate or saucer. Now it is for you to
decide what material shall be used in the construction of the new
home. Give Puss some fine strips of brightly coloured ribbon,
and it will construct a very gaudy house by gluing them together.
Or, provide it with sawdust, pieces of rag, glass beads, sand, paper,
anything in fact; and the material will be ‘made up’ into a
cocoon more or less ornamental according to the nature of the supply.

But what if you give it nothing with which to work, and so
inclose it that nothing its jaws can pierce is within its reach?
For instance, shut it in with tumbler and saucer as before, inverting
the former on the latter, and give it no material whatever.
What will it do now? We will watch and see.

At first it is very restless, and walks round and round the edge
of the tumbler, evidently a little dissatisfied with the prospects.
Then, after a little while, the events of nature transpiring in their
fixed order regardless of trivial mishaps, the glutinous fluid begins
to flow from the creature’s spinning glands, and it moves about in
a somewhat aimless fashion, applying the transparent adhesive
matter both to tumbler and saucer.

It seems now to become a little more reconciled to its unnatural
surroundings; and, making the best of bad matters, keeps its
body in one place, and starts the construction of a ridge or barrier
all round itself. By the continued application of the creature’s
spinneret this barrier is made gradually thicker and higher, till at
last the overhanging sides meet and the caterpillar is inclosed in
its self-constructed prison. But the walls of this prison are so
transparent that every movement can be watched; and, after the
insect has spent a few days in completing the cocoon, we can see
it cast off its old skin, and appear in the new garb of a fine
greenish chrysalis.

Its soft green skin soon hardens and turns to a rich dark brown[Pg 43]
colour, and it settles down for a long rest lasting till the following
May or June.

When the whole operation of building is completed, lift up the
tumbler, and up will come the saucer too. The two are firmly
glued together by the substance secreted; and the power of this as
a cementing material will be well illustrated if you endeavour by
mere pulling force to separate the two articles.

The Puss is not the only caterpillar that works up a foreign
material with the contents of the spinning organs. There are
several others, in fact, that use for this purpose fragments of wood
or other parts of the food plants; and a still larger number bind
together leaves, fresh or dead, or particles of earth or other matter.
Several such cocoons will be described in our accounts of
individual species in another chapter. We shall now devote a
little space to a few general remarks on the chrysalides and the
final metamorphosis of butterflies and moths.

[Pg 44]

CHAPTER IV

THE PUPA OR CHRYSALIS

As soon as the last moult of the caterpillar is over, the chrysalis
that had already been developing under the cover of the old skin
is exposed to full view; and although the perfect insect is not to
be liberated for some time to
come, yet some of its parts are
apparently fully formed.

Fig. 30.—The
Pupa of the
Privet Hawk
(Ligustri).

Fig. 31.—The
Chrysalis of
the Large
White Butterfly
(Brassicæ).

The newly exposed skin of
the chrysalis is very soft and
moist, but as it hardens it forms
a membranous or horny covering
that protects and holds
firmly in place the trunk and
the various limbs and appendages
that are distinctly to be
traced on the under surface.

If, however, you examine a
chrysalis directly after the moult
is over, you will often find that
the wings, antennæ, proboscis,
and legs of the future butterfly
can be easily separated from
the trunk of the body on which
they lie by means of a blunt needle, and can be spread out so as to
be quite free from that surface.

In form the chrysalides of butterflies and moths are as variable
as the caterpillars. Many of the former are sharply angular like
that of the ‘Small Tortoiseshell’ already mentioned; but some of
the butterflies—the Skippers (page 197)—have smooth and tapering
chrysalides, and so have most of the moths.[Pg 45]

In colour they are equally variable. Some are beautifully
tinted with delicate shades of green, some spotted on a light ground,
some striped with bands more or less gaudy and distinct, but
the prevailing tint, especially
among the moths, is a reddish
brown, often so deep that it is
almost a black.

Fig. 32.—The
Pupa of the
Dark Green
Fritillary (Aglaia).

Fig. 33.—The
Pupa of the
Black-veined
White Butterfly
(Cratægi).

As a rule there is no
marked resemblance between
the different stages of the
same insect. Thus, a brilliantly
coloured caterpillar
may change to a dull and
unattractive chrysalis, from
which may emerge a butterfly
or moth that partakes of the
colours of neither. But in a
few cases there are colours
or other features that remain
persistent throughout the three stages, or show themselves prominently
in two.

An interesting example in point is that of the Magpie or Currant
Moth (page 279). The caterpillar of this moth is cream-coloured,
with orange stripes along the sides, and very bold black markings
down the back. The chrysalis, which is at first entirely yellow,
afterwards turns black with the exception of some yellow transverse
bands. Then, the moth exhibits the same colours as these
two earlier stages, with the
same degree of boldness;
for its pale cream-coloured
wings, tinted with patches
of yellow, are marked with
numerous deep black spots.
Thus, in this case, we find
the same general character
of the colouring throughout
the insect’s existence.

Fig. 34.—The
Pupa of the
Currant Moth.

Fig. 35.—Pupa
of the Pale
Tussock Moth
(Pudibunda).

Another interesting example,
though not so striking as the last, is to be found in the case
of a group of moths known as the Liparidæ. The caterpillars of
these are remarkable for their very hairy bodies, often ornamented[Pg 46]
by several bold brush-like tufts. The chrysalides are also hairy;
and several of the moths themselves are not only thickly clad with
shaggy hair, but a bold tuft often tips the abdomen.

We must not leave these few remarks on the characters of
chrysalides without a mention of the brilliant spots of burnished
gold that decorate the pupæ of certain butterflies. This is the
feature that led to the invention of the term chrysalis, which is
derived from the Greek word chrysos, meaning gold. For the
same reason the term aurelia has been applied to the pupæ of
Lepidoptera, this being derived from aurum—the Latin name for
gold.

Strictly, then, these two terms apply only to the pupæ of a
certain number of the butterflies; but the former is now generally
used to designate the pupæ of all the Lepidoptera, and is even extended
to the corresponding stages of insects of other orders.

If you examine one of these gold-speckled chrysalides, the
brilliant metallic lustre seems to belong to the outer surface, just
as if certain spots had been tipped with real gold; but after the
butterfly has quitted its case the beautiful golden spots are gone.
This proves that the metallic appearance is not due to reflection
from the outer surface of the chrysalis, but to a reflection from some
structure beneath it. This latter is a very thin membrane which
lies just under the outer transparent covering of the chrysalis.

The period during which the Lepidoptera remain in the chrysalis
state varies very considerably in different species, and also
depends more or less on the temperature. As a rule, when a caterpillar
pupates before the end of the summer, it remains dormant
in the pupal condition for only a few weeks; but, if late in the
summer or in the autumn, it remains in this condition throughout
the winter, and emerges in the following spring or early summer.

Both these conditions are illustrated in the life history of the
Large White or Cabbage Butterfly—an insect with which we have
already become acquainted. We get two distinct broods of this
butterfly every year, the first appearing in May and the second in
August. The eggs of the first brood hatch in about a fortnight, and
the larvæ are full grown about four weeks later. These then change
to chrysalides, from which the perfect insects (the second brood)
emerge in a few weeks—the period varying slightly with the temperature
of the season. From the eggs of this second brood we
get another invading army of cabbage eaters that change to pupæ
late in the summer. These remain dormant till the following[Pg 47]
April, and may be found in numbers throughout the winter, attached
to the walls and fences of kitchen and market gardens.

If, then, the pupæ of the same species are so influenced by the
temperatures of the seasons, can we limit or prolong the period
of quiescence by subjecting them to high or low temperatures
artificially produced? Most certainly we can; and every practical
entomologist knows how to obtain the perfect butterflies and
moths of certain species long before their appointed times, or,
if he desires it, to compel them to remain in their dormant stage
long after the natural period has terminated.

Sometimes an enthusiastic insect hunter obtains a large number
of what we may term ‘winter pupæ,’ by collecting and breeding
various species. He also anticipates a number of successful captures
of perfect insects during the following summer. Thus, from two
distinct sources, he obtains a goodly assortment of butterflies and
moths, the setting, preserving, and arranging of which entails an
immense amount of home work.

Under such circumstances he will sometimes endeavour to cause
some of his pupæ to emerge before their accustomed time, so that he
may get some of his insects ‘on the boards’ before his field work
is in full swing, and so avoid a rush, or prevent the loss of insects
that will be spoiled before he has time to take them in hand.

This process of hurrying up his pupæ he calls ‘forcing,’ and
simply consists in keeping them for a time in a warm room or hothouse
where the high temperature is pretty constant.

On the other hand, the entomologist may desire to try the effect
of a continued low temperature on his pupæ. This he can do by
placing his pupæ in an ice house. Such experiments have often
been performed, and the results are very interesting. In some
cases the emergence of the perfect insect has been delayed for many
months, and even years; and then, after an exposure to a normal
temperature lasting only a week or two, the winged insect has
made its appearance just as if nothing unusual had happened.

Such are the effects of extreme temperatures on the duration
of the chrysalis state; and we naturally infer, from such results,
that the pupa under natural conditions is influenced, though in a
lesser degree, by the variations experienced with the seasons,
especially in such a fickle climate as our own.

The insect hunter has always to bear this in mind, and particularly
so when he sets out on a search for certain desired species.
Suppose, for example, he has set his mind on the capture of a[Pg 48]
certain butterfly that usually appears in the first week in May.
Before finally naming the day, he has to consider what the weather
has been during the last few weeks, and if he finds that this has
been much warmer than the average for the corresponding periods
in the past, he selects a day in April, earlier or later according to
the difference between the present season and the average.

If he does not pay due attention to such considerations, he will
sometimes find that all the insects netted are shabby and much
worn, even though, under average conditions, he would be catching
newly emerged and brilliant specimens. This, then, will explain
how it is that we so often see in entomologists’ periodicals startling
accounts of ‘early captures,’ and of the appearance of certain insects
late in the season that ought not to have emerged till the following
summer.

I will give just one illustration of these variations. The beautiful
Orange Tip Butterfly (Plate I, fig. 7) generally appears about the
middle of May in the southern counties. Farther north it is of
course a little later. In the north of England it has been taken in
June; and in Scotland as late as July. On the other hand, I have
taken it in Gloucestershire as early as March, on a rather bleak
day with a cold east wind; and, withal, in a field on the slope of the
Cotswolds fully exposed to the unfavourable breeze; but it was
evident that, in this case, the butterfly had been enticed from
its winter quarters by the milder weather of the few previous
weeks.

It may be as well, in passing, to observe that it is not only the
pupa that is influenced by temperature. The hatching of eggs may
be forced by high temperatures, or be retarded by exposure to cold;
and in nature the period of incubation varies with the seasons.
The larvæ, too, grow faster or more slowly, or pupate earlier or
later from similar causes. And so no very definite date or period
can be assigned to any one stage of any insect.

Now let us return to one of the chrysalides that we have already
watched through the earlier stages of its existence, and follow it in
its future development.

It is now, as we say, in its quiescent or dormant condition, but
we must not suppose that it is always in a profound sleep, nor can
we say that it is insensible to its surroundings. Touch it gently or
surprise it with a puff of air from your mouth, and it will begin to
wag its pointed tail, sometimes with such vigour as to send the
body rolling round and round in its box. Lay it on a bed of cocoa-nut[Pg 49]
fibre or finely sifted soil and let it remain quite undisturbed for
a few hours or days, and you will probably find that, by occasional
movements of its body, it has made a slight depression in its bed,
and lies partly submerged. I have known some chrysalides to
completely bury themselves in this way during the course of a day
or two, and others to partly expose themselves after having been
lightly covered. Others again, I have observed, will move smartly
if a strong light is suddenly turned on them. Many, too, certainly
appear to have a strong objection to exposure to the direct rays
of a hot sun; for, when thus exposed, they will struggle persistently,
as if to work their bodies into some shady corner. I
would not advise a young entomologist to try this experiment,
however, if he values the pupæ he possesses, for direct sunlight
is undoubtedly very harmful to many species, and perhaps it is
to all.

Some chrysalides are not nearly so active as has just been
represented; in fact, there are many which seem to show no signs
of life during the greater part of the time spent in that state. But
in all, whether apparently active or not, certain important internal
changes are at work. We have already noticed that, even in the
last days of the larval existence, some of the organs of the future
imago are to be traced. But these are as yet imperfectly developed.
We have also observed that a continuation of these changes,
gradually carried on, would be impossible in a voracious feeder; so
the insect, now fully grown, and no longer requiring a supply of
food, settles down in perfect quiet, submitting itself quite passively
to any further changes that nature may demand.

It has already suffered the loss of its claspers. Its wonderful
jaws that did so much damage (for good or evil as the case may be)
to the vegetable world are now gone, and the bulky digestive
apparatus has rapidly dwindled to useless dimensions. These and
other changes, already in progress, have to be perfected while the
creature is in a restful and helpless condition, though they may
often be retarded or even suspended during cold weather when
progress would certainly bring it to an untimely end.

But now the grandest of all these transformation scenes is
nigh at hand. The protective skin is already loosening from the
almost perfect imago, and consequently feels softer and far more
yielding than it did when in close contact with the body: the
swaddled butterfly or moth (for such the pupa is) is slowly preparing
to throw off its imprisoning garb. The wings and large[Pg 50]
compound eyes are assuming their final colours, which now begin
to show themselves through the more or less transparent skin,
and the long legs, the perfectly formed antennæ, and the slender
proboscis, all of which are folded closely under the creature’s thorax,
now begin to move within their loosened sheaths.

Now let us watch it closely, for one of the most wonderful sights
ever witnessed by a naturalist is about to be presented to our view.
We think we can observe slight movements; and, it may be, we can
actually see the struggling insect endeavouring to set itself free. The
legs and proboscis are moving within the loosened skin; and lo! as
we watch these motions, the prison wall bursts with a slight snapping
noise (at least, such is the case with some of the larger species),
and in a moment out pop a few long legs which immediately
struggle for a foothold. The proboscis also appears, alternately
lengthening itself out and coiling into a spiral, as if impatient to
reach the sweet nectar from the bottom of
some fragrant flower cup.

Fig. 36—A Butterfly,
just after
Emerging.

All this takes place in less time than one
requires to describe it; and, before many
seconds have passed, the struggling insect
has quite completed its last moult, and is
bidding good-bye to the rent garment that
has done it good service for so long a time.

But how dreadfully disappointing! Did
we not say only a few minutes since, that a
beautiful butterfly or moth was about to emerge? How, then, is
this? Here is an odd-looking creature, such as we have never seen
before! True, it has the right kind of body, though even that is so
soft and heavy that it is fairly dragged along as the insect walks.
Its antennæ, too, seem to be just the right thing—that is, just
what we were expecting to see. But oh! the wings! Are we
looking at a deformity?—a failure on the part of Nature to produce
what she ought?

We will not judge hastily, but continue to watch it a little
longer. It seems very restless at first, and, with the fluttering
apologies for wings, drags its heavy body along till it reaches some
surface up which it can climb. If nothing of the kind is close at
hand you may place a rough upright stick in its path, and it
will immediately begin to ascend. Its motto is now ‘Excelsior!’
and its ambition to rise may be so great that, on reaching the very
top of the stick provided for it, it struggles for a still higher position[Pg 51]
in life till, failing to get a foothold in the air itself, it falls to the
ground and has to retrace its steps.

I once thought I would like to test the perseverance of a large
moth in performing its first upward journey; and as it was one
from a chrysalis to be found in nature at the foot of a tree that
attains some considerable height, I was, of course, prepared to
exercise a little patience myself.

As soon as the moth had emerged, I placed it at the bottom of
a window curtain that hung from about eight feet high to the
floor. In less than half a minute it had reached the top, and was
struggling hard to get still higher. I took it down, and again
placed it at the bottom. Up it went as fast as before; and this
was repeated nine times with exactly the same result. For the
tenth time I placed the persevering creature at the bottom of
the curtain; and, after it had walked about halfway up, it suddenly
stopped, apparently quite satisfied with having travelled a distance
of over seventy feet in an upward direction. Its six legs were
immediately arranged symmetrically in a business-like manner,
and there it settled quite still, as if it had some definite object in
stopping just exactly in that spot.

But we must now return to our own insect, which has by this
time settled itself in a similar manner on the stick we provided
for it. The peculiar organs which represent the wings, though so
very small, show distinctly, in miniature, the colour and pattern of
the fully developed wings of the species. An interesting change is
just now commencing. These wings are apparently growing larger,
but the development is very unequal, so that they become curled and
crumpled till they are even more unsightly than before. All seems
to be going amiss. But this lasts only for a short time. The
fluid from the body steadily rushes into the nervures, causing the
wings to expand, and in a few minutes the beautiful pinions are
stretched to the full extent, assume their normal shape, and expose
the full glory of their brilliant colours.

It may be interesting if I give an example showing the exact
time taken for the full development of the wings of a certain
insect. So I will here quote an entry from my note book; and, by
the way, let me strongly advise all my young readers who follow
up this subject to habitually enter in a book kept specially for the
purpose all facts which strike them as they pursue their study of
nature. The note to which I refer runs as follows:

‘Early on the evening of the 22nd [April] I selected a few[Pg 52]
chrysalides of Populi [the Poplar Hawk Moth, page 209] which,
from the looseness of their cases, were thought to be just on the
point of emerging. At 8.46 one of them showed signs of restlessness;
and, after a few vigorous movements, during which it rolled
itself over on the glass [I had placed the pupæ on a piece of plate
glass so that slight movements might be more easily detected], the
front of its case was suddenly thrust off with considerable force;
and in less than four seconds the imago was quite free and
crawling on the table. After trying hard to reach a higher point
than was provided for about four minutes, it rested to expand its
wings—now about seven-sixteenths of an inch long, or one-third
the total length of the body. At 9 o’clock the wings reached
half the length of the body, and were much curled. At 9.12 they
were fully expanded and straightened out.’

From this extract we see that the whole period from the
bursting of the case to the full expansion of the wings was only
twenty-six minutes; and it will be well to remind the reader that
the process occupies even a much shorter time than this with
many species, both of butterflies and moths. It will be observed,
also, that the evening was chosen as the time for the observation.
There was a reason for this. The Poplar Hawk Moth, as is the case
with many others, almost invariably emerges from the chrysalis in
the evening—usually after dark. But it may be mentioned in
passing that a far larger number of the Lepidoptera as invariably
emerge in the morning.

Again we will return to our newly emerged insect, for there are
still one or two interesting points to observe. The wings have
fully expanded, it is true, but how very limp they are! Take the
creature on the tip of your finger and hold it so that its body is
in a horizontal position. Immediately the wings bend downward
with their own weight, so soft and flexible are they. The body, too,
is still very soft, and apparently much too heavy for flight. Then,
if you place it on a flat surface, it will immediately try to find
some perpendicular or overhanging surface from which it can
suspend itself by means of its legs, so that the pendant and
straightened wings are in the best possible position for drying. As
the insect walks away in search of such a resting place, the body
still drags as it did before, and the wings bend over, either both on
one side or one on each side of the body.

It is some time before the wings are sufficiently dry and rigid
for flight, but the period varies greatly with different species.[Pg 53]
Some of the small butterflies and moths take to flight long before
an hour has passed, but in many cases several hours elapse before
the creature starts from its first resting place. Butterflies that
emerge in the morning spend their first day actively on the wing;
but the nocturnal moths that emerge early in the day do not fly till
evening twilight. When, however, the time arrives, the insect
flutters its wings as if to test their power before committing itself
to the air; and frequently, after only a few seconds spent in this
preparatory exercise, off it darts with astonishing rapidity. But
others seem far more cautious. They vibrate their wings, sometimes
with such rapidity that they are lost in a kind of mist, and
with such power that their bodies would be carried suddenly into
the air were they not firmly anchored by three pairs of hooked
claws. Then, continuing the rapid vibration, they move slowly
along, always holding on firmly by one or more legs, as if to still
further satisfy themselves concerning the efficiency of their wings.
Then they venture on a few short trial trips from one neighbouring
object to another, and at last gain sufficient confidence for a long
voyage.

How strange must be the feelings of a winged insect during its
first flight! After a long period during which it was a helpless,
crawling grub, and this followed by a term of imprisonment during
which it was almost or quite shut off from the world, it now suddenly
acquires such great powers of locomotion that it is often a
match for ourselves.

But, alas! this life is short. A few days spent in sporting with
those it meets and in sucking the sweet juices of many flowers;
then a day or two during which the female deposits its eggs; again
a few days employed in pleasures that become less and less attractive,
till, at last, the creature becomes weary of life and settles
down to die.

We have now traced the complete life history of the Lepidoptera
from the egg to the perfect insect, avoiding descriptions that
apply only to certain species as far as possible, excepting where
such are useful as illustrations.

Only one thing more remains to be done before we start in real
earnest with our practical work. We shall shortly be giving hints
on the modes of capture, the ‘setting’ and the preservation of
butterflies and moths. And in so doing we shall often have to
observe important points in which our dealings with these two
great divisions of the order will differ very materially. Hence we[Pg 54]
must not consider ourselves ready to proceed with the practical
portion of the entomologist’s labours till we are perfectly satisfied
that we know the main features that enable us to distinguish
between the butterflies and the moths, and also know just a little
concerning the subdivisions on each side.

This, then, shall form the subject of the next short chapter.

[Pg 55]

CHAPTER V

CLASSIFICATION OF THE LEPIDOPTERA

The Lepidoptera are divided into two very unequal groups, to
which we have so frequently alluded as ‘Butterflies’ and ‘Moths.’
And, although these two terms are popularly applied in a fairly
accurate manner, yet, strange to say, very few persons indeed have
any definite knowledge of the differences that entomologists recognise
between the two groups.

Every entomologist has his circle of sympathetic and, perhaps,
even admiring friends. Consequently, many a little package is
sent round to his abode ‘with great care,’ accompanied by a note
or a message concerning the fine ‘butterfly I have just caught, and
thought you would like to add to your collection.’

The ‘butterflies’ that so frequently reach us through these
channels nearly always turn out to be brightly coloured moths,
and this naturally gives one the idea that the popular notion as to
the classification of the Lepidoptera is based on colour or brilliancy
of design, the term ‘butterfly’ being applied to the gayer species,
and ‘moth’ to the more dingy members of the race.

There is really some shadow of a reason in this method of
nomenclature, for butterflies are usually more brightly clad than
moths; but the scientific classification, at least as far as the main
divisions and subdivisions are concerned, has nothing whatever to
do with colour or design; and we must at once acquaint ourselves
with the fact that there are very dingy butterflies, and most
beautiful and highly coloured moths.

How shall we account for the fact that the specimens so kindly
sent us by our friends are generally moths? Is it because moths
are more numerous and more frequently seen? They are certainly
more numerous; for, while our butterflies do not number seventy[Pg 56]
species, the other division contains about two thousand. Yet, in
spite of this fact, moths are not generally observed as much as
butterflies, for the former are nearly all night-fliers, and the latter
always fly by day and rest by night.

Still our question remains unanswered. The reason is this.
The captives sent us are seldom caught on the wing. Most of our
grown-up friends, even though they admire our own pluck and
general carelessness concerning the remarks of the spectators of
our entomological antics, would not themselves like to be seen, hat
in hand, chasing a butterfly; and the night-flying moths are, of
course, less frequently observed. But they often, in the course of
their daily employments, meet with a large moth fast asleep
in some corner of a dwelling house, workshop, or outhouse. Such
moths are easily caught while in the midst of their slumbers,
and, as they often make no attempt to fly by day, are as easily
transferred to a box suitable for transmission by messenger or by
post.

In the above few remarks we have alluded to some features by
which the two great groups of the Lepidoptera may be distinguished;
but we have already referred (page 5) to a far more
important one in our description of the various forms of antennæ.
All butterflies—at least all British butterflies—have knobbed or
clubbed antennæ, while the corresponding organs of all our moths
terminate in a sharp point.

This distinction obtains in all British Lepidoptera, and is so far
regarded as the most important basis of classification that naturalists
have derived from it the two Greek terms that are synonymous
with our two popular names—butterflies and moths. The scientific
name for the former group is Rhopalocera—a term derived from
two Greek words, one signifying a horn, and the other a club, and
thus meaning ‘club-horned.’ The corresponding name for moths
is Heterocera, derived from the same source, and meaning ‘variously
horned.’

But, although we find embodied in these two long and formidable
names an unerring mark of distinction between British
butterflies and moths, we must not neglect other less important
facts which, though less distinctive, are not without interest.

Observe a butterfly at rest. Its wings are turned vertically
over its back, and brought so closely together that they often
touch. In this position the ‘upper’ surfaces of the ‘upper’ wings
are completely hidden from view, and the ‘under’ surfaces are[Pg 57]
exposed on the two sides, except that those of the ‘upper’ pair are
partly hidden by the other pair.

Now look at a moth under the same circumstances, and you
will generally find the wings lying over its body, which is almost or
completely hidden beneath them. As a rule the upper pair together
form a triangular figure, and entirely cover the second pair; but
in some cases a portion of each of the under wings extends beyond
the margin of those above them, and in others the upper pair
extend so far forward that nearly the whole of the under wings is
exposed behind them.

Fig. 37.—A Butterfly at Rest
(Large Copper).

Fig. 38.—A Moth at Rest
(Gothic).

Again, the wings of butterflies are so rigid that they can never
be folded; but you will observe that the under wings of moths are
generally very thin, soft, and pliant,
and are neatly pleated lengthwise when
not in use.

Another feature deserving notice is
a slight difference to be often observed in the form of the body.
The butterfly, which generally has a slender body, has a distinct
constriction or waist between the thorax and abdomen. This is
not so apparent with moths, and especially with the thick-bodied
species.

The Rhopalocera or Butterflies are divided into Families, each
of which contains insects that possess certain features in common
by which they may all be distinguished from the members of any
other family.

The British species represent eight families. They are as
follows:

1. Papilionidæ.—Containing only one British species—the
beautiful Swallow-tail (Plate I, fig. 1).[Pg 58]

2. Pieridæ.—Containing ten species. These are often known
collectively as the ‘Whites,’ but include four butterflies that are
distinguished by beautiful shades of yellow and orange.

3. Nymphalidæ.—This family contains seventeen insects,
among them being several splendid species. It includes the
Fritillaries and Vanessas.

4. Apaturidæ.—Of this we have only one representative—the
Purple Emperor (Plate V, fig. 1).

5. Satyridæ.—Including the ‘Browns’ and ‘Heaths,’ and
numbering eleven species.

6. Lycænidæ.—Including the Hairstreaks, ‘Coppers,’ and
‘Blues,’ in all seventeen species.

7. Erycinidæ.—Containing only the ‘Duke of Burgundy.’

8. Hesperiidæ.—This family contains seven British butterflies
commonly known as the ‘Skippers.’

Although all the members of the same family resemble each other
in certain points of structure, or in their habits, yet we can often find
among them a smaller group differing from all the others in one or
two minor particulars. Such smaller groups are called Genera.

To make this all quite clear we will take an example.

The Brimstone Butterfly (Plate II, fig. 4) belongs to the second
family—Pieridæ, all the members of which are distinguished
from those of the other families by the characteristics mentioned
on page 141.

But our Brimstone Butterfly possesses another very prominent
feature in which it differs from all the other British Pieridæ, and
that is the conspicuous projecting angles of both fore and hind
wings. Among the foreign species of the family we are considering
there are several that possess these angles; but as there are no
others among our own members, the ‘Brimstone’ is placed by
itself in the list of British Lepidoptera as the only member of the
genus Gonopteryx or ‘angle-winged’ butterflies.

Thus the full relationship of this butterfly to other insects may
be shown in the following manner:

The Brimstone Butterfly.

• ORDER.—Lepidoptera
• Section.—Rhopalocera
• Family.—Pieridæ
• Genus.—Gonopteryx
• Species.—Rhamni

[Pg 59]

Now, every butterfly has a Latin or Greek name in addition to
that by which it is popularly known. I should have said two Latin
or Greek names. The first of these is always the generic name,
and the second is the one by which we denote the particular
member or species of that genus. Thus, the scientific name of the
Brimstone Butterfly is Gonopteryx Rhamni.

‘But,’ the reader may be inclined to ask, ‘why should we not
be satisfied with the one popular name only?’ And, ‘If we must
have a separate scientific name, could we not find suitable terms
among our English words to build up such a name—one that
might express the principal characteristics of the insect, and also
serve all the purposes of classification?’

Such questions sound very reasonable, and so they are. But
the entomologist’s answer is this. We ourselves may get on well
without the help of the dead languages, but we have brother
naturalists all over the world, speaking a great variety of different
languages. We endeavour to help one another—to exchange notes
and generally to assist one another in our labours; and this can be
greatly facilitated if we all adopt the same system of nomenclature.
The educated of most of the great nations generally know something
of Latin and Greek, and consequently the adoption of these
languages is generally acceptable to all.

This sounds well, but for my own part I believe that if we are
to make any branch of natural history a popular study, especially
with the young, we must to a certain extent avoid anything that
may prove distasteful. There is no doubt whatever that many a
youngster has been turned away from the pursuit of the study of
nature by the formidable array of almost unpronounceable names
that stretch nearly halfway across a page; and those who desire
to make such a study pleasant to beginners should be very cautious
with the use of these necessary evils. One would think, on glancing
over some of the scientific manuals that are written ‘especially
for the young,’ that the authors considered our own too mean a
language for so exalted a purpose, for in such works we find all or
nearly all the popular names by which the schoolboy knows certain
creatures he has seen entirely omitted, and the description of a
species appended to a long Latin term that conveys no idea whatever
to the reader, who is studying the description of a well-known
animal or plant and doesn’t know it.

Our plan will be to give the popular names throughout, except
in the case of those few species that are not so well known as to[Pg 60]
have received one; but the scientific names will always be given
as well for the benefit of those readers who would like to know
them. And the short description of the method of classification
just given will enable the more ambitious of my readers to thoroughly
understand the table of British butterflies and moths
toward the end of the book.

This table includes all the British species of butterflies and of
the larger moths; and the arrangement is such as to show clearly
the divisions into sections, families, &c. It will therefore be of
great value for reference, and as a guide for the arrangement of
the specimens in the cabinet.

In the foregoing description of the method of classification
butterflies only are mentioned; but the division and arrangement
of moths is carried out in just the same manner except that the
system is a little more complicated. The number of moths is so
large in comparison, that we are able to select from them some
very large groups the species of which possess features in common.
These groups are termed tribes, and are again divided into families
just like the butterflies. Thus the arrangement of moths includes
tribes, families, genera and species. We will take an example by
way of illustration as we did before, and ask the reader to verify
the same by comparison with our table:

Example.—The ‘Common Tiger’ (Plate X, fig. 3).

• ORDER.—Lepidoptera
• Section.—Heterocera
• TRIBE.—Bombyces
• Family.—Cheloniidæ
• Genus.—Arctia
• Species.—Caia
• Scientific Name.—Arctia Caia.

I have already said that the Latin and Greek names of butterflies
and moths are not at all necessary to the young entomologist.
It is quite possible to be well acquainted with the natural history
of these creatures, and to derive all the pleasure and benefits that
the study of them can afford without the knowledge of such names;
but most entomologists go in for them, often to the entire exclusion
of the popular English terms.

There are those who consider themselves (or would have us
consider them) expert entomologists because they have the power[Pg 61]
to vomit forth a long list of scientific names of butterflies and
moths which (to them) have no meaning whatever; and it is astonishing
that we meet with so many youngsters who can rattle
away such terms, and, at the same time, are totally ignorant of
the real nature of the creatures they name.

If you wish to be a naturalist in the true sense of the term, study
your specimens, and take but little pains to commit their hard
names to memory; and you will then find that the latter will
gradually become your own property without any special effort on
your part. Your continued reference to illustrated works and
museum collections will bring them to you almost unconsciously,
and you will generally find your entomological vocabulary extending
as rapidly as your cabinet becomes filled.

Again, with regard to the meanings of the scientific terms, don’t
trouble much about them. It unfortunately happens that in a very
large number of cases these names are ill chosen, and do not in any
way refer to the distinguishing characteristics of the species to
which they are applied. You will observe, too, if you look at the
table, that many insects have two scientific names applied to the
species, one being placed in brackets after the other. In such
cases both these names are in common use, having both been
applied by independent authorities, and the insertion of the
two will prove an assistance at times.

It is a common practice with entomologists, in their communications,
to use only the second or specific name of insects. Thus,
they would speak of the Brimstone Butterfly as Rhamni, and not
Gonopteryx Rhamni. When writing a communication, however,
they very commonly place in front of the specific name the initial
letter of the first or generic name. Thus the full title of the
butterfly just mentioned would be abbreviated to G. Rhamni.

Having said so much concerning the principles of classification
and nomenclature, we will pass on to the practical portion of the
entomologist’s work.[Pg 62]

[Pg 63]

PART II

WORK AT HOME AND IN THE FIELD

CHAPTER VI

CATCHING BUTTERFLIES AND MOTHS

It is not at all surprising that entomology should prove such a
fascinating study to the young, and more especially that portion
which deals with the department we are now considering. Butterflies
and moths are among the most beautiful and most interesting
of living creatures. The study of their life history is enchanting,
and the creatures themselves are of such a size as to be conveniently
handled and preserved, and withal occupy so little space
that anyone with only moderate accommodation may possess a
fairly typical collection.

Compare the work of the entomologist with that of one whose
hobby is the study of mammals. The latter has to deal with large
and cumbersome objects, a collection of which requires an enormous
amount of space; and, unless he has the time and means to
travel in foreign countries, he cannot get together a good typical
collection of specimens representing his particular branch, for the
few British mammals contain no representatives of several of the
orders into which the class is divided.

Entomology is undoubtedly, par excellence, the study for
youngsters. It is equally suited to the studious and to those of an
adventurous turn of mind. It leads its follower into the bright sunshine
and the flowery meadows; and with body and mind pleasantly
occupied, the joy of living is deeply felt. The necessary apparatus
can be made by anyone. No dangerous gun is required, and there
are no precipitous rocks to scale. When the autumn flowers fade
the year’s work of the entomologist is not done, for the arranging[Pg 64]
of his cabinet and the demands of his living specimens keep him
more or less actively engaged until the flowers of the following
spring call both him and the insects he loves once more into the
field. And so, season after season, and year after year, he finds
himself engrossed in labours so fascinating that idleness—the curse
of so many of our youths—is with him an impossibility.

I assume that the readers of this book have a desire to take up
the study of one branch of entomology—that of butterflies and
moths—in real earnest; that they intend not only to read about
these interesting insects, but to know them. And there is only one
way in which one may really get to know living creatures; that
is by searching them out in their haunts, observing their growth
and habits, and by an occasional close examination in order to
become acquainted with their structure.

Hence I shall in this, the practical portion of the work, give
such information as will assist the beginner in catching, preserving,
rearing, breeding, and arranging the specimens that are to form his
collection.

Catching Butterflies

There was a time when we would try to capture a butterfly at
rest on a flower by a quick sweep of the hand, or, more commonly,
by a sharp downward stroke of the cap. We were led to this action
by a mere childish love of sport, or by a desire to possess an insect
simply because it was pretty. When we succeeded in securing our
prize, we handled it somewhat carelessly, often passing it from one
hand to the other, or boxing it in our closed and perspiring fist till
our fingers were dusted with the pretty microscopic scales of the
creature’s wings, and the wings themselves, stripped of all their
beautiful clothing, were merely transparent and veined membranes.
Having thus carelessly but unintentionally deprived the creature of
its greatest beauty, we set it free, often in such a damaged or
exhausted condition that the poor thing could scarcely fly.

But our childish ideas and inclinations have vanished. Now
we would rather watch the insect than catch it, for we find much
pleasure and interest in its varied movements. And if for purposes
of study we occasionally require to make one captive, we proceed
in such a manner as to preserve its beauty unimpaired. The cap
now gives place to a well-made and suitable net; and we are
careful to provide ourselves with sufficient and proper accommodation
for our captives.[Pg 65]

It is probable that many of my readers are as yet unacquainted
with the nature of an entomologist’s requirements for field work,
so we shall describe them, confining ourselves at first to those that
are required for a butterfly hunt.

First and foremost comes the net. This essential portion of your
equipment may be either purchased or constructed by yourself.
Very little skill is required to enable you to do the former. Provided
your pocket is well charged, you may start off at once to the
dealer in naturalists’ appliances, and treat yourself to a complete
outfit. But even in this case a little advice may not be out of
place. See that what you purchase is very strongly made. You can
get nicely finished nets constructed on the most convenient principles,
made to fold and go in an ordinary coat pocket, but with
weak joints. See that you have the most convenient form of net
by all means, but do not
go in for convenience and
appearance at the expense
of strength and durability.
Nothing is more annoying
than to find your net give
way just when you are in
the midst of a good day’s
sport.

Fig. 39.—A Wire Frame
for a Butterfly Net.

Fig. 40.

The folding net is certainly
very convenient, for
you can conceal it in your
pocket while you are walking
through town or travelling in a railway carriage, and thus avoid
that contemptuous gaze which certain of the public are prone to
cast on a poor ‘bug hunter.’ And although such nets are generally
purchased, yet they may be constructed by anyone who has had
experience in the working of metals. But other forms of nets,
equally useful and even stronger, can be made by anybody; and I
will give a few hints on two or three different ways of putting
them together.

A very simple and strong frame for a net may be made as
follows: Get a piece of stout iron or brass wire about forty inches
in length, and bend it into a circle with the two ends, turned out
about two inches each, at right angles to the circumference as
shown in the accompanying sketch.

Now take a good tough stick, the length of an ordinary walking[Pg 66]
stick, and cut out two grooves opposite each other at the end, just
large enough to take the straight ends of the wire. The end of the
stick will now resemble fig. 40 in shape. Place the ends in their
grooves, and bind them tightly to the stick by a good many turns
of rather fine wire.

A frame well made after this fashion is as strong as anything
you could desire, but it has the disadvantage of being always fixed
to the handle, thus preventing the use of the latter as a walking
stick when you are not directly engaged in your entomological
work.

A much more convenient frame may be made by thrusting the
ends of a piece of cane into the two narrow arms of a metal Y.
You may purchase the Y at any of the naturalists’ stores, or you
can make one yourself if you know how to perform the operation of
soldering. I have always made mine with odds and ends of brass
tubing such as old gas pipes. One piece must be just the size to
fix on the stick; and the other two must fit the cane
tightly. The three pieces must be filed off at the
proper angles, and the doubly bevelled end of the
wider tube must then be flattened down to the
width of the smaller ones before soldering. If you
decide to buy one, give the preference to strong
brass rather than the cheaper and more fragile ones
made of tinned iron.

Fig. 41.
The Metal Y.

The advantage of such an arrangement over the
last frame is evident at once. The cane, with net attached, can
be pulled out of the Y when not in use, and bent small enough to
go in the pocket or a satchel; and the Y can also be separated
from the stick, thus allowing the latter to be used as a walking
stick.

Some entomologists speak very favourably of what is known
as the ‘umbrella net’—a large and light net that will shut up like
an umbrella, and may even be made to look very much like this
useful protector, but the possession of such an imitation is somewhat
tantalising in a pelting shower. The ring of this net consists
of two steel springs attached to a couple of brass hinges, one of
which is fixed near one end of the handle, while the other slides up
and down in the gamp fashion.

One other form of net—’the clap net’—although still occasionally
seen, has had its best days. Two sticks are provided to this
one, so that the two sides of the net may be brought together on[Pg 67]
the insect; but as both hands are required to manage it, it is almost
surprising that it ever had any advocates at all.

When your frame is completed, sew round it a strip of strong
calico, to which the net itself may be afterwards sewn, for the lighter
material of the net is too delicate to stand the constant friction
against the metal or cane frame.

The material usually employed in making the ‘bag’ is called
leno. It can be purchased at most of the drapers’ shops, and three
colours—white, yellow and green—are usually kept in stock.
Measure the circumference of your net frame, and see that you get
sufficient leno to make a good full net. Suppose, for instance, that
the circle of your frame measures thirty-six inches round, then your
leno should be at least forty inches in length. Fold this double,
and then cut out two pieces of the shape shown in fig. 42, letting
the depth of the net be nearly or quite equal to the width of the
material. There is nothing to be done now but to
stitch the bag together and sew it to the calico on
the ring.

Fig. 42.

At first you will find the leno rather stiff and
harsh, but a damping and good rubbing between
the hands will soften it down; or, if you prefer it,
you may soften the material by a slight washing
before cutting out the net. The latter is perhaps
the better plan, for the washing will remove the
objectionable ‘dressing’ that renders the material
rather hard and stiff.

Of the three colours mentioned above, green is the one most
generally chosen, because it is more in harmony with the surroundings
of a butterfly catcher; but many prefer the white leno
to the green, as the insects are more easily seen in a net of this
colour. Yellow is certainly not a desirable tint.

As a rule it will be necessary to kill an insect as soon as it is
captured. This is always the case with butterflies unless you
require to keep them alive either to watch their movements or to
obtain eggs. For this purpose you will require a killing bottle or
box containing some volatile substance.

The selection of this necessary piece of apparatus is a point
deserving of much consideration, for so many different forms are in
use by different entomologists, and so many advocates each declare
that his own plan is far superior to that of any of the others, that
the final decision is not to be worked out in a moment. The best[Pg 68]
thing for a beginner is to try as many as he can, and then, after
some considerable experience of his own, he will be able to decide
which apparatus suits himself best.

I recommend this because it is impossible to say of any one
plan that it is the best, for that which gives perfect satisfaction to
one individual will often fail to give anything but annoyance in
the hands of another.

To enable my young readers to follow the advice I have just
given, I will describe some of the commonly used killing arrangements
and show how they should be used.

I will take first the ‘cyanide bottle.’ This is a wide-mouthed
bottle, containing a very poisonous substance called cyanide of
potassium. It is fitted with a good sound
cork. The ‘cyanide’ is a solid substance, and
must be fixed in some way or other at the
bottom of the bottle so that it cannot shake
about and damage the butterflies.

Fig. 43.—The Cyanide
Bottle.

A cyanide bottle can be purchased ready
for use at the cost of a shilling or thereabouts;
but if you are old enough to be trusted with
deadly poisons, you may buy the ‘cyanide’ of
a chemist who knows you well and is satisfied
as to your intentions, and then prepare your
own. Every entomologist should know how
to do this, for the poison loses its power after
some time, and it is not always convenient to
leave your bottle in the hands of a chemist or
a ‘naturalist’ to have it recharged. This will
cost you more than it would to do it yourself,
but that is nothing compared with the annoyance that may result
when, the night before an anticipated butterfly hunt, you are calmly
told that ‘your bottle will be ready in a few days.’ You can charge it
yourself in a few minutes if you can manage to keep a small supply
of ‘cyanide’ in stock, and it is ready for use very shortly after.

Here is the modus operandi.—Purchase an ounce or two of the
cyanide of potassium, and immediately put it into a stoppered or
well-corked bottle. Label it at once, not only with the name,
but also with the word Poison in very large and conspicuous
letters. This dangerous chemical is often sold in sticks that look
much like certain ‘sugar sticks’ I was acquainted with in my
younger days; but whether this is or is not the case with your[Pg 69]
cyanide, see that the bottle is kept quite out of the reach of the
inquisitive and sugar-loving juveniles of the house.

The quantity above mentioned is more than you will require for
the first ‘charge,’ but you will soon experience the convenience of
having a supply always at hand for recharging when your cyanide
bottle fails to do its work expeditiously, or when an accident calls
for the somewhat sudden appearance of a new one.

Now procure a bottle for your work. Its mouth must be wide
enough to take the largest insect you hope to catch, and the widest
part of the bottle need not be much larger. Get a perfectly sound
cork to fit it tightly; and, to insure the more perfect exclusion of
air, paint over the top of the cork with melted paraffin wax.

Dissolve a few drams of the cyanide in a little water, using a
glass rod to stir up the mixture till the solid has all disappeared;
and be careful that neither the solid nor the solution touches
the skin if it should be in the slightest degree scratched or
broken. Now sprinkle plaster of Paris into the solution, a little
at a time, and stir all the while. As soon as the mixture begins
to set, pour it into your bottle as cleanly as you can—that is, without
touching the sides—and press it down with the flat end of a
stick if it is not level. Now cork it, and put the bottle away in a
cool place till required for use.

This is, I think, the best way of charging the bottle; but there
are two other common methods that may, perhaps, be regarded as a
little more simple. One is this: put a few small lumps of the
‘cyanide’ into your bottle, and then cover them with a stiff mixture
of plaster of Paris and water, and press down as before. The other
plan is to cover the ‘cyanide’ with a few thicknesses of blotting
paper, cut just a little larger than the inside of the bottle. The first
of these two methods is fairly satisfactory, but I have always found
that the charge, when made in this way, has a tendency to become
wet and pasty, in which condition it will spoil the wings of the
insects. The other is very objectionable, especially for field work,
for the blotting paper fails to keep its place while you are on the
chase. If the plaster is used, the mixing must be done quickly and
without hesitation, or the mixture will become solid before you can
press it into your bottle.

We will not enter now into the pros and cons of the cyanide
bottle, but will consider the advantages and disadvantages of the
various methods of killing the insects after we have noticed a few
more.[Pg 70]

The ‘laurel box’ has had many devoted advocates, although it
does not seem to be much in use now. It is a very good arrangement,
however, but is a little more troublesome than the cyanide
bottle, as it requires frequent replenishing.

A very good laurel box may be prepared as follows. Get a
small tin box of cylindrical form, measuring about five inches by
two, and cut a circle of perforated zinc or wood just the size to
fit it snugly as a false bottom without any danger of falling out of
its place. Now gather some of the young leaves of the green laurel
bush, and beat them almost to a pulp with a mallet or hammer.
Place this in your tin box, and press down the perforated false
bottom on it. The bruised laurel leaves give off
a very powerful odour, which stupefies butterflies
immediately.

Fig. 44.—Section
of the Laurel
Box.

a, space for insects;
b, perforated partition;
c, bruised
laurel leaves.

Of course the reader may be able to think
of various other ways in which the laurel box
may be made. Any arrangement will do providing
the vapour can come to the insects without
allowing the leaves to touch their wings;
and any ingenious youth could manufacture a
more satisfactory article than the one I have
mentioned. My desire is, as far as possible, to
give instructions that may easily be carried out
by anyone, even if he has not the slightest
mechanical skill, leaving the clever youth, sometimes,
the opportunity of displaying his own inventive
power. But in this case I will give a
few suggestions concerning other ways in which
a laurel killer may be constructed. A firm and fixed false bottom
is a decided advantage. This is easily managed by fixing a circular
piece of perforated zinc or ‘tin’ by means of a little solder; or even
a wood partition may be used, fixed with a few brads, driven into
it from the outside. With the fixed partition, however, you must
have a lid at each end of the box. This is easily managed if you
get two tins of the same size, knock out the bottom of one, and fit
the lid of the other in its place.

I have heard of laurel boxes without any partition save a piece
of rag in which the bruised leaves are wrapped. The whole is
pressed into the box so firmly that it is not likely to be displaced
while you are on the chase. I do not recommend this, for in addition
to the chance of its slipping there is a danger of the sap of the[Pg 71]
leaves exuding through the rag and spoiling the insects’ wings.
But if the reader should prefer to try this on account of its simplicity,
it will probably occur to him that a bottle may be used instead
of a tin box.

A well-made laurel box, with a fixed metal partition, is a piece
of apparatus strongly to be recommended to all young entomologists
who desire to test the relative value of the various poisons
that are used by the different experts; for with it any one of these
substances can be used. In the poison compartment you can place
pieces of ‘cyanide’ wrapped in blotting paper, or any kind of
porous substance moistened with liquid ammonia, chloroform,
benzole, or any other volatile liquid insecticide. All the above-named
substances are declared to be ‘the best,’ so they must all
be worth the trial.

‘Cyanide’ is valued on account of its lasting powers. A cyanide
bottle well charged will retain its efficiency throughout a whole
season. I always recharge two in the spring, one for active service
in the field and the other as a reserve force; and these kept in a
cool place do good execution throughout the year. If they should
exhibit a slight failing, a few minutes’ warming before a fire will
improve them; but for field work it is better to recharge. At
the same time see that the corks are in good condition.

Next to the ‘cyanide,’ the bruised laurel takes the first rank for
permanency; but you must not expect this to last many days.
For a few days’ continuous work one charge will suffice, but if the
laurel box has not been in use for some time you must have a fresh
supply.

The liquid poisons, such as ammonia, chloroform, and benzole,
are so volatile that they are very powerful for a short time, but so
much vapour is lost each time the box is opened that it is absolutely
necessary to carry a bottle of the one you use into the field with
you. Also see that you have sufficient of the blotting paper or
other absorbent to prevent the liquid from leaking through the
perforations of the partition.

If you choose ammonia—a substance that is not regarded as a
poison, and is therefore easily obtained from any chemist—always
get the strongest, and see that it is labelled ‘Liq. Ammonia, S.G.
·880’ as a guarantee. A small bottle such as you can conveniently
carry in the waistcoat pocket will contain sufficient for a day’s
work. Use only a few drops at a time, but renew frequently.
Although the ammonia corrodes cork, yet a good cork is far preferable[Pg 72]
for the pocket to a glass stopper, for its elasticity prevents
it from losing its hold, and the liquid from saturating your pocket
and its surroundings; but a glass stopper is certainly better for the
stock solution kept at home.

Most of the above remarks apply equally well to benzole and to
chloroform, but the latter is so powerful a poison that a very little
is required for a day’s work, and consequently a very small
bottle is more convenient. The dealers in naturalist’s appliances
supply metal ‘chloroform bottles’ with screw stoppers and a small
nozzle that will allow the liquid to run out only in drops. This is
a very good arrangement, since it enables you to avoid the ‘drop
too much’ which is not only unnecessary and therefore wasteful,
but saves you from experiencing the disappointment
of an empty bottle before your work is half done.

Fig. 45.—The
Chloroform
Bottle.

Some entomologists recommend the solid carbonate
of ammonium instead of liquid ammonia, but this is
not so powerful. It must be remembered that we
have the butterflies to consider, as well as our own
convenience, in the selection of the poisons we use.
It is the opinion of many well-known entomologists
that ‘insects cannot feel pain,’ and that we are therefore
at liberty to deal with them in any way we please.
Still it is as well to save all possible suffering, and be
satisfied with no killing box that is not practically
instantaneous in its effects.

Among other poisons used by entomologists I may
mention sulphur fumes and tobacco smoke. The former may be
obtained by burning a little sulphur or a sulphured lucifer match
under the perforations of a killing box of the pattern described, and
the latter—well, every smoker knows that. I should at once condemn
the former method, at least for field work, as troublesome
and inconvenient; and as to the other, I have tried the effect of a
puff (and many puffs) of tobacco smoke on an imprisoned insect,
but was so dissatisfied with the result that I am not likely to do so
again.

We have now considered a good many insecticides more or less
suitable to our purpose, but there still remains the unsolved problem
as to which is the best. Each one has its advantages. For
convenience nothing beats the cyanide bottle. It is very speedy in
its action, and the use of a bottle is a little preferable to a metal
box, for you can always satisfy yourself as to its efficiency without[Pg 73]
opening it. Cyanide, chloroform, benzole, and some others render
the insects more or less brittle and stiff, so that it is not so easy to
‘set’ them for the cabinet. Perhaps, if you happen to have a
supply of growing laurel close at hand, you cannot do better than
stick to the laurel box. The time taken in bruising up a few leaves
is inconsiderable, and the moisture given off from them will keep
your insects moist and supple, or will even ‘relax’ them if they
have become rigid. But try various plans for yourself, and you
will be able to settle a question which all the entomologists in the
world cannot answer for you—which method answers best in your
hands.

The next item for our consideration is the ‘collecting box.’
This is merely a box in which the butterflies are pinned as soon as
they are dead. Here, again, we shall note a few variations from
which a selection can be made according to the means or the
ingenuity of the reader. For a couple of shillings you can obtain
a good zinc collecting box, lined with cork, of oval form (a most
convenient shape for the pocket), and quite large enough for one
day’s captures; and half that modest sum will purchase a wooden
box, also lined with cork, adapted to the same purpose.

As with many other things, so with collecting boxes, the cheapest
is often the dearest in the end. You may feel inclined to save a
shilling by buying a wooden box, but you are sure to discard it after
a little practical experience for a metal one. We shall speak a little
later on concerning the advisability of ‘setting’ the butterflies as
soon as possible after capture; but this is not always practicable,
especially after a good day’s catch. Now, if the insects are pinned
in a wooden box, they soon become dry and rigid, and consequently
cannot be ‘set’ till they have been put through the more or less
tedious process of ‘relaxing.’ If you use a wooden collecting box
you will often find, on a hot and dry day, that all or nearly all your
butterflies are rigid before you arrive home; but a metal box will
keep them moist and supple, so that you can even put off the
setting till the following day if you are unable to do it immediately
after your return.

Another point worth considering is the best economy of space. If
your collecting box is only about one inch deep inside, you have
room for only one layer of pinned insects; but a box only a little
deeper may be lined with cork both at top and bottom, and thus be
made to accommodate double the number. The zinc boxes sold by
the dealers are generally lined with cork in this manner, and are,[Pg 74]
of course, deep enough for the double layer of specimens; but the
wooden boxes are sometimes lined on the bottom only. After these
few remarks you will at once see the economy of expending the
extra shilling on the former.

Although the prices of collecting boxes are low, yet there are
many who would prefer making their own, and there is much to be
said in favour of this. A great deal of pleasure is to be derived
from the construction of your own apparatus, especially when that
apparatus is afterwards to be used in the pursuit of a delightful
hobby. During the whole of the time thus engaged, you are looking
forward with the most pleasurable feelings to the glorious treat
before you, and every joint you make seems to bring you nearer to
the realisation of your joys. During the bleak winter months there
is no better employment for an entomologist who has a little spare
time than the preparation for the next outing. It is just one of
those artful schemes by which he seeks to get as much pleasure out
of life as it is capable of affording. How many there are who,
for the lack of a pleasant and instructive hobby, find their leisure
hours the most dismal of all, and who complain of the toil and
wearisomeness of their lot! The mournful thought with them is,
‘Is life worth living?’ but who ever heard such an expression from
the lips of an active entomologist?

But I must have done with moralising and proceed to business.
The question is—How shall we set to work about the construction
of a collecting box? If it is to be a wooden one, select or make a
box of such a size as to suit your pocket or satchel, and cover the
bottom, and lid too if the depth allows of it, with sheet cork or
slices of good wine corks, about one-eighth of an inch thick, fixed
on with glue.

The metal box is not quite so easy, but even here you may
save yourself much work by keeping your eyes open. Very neat
little collecting boxes can be made out of the flat metal boxes in
which are sold certain favourite brands of tobacco. Some of these
are just the right depth, and also of a very convenient size for the
coat pocket. Beg one of these boxes from a smoking friend, and if
the lid is not held by a hinge (a great advantage, by the way), you
can easily solder on a brass one.

All that remains now is the fixing of the cork. Buy a sheet
of cork at a naturalist’s shop, this being a commodity always in
stock, and cut out two pieces just the size to cover the bottom
and the lid.[Pg 75]

Gum and glue are not very satisfactory as fixing agents, for, as
you will presently learn, there are times when it will be necessary
to keep the box moist, and moisture softens both these substances.
The cork must be fixed by means of little strips of metal. Here
are two ways of doing this:

First.—Cut a few little strips of sheet tin, each about two inches
long and one-eighth wide. Double and bend them as shown in
fig. 46, and solder them to the surfaces which the cork is to
cover (fig. 47). As the cork is pushed in its place, these little
slips are allowed to force themselves through slits in it made by
means of a penknife, and then the ends are bent over as shown in
fig. 48. Two or three such fasteners will be quite sufficient to hold
down each sheet of cork.

Fig. 46.

Fig. 47.

Fig. 48.

Fig. 49.

Second.—Put the sheets of cork in their places first, then
make a few little slits through both metal and cork with the
point of a penknife, and then bind the two together with a
few ordinary paper fasteners. This arrangement is shown in
section in fig. 49.

Just one point more concerning the metal collecting box. You
will often call moisture to your aid in keeping the butterflies
flexible and soft. This will have but little action on zinc, but will
sooner or later cause the ‘tin’ (really tinned iron) box to rust.
Here, then, is a point in favour of zinc, but still a home-made ‘tin’
collector will last a long time if kept dry when not in use.

As already hinted, there are times when it is desirable to take
home certain butterflies alive, either for a study of their movements
or for the purpose of securing eggs for breeding. To this end you
must provide yourself either with a number of ‘chip boxes’ with a
few small holes pricked in the cover, or with some metal boxes
with perforations for the admission of air. If the latter, you will[Pg 76]
have no difficulty in securing a few ‘tin’ boxes of suitable size,
but, as the surface of the metal is very smooth, you should always
introduce a few leaves or something else that will provide a foothold
for the inmates.

The last item of the outfit is the pins. Ordinary draper’s pins
are quite out of the question. They are far too thick and clumsy for
the collector’s work. If you are not already acquainted with the
‘entomological pins,’ you had better ask a dealer to give you a
sample card. This will be very useful for reference until you
become well acquainted with the various lengths, thicknesses,
numbers and prices. The card will contain one of each kind, with
price and number attached.

If you fix a butterfly with the ordinary pin, you may find the
latter partly covered over with verdigris after a time. This bright
green substance is formed by the action of decomposing animal
matter on the copper of the pin, and gives a very unsightly appearance
to the specimen. To avoid this the entomological pins are
either silvered, blackened or gilded. The silvered pins tarnish
after a time, but the two other kinds keep their colour well, and
are therefore better. The gilded ones are rather expensive and unnecessary,
and perhaps the black ones are to be preferred to the
silvered, although they are rather more costly.

Most dealers will supply you with a box of mixed pins, each box
containing about six different sizes. This is very convenient for
those who work in a rather small way; but if you intend to make
entomology a prolonged study you had better get an ounce or so of
each of the more useful sizes.

Butterflies vary much in size, and Nos. 3 to 8 are the most
useful sizes of pins to fix them; No. 3 being for the largest, and 8
for the smallest.

Supposing all the foregoing requisites to be quite ready, still you
are really by no means prepared for all your work. The butterflies
captured should be set as soon as possible after your return, and
everything required for this part of the work must be in perfect
trim. Yet I think it will be more convenient just now to confine
our attention to the subject of ‘Catching Butterflies,’ leaving all
the indoor work to form the substance of another chapter. Our
next point, then, shall be the consideration of seasons, times, and
localities.

The earliest of the butterflies make their appearance on the
wing in April, or, if the weather is mild, towards the end of March;[Pg 77]
and from this time you can find employment up to the end of
September or the beginning of October—a period of about seven
months. But it must not be supposed that all parts of this long
season are equally prolific, and will yield equally valuable catches.
Remember the short term of a butterfly’s life, and bear in mind
that each one has its own regular season in which to spend the
winged state; you will then see that anyone who wishes to ‘work’
as many species as possible must arrange his outings in accordance
with the insects’ own times.

Some butterflies are double-brooded, and the two broods may
not come forth at certain fixed times. Hence they seem to be on
the wing almost without cessation for several months together, and
therefore need not have a special day set apart for them. But
others are more uniform in their date of appearance, and die off at
about the same time. To catch such as these you must be careful
to watch the weather, make allowance for any severities that may
tend to cause a delay, or an unusually high temperature that may
hasten their emergence, and then select a day in which you may
expect to find them fresh and unworn. A week too early, and none
are to be seen; a week too late, and nearly all you catch are worn
and worthless.

A glance at our Calendar (Appendix II) will give you a few
illustrations in point. Thus you will observe that May is a month
for the ‘Whites,’ early ‘Blues’ and certain of the Fritillaries;
July for most of the Hairstreaks and Browns, and so on. Before
you have been long collecting you will have captured the very
common species, and then you will find that your butterfly hunts
are very unproductive unless you make it a point to try for certain
species at the proper times.

Time, however, is not the only thing to take into account when
preparing for a day with the butterflies. It is equally important
that we should carefully select our locality in accordance with the
known haunts of the various species. As long as you are simply
working up the common kinds, you may wander almost at random
in waste places, flowery meadows, corn fields, railway banks, &c.;
but when you have secured a few specimens of each of these, you
must search out the favoured resorts of the more local and the
rarer species. For instance, wooded spots must be visited if you
are to take certain of the Fritillaries, oak woods for the Purple
Emperor and the Purple Hairstreak, fenny districts for the beautiful
Swallow-tail, and so forth. In some cases the butterflies are[Pg 78]
closely restricted to certain isolated localities, to which you must
travel if determined to obtain them.

There yet remains another important matter to consider, and
that is the kind of day you shall select for your outing. Butterflies
are not only strictly day-fliers, but most of them venture out only
on bright days. Always choose as hot a day as possible, with a
very bright sun. If you are to be out for a full day’s collecting,
manage to be on the hunting ground at about ten o’clock in the
morning. As a rule there are not many out before this time, and
some do not appear to stir till an hour later: still there are a few
‘early birds’ among them, one of which—the Wall Butterfly—I
have seen on the wing before eight.

If your season, your day, and your locality are all well chosen,
you may reckon on a good six hours’ work. At about four the
butterflies begin to lag, and then drop into their hiding places, one
by one, till only a few of the late stragglers remain on the wing.

So far I have furnished some general instructions that may be
regarded as preparatory to the start; but I will now give a few
hints as to the mode of procedure when the day for field work has
come.

First, see that you have secured all your apparatus, and that it
is in perfect condition. What is more annoying than to find, after
you have travelled some miles to get to your hunting ground, that
you have left your screw ferrule at home, or that the soldering of
your metal Y is just giving way? If you are troubled with a short
memory, it will be advisable to make out a list of every requisite
for your field work, and keep this for reference on all field days.

Here is a list of your equipment for a day with the butterflies.
Net, ferrule or Y, stick, collecting box (the cork of which should be
damped if the box is a metal one), a few ‘chip boxes’ for live
insects, killing apparatus, a good supply of pins of several sizes, a
piece of string, needle and cotton, and your penknife.

You observe in this list one or two items not previously mentioned,
since they hardly come under the category of apparatus,
but a moment’s thought will convince you of their usefulness, especially
in the case of a breakdown. If your net catches in a thorn—a
very common occurrence—and a big rent is made, the needle and
cotton will save you a deal of agony, and perhaps loss of temper.
If your stick breaks under your exertions, the knife or the string
may prove a most valuable companion. Your pins may be stuck
in the cork of your collecting box, certainly the most convenient[Pg 79]
spot for immediate use; but you may also have a reserve store in
a small pocket cushion, or arranged neatly on a strip of flannel
which can be rolled up in the waistcoat pocket.

At last you are on the hunting ground, fully equipped but inexperienced,
and at first find yourself just a little awkward in the
use of your new gear. Your experience with the cap has been a
very wide one, and you are possibly an expert at knocking down
‘Whites’ in the streets and in your neighbour’s kitchen gardens.
Now you have to wield the net, and coax your captives into your
killing bottle; hence a slight feeling of incompetence at first.

You soon get over this, however, and within five minutes you
may be seen furiously slashing away at all the poor butterflies that
come within range, common ‘Whites’ and dingy ‘Browns’ receiving
as much attention at your hands as any rare gem that
may happen to cross your path.

How different are the movements of an experienced collector!
He walks stealthily along the route he has chosen, apparently
taking but little notice of the majority of butterflies that approach
and pass him. He has already secured his ‘series’ of nearly all
the species, and is carefully on the watch for the gems that are
required to complete his cabinet. His actions are slow and deliberate
rather than rash; and he trusts more to his eyes than his
legs.

The beginner may take to his field work quite to his own satisfaction,
and may travel homeward with a feeling of great pride over
his first day’s catch; but yet there are a few points in which a little
advice may not be quite out of place, particularly so with regard to
the management of the net, and the killing and pinning of the
insects.

Most of the butterflies may be caught on the wing, and it is far
better to net them in the air than to sweep them off the herbage
and flowers. If these are rather low, you should strike the net
smartly upwards from below them, but of course this movement is
impossible with insects that happen to be almost above your reach.
If a butterfly is busily engaged in searching out its sweet food,
flying from flower to flower, don’t think of giving chase, but follow
it up stealthily, and you will sooner or later get an opportunity of
striking at it while in the air. Sometimes, however, you will see a
powerful flier making a straight dash across your field, taking no
notice whatever of the fragrant blossoms, but evidently engaged on
some important errand. If such happens to be a species you[Pg 80]
require, then you must run for it, but you will probably be satisfied
with only a few chases of this kind, particularly if the sun is very
hot, and the ground diversified with clumps of furze, heather,
‘molehills,’ and ditches.

There are times when your only plan of netting a butterfly is
to sweep it from a flower or leaf on which it has settled. If the
vegetation is very low, you have simply to bring the net down upon
it, and then, holding up the apex of the net with the other hand so
as to give it room to fly, you can inclose it by grasping the lower
part of the net as soon as the butterfly has fluttered upward. If
the herbage is tall it is advisable to strike either upward or sideways
at the insect, starting it from the leaf or flower on which it rests;
for if you bring down the net you will have to inclose the whole or
part of the plant on which the butterfly has settled—a procedure
that often ends in a torn net, or in the insect becoming damaged
through being rubbed against the plant.

Whenever you capture a butterfly by a sweep of the net
through the air, you immediately turn the ring into a horizontal
position, so that the bag of the net closes itself as it falls over the
edge. This gives you an opportunity of examining the insect before
you introduce your killing bottle. This is a very necessary precaution,
for you are generally unable to judge of the condition of a
butterfly while on the wing, and in some cases you cannot even be
certain of the species. If, then, you were to call the killing bottle
into requisition for every capture you make, you would certainly
find yourself taking the life of many an insect that is of no use
whatever to you. Always examine your specimens at the moment
they have been secured, at least as far as it is possible to do so, by
looking through the gauze; and let your examination be as brief as
possible, or some of the butterflies that were at first in splendid
condition will render themselves useless to you during their
struggles to get away.

When satisfied that an insect is likely to be of value to you, keep
it in the apex of the net by grasping the bag beneath it with the
left hand, and then introduce the opened killing bottle with the
other hand. As a rule you will experience not the slightest difficulty
in coaxing it into its trap, and then you quickly cover the
mouth of the killing bottle with the gauze, then apply your left
hand, using it as a temporary stopper for a few seconds, and now,
the insect having been quieted, replace the cork.

A good killing bottle is almost instantaneous in its action, not[Pg 81]
only stupefying, but immediately killing the insects; and as soon as
you are sure that each specimen is quite dead, you may pin it in
your collecting box.

You must be cautious, however, on the one hand, that you do
not take it out too soon. If you do you may find that it recovers
from the mere stupefying effect of the poison, even after it has been
pinned, and when you open your collecting box for the next butterfly,
you are horrified at the sight of the poor victim struggling to
free itself.

On the other hand, don’t keep the insects in the killing bottle
too long. If you do you will soon have a number, one lying on
another, and all tumbled about together while you are on the chase.
Of course, under such circumstances you are sure to damage them
more or less.

Many collectors, although they may always use a killing bottle for
moths, never employ one for butterflies, but kill them by pinching
the thorax. It is well to know how to do this, for it sometimes
turns out to be a really quicker process than that we have just been
considering; and, more than this, you can resort to it should you
break or lose your bottle while in the field. It is done in this
manner: Bring the two opposite sides of the net together, closing
them on the insect so that it cannot flutter. If now the wings are
brought together over the back, all is right, but if not, give it just
a little room to flutter till you have the opportunity of closing the
gauze upon it with the wings in the desired position. Now pinch
the thorax smartly between the finger and the thumb, applying the
pressure outside the net, but be careful not to squeeze the abdomen.
In a moment you will find the insect quite dead, and not in the
least damaged unless you performed the operation clumsily.

Now as to pinning. Hold the dead butterfly between the finger
and thumb of the left hand, and pass a pin of convenient size through
the centre of the thorax above, and push it through so that the point
appears centrally on the under surface. It is now ready for your
collecting box.

So you work on till the sun begins to get low, and the butterflies
become fewer and fewer, till only a few stragglers of common species
are to be seen. Still there are a few hours of daylight and perhaps
even of bright sunshine before you, and if you are not weary with
the work done, you may very profitably spend these hours in the
collection and study of the habits of moths.[Pg 82]

Catching Moths by Day

The reason for choosing the sunny hours for butterfly collecting
is obvious, all these lovers of brightness being then actively on
the wing; and although many may be driven out of their hiding
places by beating the herbage with the handle of your net, or even
be searched out as they rest on stalks and leaves during dull days
or at morning and evening twilight, yet such methods are comparatively
tedious and unproductive.

Some moths also are lovers of sunshine, and while engaged in
butterfly hunting you will often meet with a moth flying briskly
from flower to flower and taking its fill of both sweetness and
brightness. Again, as you wade among flowery herbs in quest of
butterflies you will certainly disturb a number of moths, causing
them to take a short flight in search of a safer spot. Thus you will
almost invariably find a few moths among the contents of your
collecting box even though you made no special effort to seek
them out. But we shall now see how we may set to work to
obtain a successful catch of moths at times when butterflies are
not so much in demand, or during the less brilliant hours of the
day, when butterflies are at rest.

The apparatus required for this work need not differ in any important
respect from that recommended for butterflies. The same net is
used, any reliable killing bottle will do, and the pins and collecting
box used for butterflies are equally serviceable. But your mode
of procedure is very different.

As you walk towards your proposed hunting ground you will
do well to examine the trunks of trees, old walls, and wooden fences.
In this way you will meet with moths fast asleep, which are
consequently easily taken. All you have to do is to hold the open
killing bottle obliquely just below the insect, and then push it
gently downward with a small twig or stalk. As a rule the moth
will drop direct into the bottle and make no attempt to fly away;
but some are very light sleepers, ready to take flight at the slightest
disturbance; and when dealing with these you must be careful to
bring the mouth of the killing bottle so closely round them that
there is no room for flight except into the bottle itself. It is well,
however, not to take long at this kind of searching, but to reserve
as much as possible of your time for what you consider to be a
very favourable locality.

Speaking generally, a good locality for butterflies is a favourable[Pg 83]
one also for moths, and you will do well to give special attention
to well-grown hedges, especially those that surround clover fields;
also overgrown banks, the borders of woods, open spaces in woods,
the trunks of isolated trees, gravel pits, and old chalk quarries.

Walk beside or among the undergrowth of woods, or among the
tall herbage of waste places, tapping the branches and twigs with
the handle of your net as you go. Then, if your locality is well
selected, you will rouse moths to flight at almost every stroke.
Some of these will shoot upward among the lofty branches and
disappear quite beyond your reach; others will fly rather low and
somewhat heavily, giving you favourable opportunities to try your
skill with the net; others, again, will fly only a yard or so, and
alight on a neighbouring leaf, often remaining so quiet that the
killing bottle is easily made to inclose them.

There are moths that show a decided preference for large trees.
These may be seen hovering about high branches during the evening
twilight, and sometimes even in sunshine. In many such
cases the chance of a capture seems hopeless, but occasionally one
will descend so low that a watchful collector is able to secure it by a
sweep of the net.

If at any time you are in a locality by day where you suspect
the presence of certain species of moths at rest among the upper
branches of trees, such branches should be beaten if possible to dislodge
the insects they may shelter. A long stick will often serve
this purpose well, and, failing this, a few stones thrown among
the branches may prove effectual. In the case of small and rather
slender trees, a kick against the trunk will set the whole in vibration
sufficient to surprise all the lodgers; and the same effect may
be produced with larger trees by giving each a good sound blow
with a mallet or some other suitable implement.

This or any other plan of ‘beating’ for moths is much more
conveniently worked by two collectors together than by one alone;
for one engaged in beating the herbage cannot be at the same
time fully on the alert with the net. If two persons are together,
one may take the lead, armed with the beating stick only, while
the other, only very slightly in the rear, is always ready to
strike.

We have said that butterflies should always be killed in the
field, but this plan is not so universally adopted with moths. Many
collectors carry a large supply of pill boxes when going out for the
latter and then take as many as they possibly can by boxing them[Pg 84]
direct in these. This method of ‘pill-boxing’ is very simple in
the case of the lazy and soundly sleeping moths. It is only
necessary to hold the open box below the insect, and then cause
it to fall by pressing the lid down gently on it from above.

Many of the moths so caught will remain quiet in the boxes
and can be taken home alive without much fear of damage. All
may then be killed at the same time by packing all the pill
boxes in some vessel of sufficient accommodation, and shutting
them in with a little chloroform, ammonia, benzole, or other
suitable poison. The vapour will soon find its way through the
pores of the pill boxes, but, in order to make its action speedy,
each one should have a few perforations in the lid.

Whatever advantages this method may give to the collector
who works at night, when the process of pinning would be more
or less tedious, there is no necessity for its adoption during the
day. The large number of pill boxes required is certainly far
more bulky than the single collecting box that would accommodate
all the day’s captures; and although most of the insects boxed
alive may be none the worse for the shaking they get, and may not
damage themselves by fluttering in their small prisons, yet there is
often a little loss on this score.

If you do adopt the pill-boxing method, be very careful
that you do not mix the occupied boxes with the empties; and unless
you fix on some definite plan for the prevention of such an
occurrence, you will often find yourself releasing a prisoner from a
box you have just opened to receive a new-comer.

Suppose that you start with all your empties in your right
pocket. Then each one, as soon as it is tenanted, might be placed
in the left, with the name of the insect, or any particular concerning
it you would wish to note, pencilled on the lid.

When examining the trunks of trees you will be continually
meeting with specimens of very small Moths—Pyralides, Crambi,
Tortrices, and Tineæ—and at first may find some difficulty in
boxing or bottling such small and delicate creatures. A grass
stalk will enable you to tip some of them into your killing bottle,
but some are so snugly packed in crevices of the bark that it is
almost impossible to get them out without damage, even with a
thin and slender stalk. But a sudden puff of wind from your
mouth will often be sufficient to dislodge them and blow them
into your net, and from this they are easily transferred to a box or
bottle.[Pg 85]

These few hints will prove sufficient to start you on moth-hunting
expeditions during the daytime, and will enable you to
make good use of the dull days and cloudy hours when the butterflies
are quiet; but we must now turn our attention to the night
work of the entomologist, and see how we may attract and catch
moths during their hours of work and play.

Searching for Moths at Night.

It is a well-known fact that the night-flying moths are attracted
by lights, a characteristic of these insects that it is difficult to
explain. Their love of darkness is in many instances so decided
that they absolutely refuse to take flight while the fading light of
day still lingers on the horizon, and even display a great aversion
to the rays of the moon; and yet these very same species will
often rush madly into the fierce glare of a naked artificial light, or
fly with an energy almost amounting to fury against the glass of a
street lamp or lighted window.

Puzzling as this peculiar tendency is, we can profitably turn
it to our own account by making it a means of luring a number of
moths into our presence.

The simplest way of putting this mode of capture into effect is
to post yourself at your open window, with net and cyanide bottle
at hand, while the brightest light you can command casts its rays
as far and as wide as possible into darkness outside. If you use
an oil lamp for the purpose, let it stand just inside the window
frame, or, if a jointed gas bracket happens to be situated beside the
window, bend it round so that the rays may pass over a wide area
outside.

Two such lights are sometimes a very decided advantage—one
quite outside the window to attract the moths from all possible
points, and then another near the middle of the room to invite
them inside. Whether you use either one or two lights, always
see that it or they are so surrounded by a screen that the moths
cannot by any possibility rush into the flame. There is nothing
better for this purpose than a covering of light gauze, for this is
not only a barrier for the prevention of the suicidal tendencies of
the insects, but it also gives a good foothold to those who would
like to rest and enjoy the luminous feast.

You will soon begin to learn that moths, like ourselves, exhibit
great differences in their ways of enjoying their festal moments.[Pg 86]
Some will satisfy themselves by flying near the light in almost a
straight course, hardly slackening their speed as they pass; or will,
perhaps, make a hurried curve round the light and then pass on at
once about other business. To catch these you must be always on
the alert, with net in hand, ready to make a dash at the right
moment. But many will make straight for the flame, and then,
finding a barrier in the form of gauze or glass, will either flutter
round and round as if dissatisfied with your attempt to save them
from an untimely end, or else settle quietly on the screen to enjoy
the brightness for a long period. The flutterers are usually easily
covered by a glass or the open cyanide bottle, and as for those that
settle down quietly, you can take them at your leisure.

It will not do for a collector to depend solely on this method of
obtaining moths, but at times when either his duties or the bad
weather keeps him at home it affords him a means of capturing a
few specimens that otherwise would have been missed. He may
be even so busily engaged in other matters that he cannot afford
the time to stand and watch with net in hand, but the insects that
fly into his room and dance round the gas jet or inquisitively
examine the white surface of the ceiling are easily netted or boxed
without much loss of time.

The chances of success at this kind of work will vary considerably
with the aspect, the season, and the weather. If your
window opens on a large flower or fruit garden, on a patch of
wooded country with plenty of underwood, a piece of waste ground
overgrown with rank vegetation, or a stretch of heath or moor,
then you may expect a very large number of visitors; but if you
are situated on a level and barren country, or in the dense
atmosphere of a thickly populated district, you must not reckon on
many intruders.

As regards the season, this is more extended than that of the
butterflies. A few species of moths may give you a call during
the bleak nights of October and November, and also during the
somewhat less dismal nights of February and March; but from
April to September you may rely on a goodly number of captures.
Of course you will not expect many of the ‘rarities’ and ‘gems’
to find you out; these are to be searched for in the open field in
the manner to be presently described; but your lights will attract a
large number of the commoner species of Geometræ and Noctuæ,
the former chiefly during the early summer, and the latter more
or less throughout the season.[Pg 87]

A little experience will show you that the atmospheric conditions
form a very important consideration. The dark and warm
nights are the most productive. Very little luck is to be anticipated
when the full moon is throwing down her silvery rays from a clear
sky; nor will you see many while a cold east or north-east wind is
blowing. Under these conditions many moths prefer to keep in the
sheltered nooks where they slept away the sunny hours of the day.
They love a warm and moist air such as calls forth the odours of
the fragrant blossoms that provide their sweets, and show no dislike
to a fine drizzling rain that you yourself would prefer to avoid. A
pelting shower will generally keep them under cover, but they
delight in the fresh and moist air that immediately
succeeds the passing storm.

Fig. 50.—Frame
of Net for Collecting
Insects
on Lamps and
Windows.

If you reside on the outskirts of a town an
occasional tour of inspection of street lamps
may add a few specimens to your collection, and
some entomologists attach so much importance
to the value of these luminaries that they provide
themselves with a special net for the removal of
moths from the glass and rails (fig. 50). The
straight side marked a is applied to the panes
of glass when flutterers or settlers are to be
taken, and the bend on the opposite side is to
secure those that rest on the rail. Such a frame
is easily made by bending a piece of stout wire
to the required shape, and then soldering it to a
ferrule to receive a long stick. The net itself
should not be deep.

Many different forms of traps are now made for catching
moths, and these are deservedly coming rapidly into favour. They
are generally constructed on a ‘catch-’em-alive-oh’ principle, and
have the advantage that, after having been set, they may be left alone
all night without any watching, and give an ambitious collector the
opportunity of taking insects in his garden and searching in the
open field both at the same time.

One of these traps may be constructed as follows at the cost
of only a few pence over the price of a small paraffin lamp. Put
together a square box, the sides about two feet and the front open,
or procure a suitable one from your grocer. Place a paraffin lamp
with a bright tin reflector at the back of this, and make a hole in
the top just over the chimney to allow the heated air to pass out[Pg 88]
freely. Three sheets of glass are now to be placed as shown in the
sketch (fig. 51), one upright piece completely shutting off the lamp,
and two others placed obliquely with a space between them just
large enough to allow admission. These must be exactly the
width of the box, and should not be permanently fixed, but simply
resting on small wooden supports nailed on to the sides. When required
for use, it is only necessary to light up the lamp, strew some
dead leaves on the bottom of the box, and put the sheets in their
places. It will be seen at once that the angles at which they are
placed will direct all light-seekers into the lower compartment,
whence they are not at all likely to find their way out again; and
after vain endeavours to reach the light they finally settle down on
the sides of the box or seek shelter among the dead leaves.

Fig. 51.—A Trap for Catching Moths.

Occasionally it happens
that an entomologist
is lucky enough to claim
the friendship of a person
who, from the nature of
his calling, is peculiarly
well qualified to render
him great assistance.
Thus a friendly lamplighter,
expert and patient
in the use of the cyanide
bottle or pill box, is capable
of giving valuable aid at
times; and the keeper of a
lighthouse has it in his power to capture many a gem that is seldom
seen on the wing; but, although much may be done by means of
these and other stationary lights, this kind of work does not compare
favourably with the night rambles of a naturalist in the very
haunts of the objects of his search.

For such out-door work in search of moths a good lantern is
essential. An ordinary ‘bull’s-eye’ is almost useless, for, although
it concentrates a good light on certain objects, the narrow range of
its rays constitutes a strong objection to its use for entomological
work. For this purpose it is necessary that the rays of light not
only pass in front of you, but also shoot off right and left to warn you
of the approach of a moth before it is too late to wield the net.
This wide range may be obtained by means of three flat glass sides,
or, better still, by a bent plate glass front.[Pg 89]

In addition to this you must go out provided with your net,
killing bottle, and a number of pill boxes. Choose your night
according to the hints already given, and if you are on the look-out
for any particular species, be careful that the date of your outing is
well timed, making any necessary allowances for the forwardness
or backwardness of the season, for a moth that is generally due on
a certain average time of the year may appear some weeks sooner
if the preceding weeks have been unusually warm, or its emergence
may be delayed considerably by the prevalence of cold east
winds or a late frost.

Make up your mind as to the field of your operations before you
start, and if possible choose a route that will carry you through a
variety of situations, so that you may pass the favourite haunts of
a number of different species. Clearings in woods with an abundant
undergrowth, waste places with plenty of tall and rank vegetation,
overgrown railway banks, clover fields, the flowery borders of corn
fields, plantations in parks, heaths and moors, sheltered and overgrown
hollows such as chalk pits and old disused quarries, reed and
marsh land, all these are good localities, each one inhabited by its
own peculiar species, and if your route runs through a fair variety
of such places you may, other things being equally favourable,
depend on a good catch.

See that your time also is well chosen. Of course you cannot
say exactly what the night will be till it actually comes, and, as
you have to start off before it is dark, you must consider the
probabilities of the future from the present condition of the air. Let
it be a night when a bright moon is not due, and if it follow a
warm and moist day with a south or south-west wind, or if drizzly,
so much the better; but let your feet be shod with boots that will
permit you to wade through moist herbage without danger, and
take a waterproof if necessary.

It is always advisable to be on your hunting ground before
twilight sets in, as a number of moths venture out before the sun
has disappeared; and then you can work on till midnight if you
feel inclined, or even extend your labours till the early hours of the
morning.

Before dusk you will meet with many of the little Tortrices
(page 298) in sheltered spots, and a little later the Geometræ and
Hawks will be on the wing. Thus, before dark, you may make
good use of your net, dealing with your captures just in the same
way as recommended in the case of butterflies.[Pg 90]

After a time, however, the lantern will have to be brought to
your assistance in making known the whereabouts of the later
species, consisting chiefly of the Noctuæ, many of which do not
make their appearance till it is quite dark. If now you carry your
lantern in your left hand, your work will be rendered somewhat
difficult and tedious, for, although one hand is sufficient to manage
the net properly, you are compelled to rest your light on the ground
every time you make a capture, as it is impossible to box your
specimens unless both hands are quite free. This difficulty is easily
overcome by suspending the lantern by means of a string or strap
placed round your neck, allowing it to hang on your chest; and a
further advantage is gained by having a second strap round your
chest to prevent it from swaying about with every movement of
your body. This arrangement gives you both hands perfectly free
during the whole time, and also prevents the necessity of continually
bringing yourself into a stooping or kneeling posture
while you are examining or boxing the specimens you have
netted.

There are now two courses open to you. Either you can kill
and pin the moths as you catch them, fixing each one securely in
the collecting box, or you may simply shut each one in a separate
pill box and leave the remainder of the work to be done at home.
If the ordinary collecting box only is used, a little of your time is
necessarily occupied in pinning and transferring, and if many
insects are about such an occupation may appear to you to be a
waste of valuable time. But this is not all. Often and often will
you find that while thus engaged a splendid moth will come and
flutter round your light; and, before you have time to drop your
collecting box and pick up the net, the fine creature you would
have prized has darted off again. This certainly seems to speak in
favour of the pill-boxing method, but it must be remembered that
a few of the moths will continue to flutter after they have been
boxed, so that when you arrive home they are more or less
damaged, a large number of the scales that once adorned the wings
now lying on the sides and bottom of the boxes. Perhaps the best
plan is to take both the collecting box and also a quantity of pill
boxes, and a little experience will soon show you which is the
better accommodation for certain kinds.

Particular attention must be paid to flowers, some of which are
very attractive to the Noctuæ especially. Sallow blossom in spring
and ivy bloom in autumn should be carefully and frequently[Pg 91]
watched, and at other times the blossoms of heather, ragwort,
bramble, clover, and various other flowers must be searched.

As you cast the rays of the lantern on the feasting moths some
will prove themselves very wary, and dart away at your approach;
but others will take but little notice of your advance, and will
continue to suck the sweet nectar, their eyes glaring like living
sparks.

As a rule the Noctuæ thus engaged are easily pill-boxed or
caught direct in the cyanide bottle; but a few of the more restless
species are to be made sure of only by a sweep of the net. Some
will feign death as soon as disturbed, and allow themselves to drop
among the foliage, where further search is generally fruitless.

Another common difficulty arises
from the inconvenient height of many
of the attractive blossoms—often so
great that it is impossible to reach
them with the net, and very difficult
to direct the rays of your lantern on
them. This is particularly the case
with sallow and ivy, the
flowers of which are two
rich sources of supply
to the entomologist.

Fig. 52.

Fig. 53.—Net and Lantern
for Taking Moths from
High Blossoms.

Those who intend
giving special attention
to these blossoms should
be provided with some
form of apparatus that
will enable them to extend their operations as high as possible.
Perhaps the most effective arrangement is the well-known combination
here figured. It consists of a long and stout stick, at the top of
which is a tubular joint (fig. 52) that might be termed a T-piece
were it not that the smaller part does not stand out at right angles
to the other. In this is fixed, in a straight line with the stick, a
short rod on which hangs a lantern—an ordinary bull’s-eye answers
well here; and in the smaller tube is another short rod carrying a
shallow basin-shaped net, and of such a length that the net is just
in advance of the lantern.

At first sight this arrangement will strike you as being very
unsatisfactory, there being no kind of trap to prevent the escape of
the insects. But it must be remembered that moths are more or[Pg 92]
less addicted to habits of intemperance—that they will hold on to
the supply of the sweet fluid they enjoy till they are ready to drop
with intoxication. This being the case, some will fall into your
net as soon as they are startled by the sudden and near approach
of the glare of your lamp, and others are easily made to fall therein
by gently tapping the flower-bearing stems from below with the
edge of the ring.

Having become acquainted with this very sad propensity, which
thus brings ruin to so many unfortunate moths, can we not yet
further turn their evil doings to our own profit in our endeavours
to become acquainted with their structure and history? Most
certainly we can. All we have to do is to distribute in their haunts
a bountiful supply of some artificial intoxicant such as they love,
and then lie in wait for the victims that fall a prey to our snare.
This process is known to entomologists as ‘sugaring,’ and is a
splendid means of securing an abundance of species, often including
some rare ones that are scarcely to be obtained by any other plan.
Let us now inquire into the modus operandi of this interesting
operation.

The first thing to do is to prepare the luring sweetmeat. Supply
yourself with a quantity of strong, dark treacle, and also some dark
brown sugar; always remembering, in the selection of these viands,
that odour rather than purity is to be the guide. The best kinds of
sugar are those very dark and moist brands imported in a raw state
from the West Indies, nothing being better than that known as
‘Jamaica Foots.’

Mix about equal quantities of these with a little stale beer, and
boil and stir till all the sugar is dissolved. The consistency of the
mixture should be such that it will work well with a brush when
used as a paint—not too thick, nor so thin that it is easily
absorbed by the substance on which it is ‘painted,’ nor must it be
in such a fluid condition that it easily runs.

When satisfied on these points, transfer the mixture to a tin
canister, see it properly covered, and set it aside as your ‘stock’
from which you can draw supplies as required. Now secure an
ordinary painter’s brush of convenient size, and a number of strips
of linen or other rag, each one of which is fastened to a hook formed
of bent wire. These items, together with the usual lantern, collecting
box, pill boxes, and killing bottle, complete your outfit for the
sugaring expedition.

When the selected time for operations has arrived, take sufficient[Pg 93]
‘sugar’ for your night’s work, mix it well with sufficient
strong rum to give it a very decided odour, and start off at dusk
with this and the other requisites just mentioned.

The night chosen should be warm and calm, with a rather damp
atmosphere, and no moon preferred. Let your locality be a well-wooded
one; abounding, if possible, with giant oaks and other trees,
and containing open spaces with plenty of underwood and rank
herbage. Such localities are to be met with at their best in forest
lands, and if you would do wonders at sugaring you cannot do better
than arrange for spending your holidays in such a spot as the New
Forest, taking with you sufficient ‘sugar’ for several nights’ work.

Having reached a likely spot of no very great extent, you prepare
for real work. Light up the lamp, and get out your sugaring
tin and brush ready for action. Take your course along some
definite track that you are sure to remember, painting vertical strips
of sugar, about a foot long, on the trunks of trees or on palings,
and hanging strips of rag that have just been steeped in the sugar
on the branches of small trees and shrubs where you do not find
good surfaces for the brush.

After satisfying yourself concerning the amount of sugar distributed,
retrace your steps, examining every patch of sugar as you
go. It will not be long before signs of life appear. Earwigs, spiders,
centipedes and slugs will soon search out the luscious feast, but
unless the time and the locality are ill chosen, the lantern will soon
reveal a goodly number of moths, with eyes glaring like little balls
of fire, greedily devouring the bounteous repast. These will consist
chiefly of Noctuæ, but Sphinges, Geometræ and numerous small
species also join the company.

Some will exhibit a restless disposition, either darting off before
you make a close approach, or keeping their wings in rapid vibration
as if to be fully prepared for a hasty retreat when occasion demands.
These must receive your attention first; and, having secured them,
proceed to box as many as you require of the more lazy and
gluttonous species.

As a rule, moths thus engaged are easily pill-boxed, but the
livelier ones will not submit to such treatment without attempting
to escape. The best way to secure these is either to cover them
with the opened cyanide bottle (or its substitute), and replace the
cork as soon as a favourable opportunity occurs; or to perform the
same feat with a glass-bottomed pill box.

The advantage of the latter over the ordinary boxes will be[Pg 94]
seen at once. After the insect is covered, its movements can be
watched, and so a favourable opportunity can be seized for snapping
on the lid.

As already stated, some moths feign death when in danger,
allowing themselves to fall in places where they are often quite safe
from capture. Others allow themselves to fall simply because they
have so gorged themselves with the intoxicating sweet that they
can no longer maintain their hold. Both these classes of sugar
seekers may easily be secured by means of a net commonly known
as the ‘sugaring net.’

Fig. 54.—Frame
for the Sugaring
Net.

This implement is so simple in its construction that anyone can
easily make his own. The frame may consist of two straight
wires or canes fixed in a metal Y, and the other ends joined by a
piece of strong string or catgut as shown in fig. 54. The net itself need
not be deep. As soon as you reach a tree where moths are feeding
on the sugar, press the string of the net against
the bark just below them. The string at once
assumes the form of the trunk so well that you
may be sure of every insect that falls while you
are boxing.

For this work both hands must be free, and
this is easily managed in spite of the number of
appliances called into service. The lantern is
slung round your neck and secured by a strap
round the chest. The ‘sugaring net’ has a very
short stick, and just while you are engaged in
boxing specimens, it may be gently held against the trunk by a
slight pressure of the body. But such precautions as these are
necessary only when the night worker is out alone. There are
many circumstances, however, that render the work of two or more
in company much more enjoyable than that of a single-handed
entomologist. The labours are considerably expedited where a
division enables each one of the night ramblers to take a particular
portion of the work; and if there is such a person as a nervous
entomologist, that individual should on no account go a sugaring in
lonely spots on dark nights. Every rustling leaf gives such a one
a start; all footsteps are those of approaching disturbers of the
peace; and when at last the invisible landowner or his keeper,
attracted by the mysterious movements of the lamp, greets him
with his gruff ‘What’s your business here?’ then for the moment
he forgets his enchanting hobby and wishes he were safely at home.[Pg 95]

It is certainly advisable to take a friend, whether an entomologist
or not, on such expeditions; and if you intend working on private
grounds, always make previous arrangements with the property
owner, that you may fear no foes and dread no surprises; for a
sugarer is far more sure of success in his work if he keeps a cool
head and has nothing to think about for the time being but his
moths and his boxes.

A few hours at this interesting employment pass away very
rapidly, and when midnight arrives there is often no great desire to
leave off, especially when it is known that some species of moths
are not very busy till very late at night. Still it is not advisable
to surfeit oneself with even the sweets of life. Perhaps it is better
as a rule to work the early species only on one night, and reserve
another for the later ones. The searchings are then always carried
on with vigour throughout, and the labours that are thus never
made laborious ever retain their attractiveness in the future.

It has often been observed that, when sugaring has been carried
on for a few successive nights in the same locality, the success is
greater each night than on the one preceding it. Hence it is a
common practice to work a chosen ‘run’ for two, three, or more
nights in succession; and some collectors even go so far as to lay on
the bait for a night or two previous to starting work. For the same
reason it is often advisable to continue the use of a fairly productive
beat rather than to wander in search of a new one.

In the neighbourhood of large towns one may often meet with
patches of sugared bark that mark the course and extent of a
brother entomologist’s beat, and such are valuable to an inexperienced
amateur in that they give him some idea of the nature of
the localities that are chosen by more expert collectors. But it
must be remembered that each entomologist has a moral right to a
run he has baited, and that it is considered ungentlemanly, if not
unjust, to take insects from sugar laid by another. I have sometimes
seen cards, bearing the names of the collectors and the date of
working, tacked on to baited trees and fences, thus establishing
their temporary exclusive rights to the use of their runs. Such
precautions are not necessary in large tracts of forest land, where
the choice of runs is practically unlimited.

There are two other modes of capture available to the moth
collector—the use of decoy females, and the employment of ‘sugar
traps’—and both these may be used on the sugaring run, or at other
times either in the woods or in your own garden.[Pg 96]

Fig. 55.—Cage for
Decoy Females.

Fig. 56.—A Sugar
Trap.

The wonderful acuteness of the sense by which the males of
certain species are enabled to seek out the females has already been
alluded to, and the possession of a suitable decoy will often bring
you a number of beautiful admirers without the least trouble, except
that taken in securing the decoy and preparing her temporary abode.
It is absolutely necessary that the female moth be one that has
recently emerged, and consequently you had better secure her in
one of her earlier stages, either by previous rearing or by collecting
the pupæ.

A little cage composed of a framework of wire covered with gauze
must now be made. Perhaps the simplest pattern is that illustrated.
Here the gauze is attached to two wire rings, only a few inches in
diameter, and suspended by a string. Such a cage answers every
purpose in the field, and has the advantage of folding into an
exceedingly small space when not in use. It may be suspended in
your garden or taken into the field whenever you have a suitable
decoy at your disposal.

The sugar trap may be of much the same pattern as that in
which a light is used, but if intended for field work it should be of a
convenient size for portability. A lighter and far more convenient
form may be constructed as follows:

Procure a large cylindrical tin box, and cut a circular piece of
perforated zinc just small enough to drop into it. Then make two
wire rings, one a little larger than the top of the tin, and the other
only about an inch in diameter. Next make a conical net of leno,
open at both ends, and of such a size that the two rings may form
the frames of its two extremities. When the trap is required for[Pg 97]
use, cut a circular piece of flannel or other absorbent, steep it in
sugar that has just been flavoured with rum, and place it in the
bottom of the tin. Then place a few pebbles of equal size around
the sides to support the zinc partition, drop in the partition, and
then allow the net to hang on the rim as shown in the sketch.

This arrangement will explain itself. The moths, attracted by
the sweet perfume, flutter about in the net till at last they find their
way through the small ring. Once in, they make further attempts
to reach the sugar; and, at last, finding all efforts fruitless,
and, like Paddy at the fair, not being able to discover the ‘entrance
out,’ they finally settle down in a disappointed mood awaiting your
pleasure.

Perhaps another word of explanation is necessary here. Why
not allow the poor creatures to reach the sugar that attracted them
to the spot? The reason is this. They sometimes gorge themselves
to such an extent that their bodies, dilated to the fullest capacity
with syrup, are a bit troublesome when the insects are placed in the
cabinet. It is therefore advisable to see that the zinc is so far above
the sugar that the moths are unable to reach the latter by thrusting
their extended proboscides through the perforations. A few dead
leaves scattered on the zinc is also a useful addition, since it affords
shelter to such of the insects as prefer it.

This is a very useful trap to keep in one’s garden throughout the
season. It may not attract large numbers, but it has the advantage
that it requires no watching. It is simply necessary to set it at
dusk, and remove the captives in the morning or at your leisure.

[Pg 98]

CHAPTER VII

COLLECTING OVA, LARVÆ, AND PUPÆ

We have already observed that insects should, as a rule, be set as
soon as possible after their capture; and it would therefore seem
that this is the proper place for instructions in this part of the work.
But it so happens that butterflies and moths are to be obtained by
means other than those already described, and we shall therefore
consider these previous to the study of the various processes
connected with the setting and preserving of our specimens.

Were we to confine our attention to the capture of the perfect
forms only, our knowledge of the Lepidoptera would be scanty
indeed, for we should then be ignorant of the earlier stages of the
creatures’ lives, and have no opportunity of witnessing the wonderful
transformations through which they have to pass.

Such an imperfect acquaintance with butterflies and moths will,
I hope, not satisfy the readers of these pages; so it is intended, in
the next two chapters, to give a little assistance to those who would
like to know how to set to work at the collection of their eggs and
larvæ, how to search for the pupæ, and how to rear the insects
from the stage at which they are acquired till they finally emerge
in the perfect form.

These portions of an entomologist’s work certainly take up a
great deal of his time, and also require much patience and perseverance;
but the advantages derived cannot be over-estimated, for
in addition to the knowledge gained of the early stages of insect
life, this kind of work will enable him to place in his cabinet a
number of gems he would otherwise have not and probably know
not. Occasionally a prize may be obtained in the form of a cluster
of eggs (ova) of a rare species, in many instances the larvæ are to
be obtained with comparative ease, while the perfect insects of the
same species are not often seen or not easily captured, and many a[Pg 99]
rare pupa has been dug out of its hiding place during a season
when the entomologist had but little other work to occupy his time.

These and other similar subjects we shall now consider in turn.

Collecting Ova

The collection of ova may be carried on more or less throughout
the year. A number of moths are out in February, and even
in January if the weather is mild. These soon lay their eggs,
which are hatched about the time that the buds of the food plant
are breaking. From this time till late in the summer the ova of
various species are being deposited, the average period from laying
to hatching being from two to three weeks. Then, during the
autumn, when the leaves of food plants are turning brown and
crisp, ova are still being laid, but these remain unchanged till the
new buds of the following spring are bursting.

Of course if you intend searching for the ova of particular species
you must previously ascertain the favourite haunts of those species,
become acquainted with their food plants, and also with the season
or seasons during which the eggs are laid. But the few following
hints will suffice as general instructions for the search.

In nearly all cases we must expect to find ova on the food plants
of the respective species, but at times, especially with certain
moths, we may come across them in the most unlikely spots.
Thus, it sometimes happens that a moth settles on a street lamp,
and lays her eggs on the framework round the glass, or even on
the glass itself. The same thing may take place on the sash or
glass of a brightly lighted window.

Such occurrences, however, we must regard as accidental and
comparatively rare, and therefore we confine our searchings for ova
to the food plants of the species we require.

As a rule the under sides of the leaves will yield the most, but
we have already noticed (page 18) that some moths leave their eggs
exposed on the upper surface. Again, some larvæ feed on flowers
and seeds and fruit, and the eggs of such are deposited on these
parts. Those insects which feed on the leaves of shrubs and trees
often lay their eggs on trunks, branches and twigs. Sometimes
these are laid singly, sometimes in dense clusters; and it is not
unusual to find them arranged in rings or spirals with great regularity.
When examining the trunks of trees for ova it is necessary
to look well into the crevices of the bark, for some insects take[Pg 100]
particular care to lay them in deep sheltered chinks; but others
take no such precautions, and deposit them on exposed ridges or
plain surfaces where they are easily discovered.

One difficulty of the ova collector lies in the fact that many
insects lay on the upper branches of large trees. Of course a search
for these is out of the question; but in places where the trees have
been cut down a few years previously, and where a consequent
undergrowth has developed, there are considerable chances of
success with these species. Young saplings of trees often yield
well, especially in places where tall trees of the same species are
absent. It may be mentioned, too, that some moths (page 294)
actually lay their eggs beneath the surface of water, depositing
them on the under surfaces of floating pond weeds; and others
(page 298) even enter the nests of wasps and bees for the same purpose.
It is clear, then, from these few remarks, that the work of
an ambitious collector of insects’ eggs is by no means a monotonous
task; for his employment takes him into the meadows and
woods, leads him to the banks of ponds, and even compels him to
tear down banks and hedges for the nests of Hymenoptera at the
risk of a sting or two.

One of the most productive sources of eggs is undoubtedly the
possession of captured females. When you are out netting butterflies
you often see a female that is evidently engaged in her
matronly duties. Instead of seeking food from the various flowers
in her path, she pays attention only to the foliage, looking out a
suitable leaf on which to deposit her eggs. Should you meet with
an insect thus engaged which you would like to rear at home, or of
which you would like to know the egg, secure it in a perforated
pill box with a leaf of the proper plant; and it will often supply
you with abundance of eggs for your purpose, in many cases depositing
them in the box before you arrive home. The eggs of
numerous species of moths are also to be easily obtained from
captured females.

Some insects do not seem inclined to deposit their eggs in captivity
as freely as when at large, and in order to induce them to do
so we must, as far as possible, put them in their natural conditions.
Let them have plenty of room, and supply them with fresh twigs
of their food plants, kept green by standing them in vessels of
water. It is also advisable, supposing you are not well acquainted
with the dispositions of the species you have, to keep a portion of the
box well shaded from direct sunlight, and allow another part to be[Pg 101]
as bright as possible; for some species will not lay in a bright light,
while others will not do so without it.

Again, while some deposit their eggs within a few hours of
quitting the pupa case, others do not lay for several days. With
regard to the latter, it is frequently necessary to feed them while
in captivity, by placing in the box a piece of rag or sponge that has
been dipped in honey or syrup.

Each batch of ova should be carefully examined with a view to
knowing them by sight on a future occasion. A sketch should be
made in your note book, showing every detail that you can make
out with the aid of a good lens. Then observations concerning the
season, colour of the eggs, the situation in which deposited, arrangement,
and any other useful particulars, should be entered.

In the next chapter some hints will be given concerning the
management of ova and the rearing of the larvæ from the time of
hatching.

Collecting Larvæ

This occupation is generally far more productive to the
entomologist than searching for ova. The latter are very small,
usually well concealed, and to be detected only by a careful
scrutinising use of the eyes; but the superior size of the larvæ,
the frequent bright colouring, and the fact that they are easily
beaten from their hold, render the searchings of their hunters
comparatively easy and fruitful.

Before setting out on a larva-hunting expedition, there are a few
requisites to prepare. These include not only the implements for
your work in the field, but also the cages in which you intend to
rear your little captives. The latter are described a little later on
under the head ‘Rearing Lepidoptera,’ and the former we will now
briefly summarise.

The outfit must consist of a quantity of suitable boxes, a stout
hooked stick, a strong net, and a white material to place under the
herbage while you are ‘beating.’

‘Larva boxes’ are usually made of zinc, and have little sliding
doors in the lids, so that the lids need not be removed while out of
doors after the fragment of the required food plant has been
inserted. Such boxes are not by any means essential. Small tin
boxes will answer all purposes nearly as well, providing a number
of small holes be made in them for the admission of air. Chip
boxes are also fairly satisfactory, but these also should be perforated.[Pg 102]
The best way to do this is to push a red-hot iron wire
through the chip, making about half a dozen small holes in each
box. This method will give you clean holes of a uniform size
without otherwise injuring the boxes.

Metal boxes possess the advantage that they keep the food
plants moist for a long time, while chip boxes allow them to dry
rather rapidly. Yet there are some larvæ that do far better in the
latter, since such a quantity of moisture exudes through their skins
that they soon become uncomfortably wet if their apartment is not
well ventilated. Under these circumstances perhaps it is better to
take a supply of both, so that changes may be made as found
necessary.

One grave objection to chip boxes, however, is the weakness of
the material. They are easily crushed by pressure, and a bottom
or a top disc of wood often falls out; but this is easily overcome by
gluing narrow strips of calico round the top and bottom edges.
Chip boxes should always be treated in this way, and they will
then last five or six times as long.

Your supply of boxes should always include one large one of
metal in which to bring home a supply of food for the larvæ. If
you have a botanist’s vasculum, by all means take it, for nothing
can serve this purpose better. If not, any rather large square tin
box will do, and this may be carried in your satchel, or a couple of
hooks may be soldered to it so that a leather strap can be fixed for
slinging it over your shoulder.

The net required is that commonly known as the ‘sweep net.’
It must be very strong, for it has to submit to rather rough usage.
The frame must be made of thick wire; and the bag, which need
not be more than a foot deep, should be of strong calico or holland.

Now with regard to the white material previously mentioned.
This may be a square of calico, hemmed round the edges. Nothing
is more convenient than this, as it occupies but little room in the
pocket when not in use, if neatly folded. The material need not
be thick, but the larger it is the better. Many prefer a white
umbrella or an ordinary umbrella with a white lining, but as this
is only a matter of taste and convenience you must decide for yourself
as to which you will use.

If your field of operations is only a little way from your head
quarters, and quantity of luggage therefore not a serious consideration,
you may provide yourself with a heavy mallet, loaded if
necessary with a pound or two of lead. This will prove very useful[Pg 103]
in shaking larvæ from trees and large branches. Lastly, take a
pencil and a note book or writing paper for your observations in
the field.

Now for the choice of the season. Larvæ are to be found all
the year round. Early in the spring, as soon as the buds are
bursting, some break out of the eggs recently laid by the moths
that appear in February and March. Later on, during April and
May, a host of both butterflies and moths are busy arranging for
their broods. Then, throughout the whole of the summer, thousands
of caterpillars of all sorts and sizes are to be met with everywhere.
And finally, during the bleak winter months, you may
amuse yourself by digging the hybernators out of their hiding
places where they rest themselves till the spring sun again calls them
out to refresh them with the young and tender leaves of a new
year. Thus, unless you are merely intending to search out certain
species you happen to require, there is not much difficulty in
settling on the season.

The day selected should be dry, for your work lies among the
herbage of banks, meadows, and woods, and nothing is more unpleasant
than wading through a wet and dense vegetation, or beating
down on yourself a shower of large drops from the branches of
trees and shrubs.

Having reached the hunting ground, the first thing to do is to
look out for signs of the presence of larvæ rather than for the
larvæ themselves. Healthy vegetation with sound leaves must be
passed by as untenanted; but the presence of partly eaten foliage
immediately arouses suspicion.

A little experience will soon enable you to distinguish between
the ravages of larvæ and of slugs, snails, wasps, &c. Some of
the smaller larvæ certainly eat out clean holes like those cut by
Hymenopterous insects, but as a rule they bite away at the edges,
leaving the midrib and the larger veins standing out almost naked.

By looking well into the edges of the eaten leaves, it is easy to
see whether the marauders have been recently at work. If they
are dried up and discoloured, it is not of much use to search; but if
still green and moist, you may feel almost sure that the hungry
larvæ are not far off.

In this case you will carefully turn over the leaves to examine
the under sides, and also the leaf stalks and branches or stems;
but you must be prepared for all kinds of protective mimicry.
Little green caterpillars will be seen lying on the midrib or[Pg 104]
veins, so straight and so still that they are scarcely perceptible.
Others are snugly tucked in a depression of a leaf with the same
result. Then we must also be prepared for the artful little tricks
of the larvæ of Geometræ (p. 268), by which they imitate stalks
and twigs so closely that a sharp eye is necessary to discriminate
between the two.

While thus searching we may meet with the cast skin of a caterpillar.
This gives us fresh hopes, and so we continue our careful
examination. At last, on grasping a leaf in order to turn it over for
inspection, we feel something hairy or something soft and smooth.
But lo! it is gone. It is one of those numerous caterpillars that
feign death and drop to the ground on the slightest sign of danger.
We search below for it, but the density of the vegetation renders
this hopeless, and we are just about to start off in search of a more
productive locality when we espy a quantity of the excrement of
larvæ lying on a little bare patch of ground close by. This gives
us a new idea. Here is another indication of the presence of the
creatures we require, one that we can put into practice; and by-and-by
we learn that in many cases this is really the surest sign
of their whereabouts.

We look at these little pellets of excrement, and gain at once
some idea of the size of the larvæ that produce them. Then we
observe whether they are fresh and moist, or dry and stale. If the
latter, it is not of much use to examine the leaves above; but if
otherwise, there is little doubt of our meeting with larvæ, as the
present position they occupy is so truly marked. The leaves just
over them are carefully examined, either by turning them over as
before described, or, if the height of the foliage admits of it,
by placing our heads below and looking upward.

If we find that the larvæ are some of those that endeavour to
escape by feigning death and allowing themselves to drop at the
slightest disturbance, the net is always kept beneath the leaves we
are touching in order to intercept them in their downward journey.

Continuing the search, we meet with leaves that are rolled up
and bound with silk threads, and others that are drawn together
and similarly bound. These are carefully uncurled and pulled
asunder with the result that active little larvæ are exposed to view,
or, it may be, pupæ are discovered. In some cases flowers are
drawn together in just the same way, and an examination reveals
one or more of the species that prefer petals and other parts of
flowers to the green leaves.[Pg 105]

Silken threads always arouse our suspicions. These may be seen
lying on the surfaces of leaves, and passing from one leaf to another,
or they may be hanging perpendicularly from the branches of trees
above. In the latter case a larva may be frequently seen on the
lower extremity of the fibre, swinging gently in the breeze, and,
should we require it, we have only to place the open box below for
its reception.

Hawthorn and other trees are sometimes seen almost devoid of
leaves, nearly every bit of green having been greedily devoured by
a host of small larvæ. In such cases we often meet with dense
clusters of silk fibres that may easily be mistaken for spiders’ nests.
But when we look more closely into the structure we observe that
we have discovered instead nests of gregarious larvæ, such a large
number being in each little community that the deplorable appearance
of the tree is at once explained.

A little farther on we meet with a sickly-looking plant in the
midst of a number of flourishing individuals of the same species,
and stop to make inquiries into the cause of this strange occurrence.
Is it due to a poorness of the soil? No, this cannot be the case;
for intermingled with its roots are those of its flourishing companions.
We pluck a stunted and half-shrivelled leaf and examine
it. At first we do not notice the cause of its peculiar condition;
but, holding it up to the light, and looking through it, we see a
number of little galleries that have been eaten out of its internal
soft substance, leaving the thin skin (epidermis) almost entirely
intact. But nothing more is to be seen. Another leaf is examined
in exactly the same way; and here we see the little destroyer, lying
motionless in its burrow till a gentle pressure applied against it
from outside causes it to wriggle along its narrow passage. This is
the larva of one of the little leaf miners mentioned again on
page 303.

Reaching a little marshy spot we see a number of water-loving
reeds, most of them beautifully green and in a flourishing condition,
but here and there in their midst is a poor stunted specimen—another
result of the ravages of the larvæ of one or more moths.
An examination of the blades reveals nothing; but on splitting
open the stalk we discover some larvæ that have already devoured
a quantity of the internal pith, and thus endangered the life of the
plant. On inspecting other similar reeds we are at first puzzled as
to how the larvæ could get inside the stems without damaging the
outer portion; but at last we see in each one a little discoloured[Pg 106]
hole that was eaten out by the young caterpillar just after its escape
from the egg. Once within the reed, it found a plentiful supply of
food, and there grew at the expense of the plant without doing any
further external damage save by causing a stunted growth.

It may be that the stem eaters we have found are just about
full grown. If so we examine a number of the stems with a hope
that we may find one or two that are just about to change to the
chrysalis state, or even a pupa already formed. By this means we
may secure one of the perfect insects without the necessity of feeding
larvæ at home. Such a consideration becomes a most important
one when it happens that the required food plant is one that cannot
be easily obtained.

Close by the reeds is another water-loving plant in the form of
an old willow tree. This is always an attractive object to the
entomologist, so it comes in for a share of our inspection. On its
leaves we may find several species of the larvæ of Lepidoptera,
including those of some of our largest insects. But a strange feature
catches our eyes as we happen to glance at the bark of the tree.
Here we see a few holes of different sizes, about which are a number
of little fragments of wood that remind us of ‘sawdust;’ and,
examining the ground below, we see quite a little heap of this
dust, looking just as if a carpenter had been at work on the spot.

This is not the effect of a saw, however; it is a sure sign of the
ravages of wood-eating larvæ (p. 224), whose powerful jaws gain
them admittance into the very hearts of trees, and the application
of the nose to one of the larger holes leaves no doubt of the presence
of the large and beautiful caterpillar of the Goat Moth
(p. 224).

If we require any of these wood-eaters, either for rearing or for
preservation, we must be prepared for a little rather heavy work.
A strong pocket knife is not sufficient, but with a good chisel the
wood can be gradually cut away, and the galleries traced, till at
last we come to the larvæ snugly resting in their burrows.

It often happens that the tree thus tenanted is half decayed, and
consequently the work is rendered much easier. Also, while tearing
away the wood, we often meet with a number of cocoons that
have been constructed by the caterpillars for their winter quarters,
or as a resting place while undergoing their transformations. These
are composed of the wood dust bound together by strong silk fibres,
and are often in such a good state of preservation that they form
useful illustrations for the cabinet.[Pg 107]

As further aids to larvæ searching we may mention that many
species—chiefly of the Noctuæ—hide under the surface of the ground
or among dense and low herbage during the day, and come out to
feed only by night; that many others feed on roots, and are therefore
seldom seen above the surface of the soil; also that a good
number burrow into fruits, in the interior of which they spend the
whole of their larval stage. The best way to secure the latter is to
examine the ‘windfalls’ that lie scattered on orchard lands, for it
is a well-known fact that the fruits that are infested with larvæ
generally fall earlier than others—a result that must be attributed
to the damaging work of the larvæ themselves.

All the larvæ collected should be carefully boxed at once, a
separate compartment being used for each species, and a few fragments
of the food plant being introduced in each case. It is also a
good plan to have each box previously lined with moss as a further
addition to the comfort of the captives. Without such a precaution
some of the more delicate species are liable to injury during their
transmission from field to home.

Hitherto we have obtained our larvæ by searching only, but
there are times and occasions when our boxes may be far more
rapidly filled by methods that are not such a tax on our time and
patience. Suppose, for instance, that we reach a bush, the mutilated
leaves of which seem to show that larvæ are present on its
branches. We spread our white cloth or open out the white-lined
umbrella just under a selected branch, and then tap that
branch very smartly with our stick.

Down comes a host of living creatures! Spiders, larvæ, beetles,
aphides, earwigs, and what not, struggling and running about on
our white fabric in all directions, and all mingled with bits of stick,
leaves, and fragments of all kinds. We leave the cloth or the umbrella,
as the case may be, quite still for a few seconds to allow all
the living creatures to get a good foothold, and then, raising it into
a vertical position, allow all the rubbish to drop off.

We can now put the cloth down again, and select as many of
the larvæ as we require, giving our first attention to the nimble
runners and loopers that are already near the edge and just on the
point of making their escape. This productive method of larva
hunting is known as ‘beating,’ and is particularly applicable to tall
herbs and the lower branches of trees and shrubs.

The same principle may be employed in the case of branches
that are quite out of the reach of the stick, but the blows are here[Pg 108]
applied to the trunk, a mallet or some other rather heavy implement
taking the place of the stick.

Another splendid method of securing larvæ where mere searching
would be tedious and unproductive, lies in the use of the sweep
net described on page 102. This implement comes into service in
waste places that are covered with rank vegetation, in clover and
hayfields, and in all spots covered with low herbs.

Walking among the vegetation, the net is swept right and left
before you, and the contents examined at frequent intervals. It is
advisable to work the different species of herbs separately as far as
possible, otherwise there may be some difficulty in the determination
of the food plants of the mixed larvæ that the net will
contain. If, however, this plan is impracticable, you may save
time by turning out all the ‘sweepings’ into one large box, leaving
the sorting to be done at home in leisure hours.

Collecting Pupæ

We have seen that ova and larvæ may be obtained in greater or
less abundance at all times of the year, so variable are the seasons
of the different butterflies and moths. The same remark applies
equally well to pupæ; but so many of the Lepidoptera spend the
winter months in the chrysalis state that this period may be
regarded as the harvest time of the pupa hunter.

A large number of caterpillars undergo their change to the
quiescent state during the months of August and September, and,
of course, remain in this state until the warm days of the following
spring or summer. And as insects even in the pupal stage have a
number of enemies and dangers to contend with, it is advisable to
start your search for them as soon as possible after they have
changed.

If you set your mind on searching for particular species, you
should endeavour to ascertain the usual time at which such species
pupate; make any necessary allowances for the forwardness or
backwardness of the season, and then allow a week or two for the
change to be completed, for insects should never be disturbed at
times when their metamorphoses are in progress.

For general pupa hunting the best season is undoubtedly from
the end of August to the end of October, but there is no reason
why the work should not be carried on throughout the winter. If,
however, you continue your work so late, you must not expect[Pg 109]
nearly as much success as time advances. You must remember
that entomologists are not the only pupa hunters. Many hungry
birds are always on the look-out for insects, and seem to enjoy
them equally well in all their stages. Those that hybernate on or
under the ground are liable to fall a prey to moles and beetles. In
addition to these dangers, all pupæ are subject to the effects of
extreme cold, dampness, or floods.

As regards the choice of a day, very little need be said. Any
day that is sufficiently genial for yourself will do for your work,
except that periods of hard frost render the ground too hard for
digging—the most profitable part of the pupa hunter’s task.

The apparatus required is extremely simple: A satchel or
large pockets full of small metal or chip boxes, a small garden
trowel, and a strong chisel.

If metal boxes are used they should be perforated; in fact,
nothing is better than the ordinary larva boxes of the dealers.
All the boxes, of whatever kind, should be lined with moss previous
to starting work.

The trowel and chisel do not pack well with a number of small
boxes, therefore it is a good plan to fix them in a couple of
leather sheaths attached to your belt. In this position they are far
more handy for use, and the boxes are also in less danger of being
crushed or damaged, as they probably would be if in contact with
hard and heavy tools.

A note book is also a valuable addition to your outfit, as it
enables you to make memoranda concerning the trees and localities
from which you obtain your pupæ.

The best localities for pupa hunting are clearings in woods,
parks with numerous large timber trees, and meadows in which
large isolated trees are scattered; and the best trees include willows,
poplars, oaks, beeches, birches, elms, and hawthorns.

The best thing you can do on arriving at the selected hunting
ground is to make at once for isolated trees of large size, and work
each one as follows:

First examine well the crevices of the bark, for many caterpillars
descend the tree to within a short distance of the ground,
and then seek out a snug little crevice in which to spend the
winter, often protecting themselves with silken cocoons, or constructing
a neat little shelter of gnawed fragments of the wood
cemented together.

If there is any loose bark, very carefully force it out with your[Pg 110]
chisel, and examine both its inner surface and the wood from which
it was removed. The wood thus exposed may reveal openings
of the galleries of wood-eating larvæ, in which case, unless the
material is too hard to be broken up with the chisel, you may be
able to trace out a few pupæ. Where these exist, they are usually
to be found very near the entrance, sometimes even protruding
slightly from the opening, for the larvæ generally place themselves
in this position of easy escape when about to change.

Next give your attention to the moss, if any, covering the lower
portion of the trunk. This affords a very favourite shelter to
many species. Tear it off very carefully, beginning at the top, and
watch for loose pupæ and cocoons as you do so. Then hold the
clumps you have removed over a patch of bare ground or over a
spread handkerchief, and pull it to pieces, in order that any pupæ
it contains may fall out; also examine the fragments carefully for
others that may remain attached.

This done, the surface of the ground must be examined.
Remove all dead leaves, and watch for pupæ that may be sheltered
beneath them. If any loose stones lie on the ground, turn them
over. Search well into the angles between the roots, and if there
are any holes or hollows beneath them or in the trunk itself, pull
out all loose matter within, and feel gently above and around for
cocoons.

After all loose matter has been removed, there still remains the
soil for examination. If this is very hard and clayey, it is probably
useless to carry the search any farther; also if very wet you
need not expect much; but if comparatively dry and friable there
are more hopes of success.

As a general rule the north and east sides of the trunk are
drier than those which are exposed to the heavy rains brought
by the south and south-west winds, and are consequently more
favoured by larvæ that are seeking a resting place for the winter.

Most larvæ seek shelter in the angles between the roots of the
trees on which they fed, but a few species seem to prefer the
edges rather than the corners; and in cases where no such angles
are formed at the surface, you will do well to examine the earth
and turf all round the trunk; but it is generally useless to extend
the search more than a few inches from the tree.

After having searched every available nook and corner as far
as possible without digging, thrust the trowel obliquely into the
soil a few inches from the tree, turn over the sod, and then examine[Pg 111]
the spot from which it was removed. Now give your attention
to the sod itself. If loose and friable, break it up gently,
keeping a sharp eye for falling pupæ, and also for earthen cocoons
that are easily mistaken for little lumps of soil.

If the soil is held together by roots, it must be pulled to pieces,
and the fragments shaken over a bare piece of ground where the
fall of a pupa or cocoon could be easily seen; and if you have
removed a grassy turf, it will be necessary to look between the bases
of the blades as well as among the roots.

In this way you may search round tree after tree, wherever the
soil is of such a character as to allow of the admittance and shelter
of larvæ. But the variability of your success will be quite beyond
your comprehension. Sometimes you will sight a grand old oak
with the most favourable anticipations, and consider yourself quite
certain of a good find when you discover, on a nearer approach,
the liberal coating of moss that clothes its trunk and the dry sandy
soil at its foot; and yet the most careful search ends in nothing
but disappointment. At other times you try your luck at tree
after tree without ever seeing a single pupa or even a cast-off case,
and then, when just on the point of despairing, you search round
another that is apparently much less promising, and, to your great
surprise and delight, a dozen or two are turned out in a few minutes.
Such an occurrence as this is not at all uncommon, and cannot be
satisfactorily explained, but we must take things as they come and
make the best of them, remembering that pupa searching is one of
the best of all entomological operations wherewith to test one’s
perseverance and patience.

It may be mentioned, in conclusion, that the pupæ of Lepidoptera
are never to be found far below the surface of the soil. Generally
they exist, if buried at all, only an inch or two down, and very
rarely at a greater depth than four inches.

In our next chapter we shall learn how to rear the perfect
insects from the earlier stages we have been considering.

[Pg 112]

CHAPTER VIII

REARING LEPIDOPTERA

Management of Ova

In the management of insects in all stages the strictest attention
must always be paid to one general rule on which the success of
the work almost entirely depends; and that is—keep every specimen
as far as possible under the same conditions as those in which you
find it in nature.

Applying this principle to ova, we store them in airy and light
places, protected from the direct rays of the sun, and avoid handling
and rough treatment of any kind. It is also advisable in most
cases to maintain a slight amount of dampness corresponding with
that of the open air at the particular season of the year.

They do not require much space, and it is certainly desirable
not to give much, otherwise the newly hatched larvæ, when their
time arrives, will actively wander all round their premises in search
of food, and give you no end of trouble in gathering them up.

Chip boxes are, as a rule, very good and very convenient
receptacles for ova. After placing the eggs in these, cover them
over with very fine muslin, held in place by elastic bands; and label
each as far as you can with the name of the species contained, and
other particulars worth remembering. The boxes may then be
put in front of a window facing north, or in any situation within
or out of doors where rain and sun cannot reach them. A greenhouse
is an admirable place in which to keep them, the natural
dampness of the atmosphere being apparently a considerable
assistance to the tiny larvæ just as they are striving to escape from
their shell.

Whatever place is selected, it is absolutely necessary that the
ova be carefully watched, so that each brood may be supplied with
the required food plant within a few hours of quitting the shells.[Pg 113]

When ova are kept in a warm room, very great inconvenience
and even loss is sometimes caused by the appearance of larvæ before
the necessary food plant shows its buds. Yet, on the other hand,
it is sometimes a great gain to the entomologist to get certain
broods off early in the season, providing the food is at hand; for
in this way he can not only get some of his work over during a
slack season, but also, if he desires it, secure an additional brood;
that is, one brood more than the usual number. Thus, supposing
a certain species he is rearing is naturally double-brooded, he can,
by judicious management, secure three successive broods before the
food plant casts its last leaves.

This hastening of the natural events of insect life is known as
forcing, and merely consists in subjecting the species concerned to
a reasonable amount of artificial heat, such as that of a room in
which a fire is always kept, or of a hothouse.

It is interesting at all times to note the dates on which eggs are
laid or collected, and the times at which the young larvæ appear.
In addition to this all changes that take place in the colours or
forms of eggs should be carefully observed; for such changes will
assist you in distinguishing between fertile and sterile ova, and
also enable you to judge approximately as to the date of the
appearance of future broods.

Rearing Larvæ

The main point in connection with the rearing of larvæ is certainly
the selection and construction of the cages or their substitutes.
For newly hatched and all very small caterpillars a small bottle
with a wide mouth makes a very fair abode. Put a layer of sand
or sifted soil in the bottom, fix in this a small twig of the food plant
or lay a few leaves on the top, and then, after the larvæ have been
introduced, cover the top with a piece of muslin, held in place by an
elastic band.

The great drawback with this arrangement is the lack of any
provision for keeping the food moist and fresh, thus rendering a
change necessary at very frequent intervals; but this may be
obviated by using damp sand as a foundation for the little twig
of food plant. With this improvement, if you cover the top of the
bottle with apiece of glass, a saucer, or any impermeable substance,
you may keep the twig fresh for several days, generally until the
disappearance of the last leaf calls for a fresh supply; but it is[Pg 114]
very doubtful whether the damp atmosphere resulting from this
inclosure is not injurious to the larvæ. It certainly does not seem
to have much influence on some, but the unhealthy conditions that
result must be detrimental to the inmates. It must also be remembered
that many species require a dry soil in which to burrow
when about to change.

When the time comes for the change of food, great care must be
taken not to injure young and small larvæ. In many cases they
need never be touched, for if a fresh twig be placed beside the stale
one, they will readily find their way to it; and to facilitate this, and
also to afford a convenient foothold to those larvæ that accidentally
fall from the twig, the layer of sand at the bottom of the bottle
should be covered with moss or cocoa-nut fibre.

Fig. 57.—A Larva Glass.

Fig. 58.—A Larva Glass.

If you find it necessary to
move the larvæ yourself from
the stale food, never touch
them with your fingers, but lift them gently by means of a small
camel-hair brush. Larger larvæ need never be moved at all. They
will always search out fresh food for themselves, and the stale may
be removed after they have quitted it.

For rearing larger species ordinary bottles are hardly satisfactory,
and we must either use large jars or construct cages of some kind.

An ordinary bell jar such as is used for covering ferns or for
aquaria makes a very useful ‘larva glass.’ Place a small bottle of
water at the bottom, and then introduce sufficient dry clean sand or
sifted soil to reach up to its neck. On the top of this place a layer
of moss or cocoa-nut fibre. Next introduce the food plant, fixing it
firmly in the bottle of water, and plugging up the space between[Pg 115]
the stem and the rim with cotton wool. This precaution is to
prevent the larvæ from falling into the water as they attempt to
pass up or down the stem, and the wool also helps to keep the
twig in a vertical position. The glass is now ready for the caterpillars,
but it is advisable to keep a covering of muslin or gauze
over the top in all cases even though the larvæ contained are unable
to creep up the surface of glass, for the great enemies of caterpillars—the
ichneumon flies—are always on the alert, and will often take
advantage of an open window to ‘sting’ the larva rearer’s pets.

Another form of larva glass can easily be made out of a large
glass jar if you know how to cut off the bottom, or of a chemist’s bell
jar which is open both at top and bottom. In this case the bottle
of water and the soil are arranged as
before in a pan of unglazed earthenware,
and then covered over with the
glass. This is shown in fig. 58, and is
an exceedingly convenient larva house,
since the lifting of the glass enables
you to get at the insects without any
trouble.

Fig. 59.—A Larva Cage.

Wood larva cages are very commonly
used for the larger species after
they have attained a fair size and require
more food than can be stocked
in bottles and glasses. These cages
have glass fronts, either sliding or in
the form of a hinged door, and sides
of perforated zinc. They are kept in
stock by all dealers in entomologists’ requisites, but equally useful
ones are easily constructed. If you select a box of suitable size at
the grocer’s, cut out large pieces from the lid and sides with a fret
saw, and fix in the glass and zinc, you will have a cage that will
answer all purposes.

The internal arrangements consist of a shallow tray filled with
soil, in which stands the bottle of water for the food, and a layer of
moss sufficiently high to cover the bottle completely.

A series of such boxes standing on end on a shelf, or hanging on
a wall, will form a very satisfactory nursery for your pets, and will
occupy but little space.

We have already observed that some larvæ burrow into soil
when about to change, while others creep to a sheltered corner, or[Pg 116]
suspend themselves from the food plant itself. It will be seen that the
larva cage just described supplies all these demands, and care must be
taken not to disturb the occupants while they are undergoing their
metamorphoses. Those that suspend themselves on the food plant
should be allowed to remain where they have fixed themselves, and
when it is necessary to remove the stale food in order to give a fresh
supply to the later larvæ, let it be fixed in an airy place where it can
be watched till the perfect insects emerge. Those which suspend
themselves on the sides or top of the cage, or spin cocoons in the
corners, should never be disturbed unless you are greatly in want of
the same cage for the accommodation of another brood; and even
then it is possible that their presence will not in any way interfere
with the new species. But if their removal becomes a necessity, let
it be carried out as carefully as possible, and not until the change
to the pupal stage is known to be complete.

The species that burrow into the soil or bury themselves in the
moss need never be disturbed till the rearing season is quite over,
and then they may be transferred to a box specially kept for the
accommodation of pupæ.

There is yet another method of rearing larvæ to which we must
refer—a method known as ‘sleeving’—particularly useful when
you happen to have the required food plants in your own garden.
The ova or larvæ are placed on the plant, the whole or part of
which is then covered with a bag or ‘sleeve’ of gauze. The larvæ
thus imprisoned have the full benefit of fresh air and light, and
are also free from the attacks of ichneumon flies. They have a
fair amount of liberty, and yet cannot get beyond your reach;
also abundance of fresh food without further trouble on the part of
the rearer.

But even this arrangement is not perfection. It will not suit
the night feeders that like to hide beneath the soil during the day,
and it interferes somewhat with the burrowing tendencies of those
which pupate underground. These little difficulties, however, can
be overcome by placing the food plants in large pots or tubs of
soil, and tying the mouth of the ‘sleeve’ round the outside of this
utensil. If this cannot be done, those insects that pupate underground
must be removed from the plant when their restless
disposition shows that the changing time has arrived, and then be
transferred to a box of soil where they can find the seclusion they
seek.

The larvæ that hybernate throughout the winter are rather[Pg 117]
more troublesome, especially those which are inclined to take a
ramble on certain mild days in search of food when none is at
hand. Still there is no reason why even a beginner should not
attempt the rearing of these. They will require food in the
autumn until the cold weather sets in, and again early in spring
as soon as the new leaves appear; but this is not of much
consequence to those who reside in districts where the required
food plants abound.

Wood feeders also require some special treatment and precautions,
and the successful rearing of some is a matter of no little
difficulty. A wooden cage is, of course, quite out of the question
with these, unless you wish to test the power of their jaws. They
must be kept in large pots or jars, covered over with wire gauze or
perforated zinc, and supplied with fresh stems or logs of wood, or
with moist sawdust fresh from their favourite tree. A few of them—the
‘Goat’ (page 224), for example—will eat dead and rotting
wood, and may be fed on old palings and other waste providing the
right kind is selected.

The troubles and disappointments of larva rearers are numerous
and varied, and commence with the earliest moments of the
young insects. Even the hatching period sometimes proves a
trial, for it occasionally happens that the young larva has not
sufficient strength to bite its way through the shell that surrounds
it, and dies with nothing but the surface of its head exposed to
view. This may be the result of keeping the ova in too dry a spot,
the shell having become too hard and horny for the little creature’s
jaws.

Then the moulting seasons are always periods of trial to the
larvæ, and often of loss to the rearer. Some of the hardier species
may pass through all their moults without appearing to suffer anything
more than a slight inconvenience at each, but in other cases
the greater part of a brood may fall victims to these ailments of
the growing stage.

Apart from these sources of loss, however, larvæ are subject to
numerous diseases, infectious and otherwise, about which we know
but little. A fever may rage in one of our cages; a fungoid growth
may establish itself on the bodies of our pets, or we may see them
cut down, one by one, through a fatal attack of diarrhœa.

In many such cases we are at a loss as to what to do. Blue
pills and black draughts are not to be prescribed, and the modern
practices of surgery and inoculation have not yet been applied to[Pg 118]
insect patients with very great success; but we must do our best
to adopt hygienic principles, paying the greatest attention to
proper means of ventilation and to a regular and wholesome dieting.
In the case of diarrhœa—a very common insect malady—the
best we can do is to avoid the young and juicy leaves of the food
plant, and substitute the older, and drier foliage.

Ichneumon flies have already been mentioned as great enemies
of larvæ. These flies either deposit their eggs on the skins of
caterpillars, or thrust their sharp ovipositors into the creature’s
flesh and lay their eggs beneath the skin. When the young
ichneumons are hatched, they immediately begin to feed on the
fatty matter that is usually stored in comparative abundance under
the skin of the caterpillar, and thus they grow at the expense of
their host, within whose body they lie completely hidden from
view.

The poor caterpillar, though being eaten alive, often shows no
external signs of the mischief wrought within, and, even though
its substance is really decreased by the hungry internal parasites,
yet the rapid growth of these robbers maintains the general plumpness
of a healthy larva. But the ichneumons, having at last
devoured the store of fat, and avoided the vital organs of the
caterpillar, as if with a view to preserve their living home to the
latest moment, now commence to attack the latter, speedily
reducing the vitality of their host to the lowest ebb, and finally
causing its death.

This untimely end may come before the caterpillar is full grown,
or the insect may change to the pupa before the ichneumons have
done their worst, but it rarely occurs that the unfortunate creature
has sufficient strength to carry it on to the final stage.

A large number of the collected larvæ will have been ‘stung,’
much to the disgust and disappointment of the rearer; and hence
the advantage of rearing your specimens from ova wherever possible,
providing you keep them so well under cover that the ichneumons
cannot visit your broods.

The Management of Pupæ

The disappointments connected with the rearing of Lepidoptera
are by no means at an end when all have passed successfully into
the pupal condition, and the number of perfect insects obtained
will often fall far short of the number of pupæ in your boxes; but[Pg 119]
we must now see what can be done to minimise the death rate of
the captives.

One or more suitable boxes must be prepared for the reception
of the pupæ, and the following suggestion will answer all
purposes:

Get a wooden box, quite rough and unplaned inside, large enough
to accommodate your pupæ with ease, and not less than eight
inches deep. Make several holes in the bottom, or else knock the
bottom completely out, and nail in its place a sheet of perforated
zinc. Also make a lid consisting of gauze attached to a light wood
frame.

Place a layer of clean gravel, about an inch deep, in the bottom,
and over this a few inches of sifted soil or cocoa-nut fibre.

Now take all the pupæ that are ‘earthed’ in your cages, and
arrange them on the prepared bed; also add to them the pupæ
you may have dug out during your various excursions. Cover all
with a layer of the material selected for the bed, and then add a
layer of moss.

Next come the pupæ that are suspended by silky fibres, or are
inclosed in cocoons. These should be fixed with pins around
the sides of the box, running the pins either through the tuft of
silk at the ‘tail,’ or the outer layer of the cocoon, or through the
portion of the dried food plant to which they are attached.

Here your pupæ will remain till they emerge, and the box may
be kept in any airy place where it is not likely to be forgotten, for
it is essential that the perfect insects should be removed as soon
as possible after quitting their cases. It does not matter much
whether the pupæ be kept in or out of doors, providing they are
sheltered from rain and very severe frosts; but of course, if the
former, the imagines will emerge a little earlier, even if the room
in which your specimens are stored has no fire.

Even when protected in boxes such as that described the pupæ
are subject to enemies and dangers. The soil and moss employed
may contain slugs, mites, or other creatures which prey on insects,
and the amount of moisture present in these materials and in the
atmosphere may prove too little for some species or too much for
others.

The remedy for the former evil is a simple one. Bake the soil
or fibre well before fitting up the box, and boil and afterwards dry
the moss. You may then be sure that all life previously contained
is quite destroyed.[Pg 120]

But the degree of humidity is a point not so easily settled, and
so variable are the experiences and opinions of different entomologists
that it is difficult to advise a beginner on the subject. The
fact that some strongly advise a perennial dampness, while others
recommend no attempt at the application of water, would seem
to show that there are probably important points to be urged on
both sides.

Nothing can be better than a very careful observation of pupæ
in their natural conditions. When engaged in pupa digging you
will observe that the larger number are to be found on the east and
north sides of trees where the soil is protected from the heaviest
rains; on the other hand a good many are certainly found in very
moist and sometimes even in wet situations.

Particular notice should be taken of such experiences, making
every allowance for the exceptions that prove the rule, and then let
the natural conditions be maintained in your nurseries at home.
To carry this out two pupa boxes should be kept, one for those
species that seem to require dry situations, and the other for the
species that apparently do best with moist surroundings.

But when it is desired to maintain the pupæ in a moist condition,
great care must be taken not to allow any accumulation of
stagnant water. The box we have described, with its bottom of
perforated zinc, is well adapted for this purpose. Let it stand on
a couple of strips of wood, so that any excess of moisture may
readily drain through. The perforated bottom will also allow of a
free circulation of air, thus securing the ventilation that is desirable
in all boxes, whether wet or dry.

If you have any insects that have pupated within moist stems,
they should be kept in a moist condition till they emerge. The
simplest way of doing this is to support the stems in a layer of
wetted but well-drained silver sand.

Forcing may be resorted to when it is required to obtain the
imagines for early setting in order to get them in the cabinet before
the busy season begins. The method is simple. Place the pupa
box on a shelf in a room where a fire is kept every day. By this
means you may get all your specimens out within a few weeks,
even when you start the forcing at the beginning or middle of the
winter. If, however, you require the imagines for breeding, you
must be careful that the eggs are not laid long before the buds of
the necessary food plants are due.

When you are expecting the appearance of perfect insects, the[Pg 121]
pupa boxes should be examined every day. A morning visit to
your pupæ (for most insects emerge in the morning) may reward
you with the sight of a newly emerged imago, clinging to the
rough surface of the box, thus affording you an opportunity of
observing the wonderful expansion of the wings. But the greeting
is not always of such a pleasant character, for your disappointed
eyes will sometimes be cast on a host of horrid ichneumons that
have just quitted a shell from which you were expecting a prize
of some specially valued species.

[Pg 122]

CHAPTER IX

SETTING AND PRESERVING

Setting and Preserving Butterflies and Moths

Up to the present we have been dealing only with living forms—learning
how to catch and rear the Lepidoptera that fall to our
lot; but now we have to become acquainted with the methods of
preparing our dead specimens in such a way that they may form a
useful collection for future study and reference. Our first attention
shall be given to the apparatus necessary for this work.

The most important requirement is the setting boards, of which
several are necessary, the sizes varying according to the dimensions
of the different insects to be ‘set.’ The lengths of all the boards
should be the same, not only for the convenience of packing when
not in use, but also in order that they may, if required, be arranged
neatly in the ‘drying house’ to be presently described. The widths
only will vary, and in this respect the boards must be adapted
to the measurements of the insects from tip to tip when the
wings are fully expanded. Thus, a set of a dozen boards, ten
or twelve inches long, and from one to five inches wide, will do
for a good start. Of course you may commence with a smaller
number than twelve, but if you really mean to do the thing well,
you will eventually require a good stock of boards.

Here, again, it may be mentioned that all the necessary requisites
may be purchased ready for use, a set of boards and a drying
house complete costing from ten to twenty shillings according to
size and quality; but as the reader, like myself, may prefer to construct
his own, I will supply him with hints and suggestions sufficient
for the work.

Each board is constructed in this way. Cut out and plane up
a piece of wood of the required length and breadth, and about one-eighth
of an inch thick. Glue on the top of this a layer of cork[Pg 123]
about half an inch in thickness, leaving the whole under a moderate
pressure until the glue is quite hard. The sheets of cork for this
purpose may be bought at any naturalist’s stores; but slices cut
from good large bottle corks may be made to answer equally well
if you don’t mind the extra time expended in cutting and fixing.

When the glue has well set, trim off the edges of the cork flush
with the sides of the wood,
and then cut out a groove
down the whole length of
the cork, of course in the
middle, and of such a size
that it will just contain
the bodies of the insects for which it is intended.

Fig. 60.—Section of a Setting Board.

The satisfactory cutting of this groove is not a very easy matter,
but if its position is first carefully marked, a long rat-tail file may
be made to plough it out neatly and regularly. As an alternative
the following plan is good. First cover the wood with a layer of
cork about a quarter of an inch thick, and then glue on the top of
this two narrower strips, about as thick as the bodies of the insects
for which the board is intended,
leaving a space of the required
size between them, as shown in
fig. 60. In this way you get a
groove of square section, that is
in some respects preferable to
the round one cut out by means
of the rat-tail file.

Fig. 61.—Sections of Setting
Boards.

Now comes a question about
which there is a difference in the
tastes or fancies of entomologists.
Shall the boards be perfectly
flat on the top, or shall the sides
slope from the groove, or shall
the surface be rounded? A
glance at the three sections of
setting boards will show clearly what is meant. The rounded board
is most commonly used, and the graceful curve thus given to a
butterfly or moth set on such is certainly attractive; but it is not
natural. The wings of these insects are rigid, and are never seen
bent into such curves in a living specimen. For this reason I
much prefer a perfectly plane surface on each side of the groove.[Pg 124]
Then, as to whether there shall be a slope or not, this is a matter
of less importance. A very decided sloping of the wings is certainly
not so convenient for future examination; nor does it, to my mind,
look nearly so well as both sides in the same plane, or at a very
gentle inclination. But perhaps this subject had better be left to
the taste of the reader, remembering, however, that, whatever plan
be adopted, all the boards should be alike in this respect, so that
there may be a degree of uniformity in the cabinet.

The surface of the cork must, in all cases, be nicely smoothed
down with glass paper, and then covered with thin white paper,
fixed to its surface with ordinary paste.

When insects are on the boards, they should be placed in an
airy spot, as free as possible from dust, while they are drying.
Hence the advisability of some form of ‘drying house.’ This is
simply a box, standing on end,
and provided with a hinged door
consisting of a sheet of perforated
zinc in a wooden frame.
The boards may slide in this on
little slips of wood nailed or
glued on to the sides, or the
wooden bases of the boards may
project beyond the cork at the
ends, and slide into grooves in
the side of the house.

Fig. 62.—A Butterfly on the
Setting Board.

Beyond these requirements
nothing is wanted save a good
stock of pins, thin card or ordinary
writing paper, and a ‘setting needle.’ The last-named item
is simply a needle mounted in a handle, and a good one may be
made by thrusting the head of a darning needle into a piece of twig.
The pins used for setting—that is, for fixing the pieces of paper or
card to keep the parts in position—may be of the ordinary kind;
but entomological pins are far preferable, even for this purpose;
for, being much thinner, they do not damage and disfigure the
setting boards so much.

Now as to the setting. First see that the pin with which you
are to fix your dead insect passes centrally through the thorax.
Then fix it firmly on the setting board, its body lying neatly in the
groove of the cork. Cut out some little pointed strips of card or
paper, and, after bringing the wings into position with the setting[Pg 125]
needle, fix each one by a pinned strip. In spreading out the wings,
care must be taken not to pierce them at all, but simply to push
them into their place by pressing the needle at their bases, or by
putting the needle beneath and lifting them out.

Instead of pointed pieces of card, uniform strips of paper may
be used, as shown in fig. 63, each strip passing over both wings.

After the four wings have been properly arranged, a few extra
pins may be used to keep other parts in position. Thus, the
antennæ may be placed at equal angles, the proboscis may be extended,
and a couple of pins may be used to support the abdomen
if it is inclined to bend downward.

Fig. 63.—Another Method of Setting
Butterflies and Moths.

As before mentioned,
insects should
be set soon after they
are dead, while the
parts are still soft and
supple. But where
this cannot be done,
and the specimens have
become stiff, brittle,
and rigid, they must be
‘relaxed’ before any
attempt is made at
setting them out.

This process of relaxing
consists in placing
the specimens in a
very moist atmosphere
for a few days. There
are several simple
ways of doing this, many of which will readily suggest themselves
to the reader. Your collecting box, if a zinc one, may also be
used as a relaxer. Pin your stiff insects in it, after well moistening
the cork, and simply shut them up for a day or two. Any metal box
will serve the same purpose providing you put into it a piece of
sheet cork on which to fix the insects, and this cork may rest on a
bed of moist sand.

Another plan is to float the pinned specimens on corks in a
shallow vessel of water, and cover them over with a bell glass.

Insects that are being relaxed should be examined from time
to time, and the degree of flexibility acquired tested by a gentle[Pg 126]
pressure of the setting needle or by blowing on them. If not
sufficiently supple, give another day in the damp cell, but never
allow them to be forgotten till they are covered with mildew.

The time occupied in thoroughly drying butterflies and moths
will vary considerably according to their sizes and the condition of
the atmosphere. In hot and dry summer weather four or five days
will prove quite sufficient for the very small and thin-bodied species.
From one to two weeks, however, may be looked upon as the
average period; but the large and thick-bodied moths may require
more than this.

Perhaps the best test of their condition is the gentle pressing of
the setting needle against the abdomen—the last part of the body
to become dry and stiff. If the abdomen seems quite firm and
rigid, you are pretty safe in removing the specimen from the
board; but if it bends at all under a slight pressure of the needle
let it remain for a day or two longer.

If your cabinet is quite ready for the reception of new-comers,
the insects may be put in their proper places immediately after
their removal from the setting boards; but if not, they may
be pinned temporarily in a ‘store box’ till the time comes when
you have proper accommodation provided. The full consideration
of these matters will be dealt with in another chapter.

It is possible that the setting of some of your specimens will not
exactly please you. If such is the case, put them in a relaxing box
for a day or two, and then reset them more to your fancy.

We have now to deal with a matter that applies more
particularly to moths, especially the very large and thick-bodied
species. The abdomens of these become more or less contracted
and shrivelled on drying, sometimes to such an extent as to look
most unsightly.

There is a remedy for this, and the time and patience required
in working it out will be well repaid by the superior results
obtained.

While the abdomen is still in a soft condition, make a slit
throughout its length with a very sharp knife or a sharp-pointed
pair of scissors. This slit should be made down the centre of the
under surface, or, if the insect is to be placed in the cabinet with
the under side exposed, down the middle line of the back. Then
remove all the contents of the abdomen, scraping them out with a
piece of hooked wire, or removing them with a fine pair of forceps,
and leaving the skin as clean as possible both within and without.[Pg 127]
Now introduce a packing of cotton wool, just sufficient in quantity
to maintain the natural form of the body as the specimen
dries.

There is another good method of stuffing moths that possesses
a decided advantage over the one just described, since it leaves the
specimen in such a perfect condition that it shows no appearance
of having been stuffed when viewed from either side. This consists
in snipping off the abdomen at the waist, clearing out the contents
with a hooked wire, lightly stuffing it with cotton wool pushed in
at the waist, and then setting it aside to dry, while the other part
of the insect is undergoing the same process on the setting board.
When both parts of the moth are thoroughly dry, the stuffed
abdomen is easily fixed in its place with a little coaguline; and this,
if neatly done, will not show the slightest sign of the treatment to
which the insect has been submitted.

Even after your insects are finally housed in the cabinet, they
are subject to two other dangers, both of which are more destructive
to moths than to butterflies. One is technically known
as ‘grease,’ and the other is the invasion of certain museum pests
that feed on the specimens, causing them to fall to pieces.

Examine the moths that have been for a time in the cabinet,
and some are sure to exhibit an oily or greasy appearance, the hairs
of the abdomen, and perhaps also of the thorax, being clogged
together just as if the specimen had been dipped in oil, the
same miserable condition perhaps being shared also by parts of
the wings.

This is due to the gradual oozing out of the fatty matter that
is always present to a greater or less extent in the bodies of the
insects, and which must necessarily show itself more sparingly in
specimens that have been carefully stuffed.

The old saying, ‘Prevention is better than cure,’ applies well in
the present case; but as there are times when a knowledge of the
‘cure’ is the only means of saving a valuable specimen from
destruction, we will study both.

To deal with the two in the order of the well-worn proverb, we
will consider the prevention first. Always carefully clean out and
stuff the abdomens of large-bodied insects; and as a rule, treat them
with some substance that will either absorb or dissolve out all oily
matter. I think the best plan is to remove the abdomen, clean it
out if its size permits of such an operation, and then, after labelling
it to prevent its future application to the wrong body, either let it[Pg 128]
remain in a bottle of magnesia for several weeks, or soak it in benzole
or ether for a few hours or longer.

If magnesia has been employed as an absorbent, you have
simply to blow or lightly brush off the loose powder that clings to the
body, and then fix it in its place with coaguline. A body dipped in
ether or benzole will look as if completely spoilt at first, for the furry
coat that clothes it will lie matted and almost entirely robbed of its
beautiful colours, reminding one forcibly of the proverbial ‘drowned
rat.’ But take no notice of this change. Let the body have at
least a few hours in the liquid, extending the time to a day or two
in the case of very large ones and those which experience has
proved to be particularly liable to ‘grease;’ and, immediately on
withdrawing it, fix it with a pin in a good strong draught, such as
you may obtain by opening a window about an inch, or, if a breezy
day, in the open air.

These liquids are so volatile (and for that reason should never
be left exposed in an open vessel) that they rapidly evaporate,
leaving the dry hair to be loosened by the breeze, thus bringing
back the natural appearance almost perfectly.

It is probable that many of the smaller insects that were not
considered to require the stuffing or grease-removing operations
will sooner or later exhibit a greasy tendency in the cabinet. At
first the abdomen is affected, and the oily matter then gradually
creeps over the rest of the body, finally spreading over the wings,
and giving the insect a most deplorable aspect. But these are not
irreparably lost, and the following cure will often bring them back
to their former beauty.

If the abdomen only shows signs of grease, cut it off and soak
it in one of the above-named liquids for a day or so, replacing it as
above after the drying operation. If, however, the oily matter
has spread to the thorax and the bases of the wings, the whole
specimen must be soaked, using a basin or jar of suitable size,
covered with a plate of glass. A good draught during the drying
operation will do much to prevent the hair from sticking in matted
tufts close against the surface of the body and wings, and a gentle
brushing with a very soft camel-hair brush will loosen and reset
the fur.

The other danger to which we have referred is the invasion of
certain ‘mites’ and other museum pests that pay periodical visits
to our cabinet drawers and store boxes, often committing such
havoc as to severely try the patience of an interested naturalist.[Pg 129]

The way to prevent such intrusions is to make the atmosphere
of the compartments so obnoxious (to them) that they dare not
enter; and, further, to so spice up your specimens that they are
no longer safely edible to the invaders.

The first object can be attained by always keeping camphor or
naphthaline (albo-carbon) in each division. A lump of either substance
may be secured by pins or a little perforated cell in the
corner of each drawer or box, or the bottom of each may be dusted
with finely powdered naphthaline; but as both these solids are
volatile, care must be taken to renew the supply as occasion
requires.

Then, with regard to the second precaution, perhaps nothing
is more effectual than corrosive sublimate. A little of this may be
dissolved in a small bottle of alcohol (spirits of wine), labelled with
the name and the word Poison, and kept ready for use. All the
skins of stuffed specimens should be painted with this solution, and
the stuffing itself may be moistened with it before insertion.

There is yet another circumstance that renders a watchful care
of your cabinet specimens necessary, if you happen to possess
many that were captured ‘at sugar.’ Some of these will have so
gorged themselves with syrup that they are literally full of it, and
this will sometimes find its way to the outside, often dropping on
the surface beneath. In such cases the sugar should be removed
as completely as possible, and the bodies stuffed, before they are
quite dry; but if the specimens have been in the cabinet so long
that they are stiff and hard, the under sides of the abdomens may
be completely cut out with a very sharp knife and thrown away,
and then the sugar cleaned out from the upper shell as neatly as
possible.

[Pg 130]

CHAPTER X

PRESERVING OVA, LARVÆ AND PUPÆ

Many young entomologists give their attention almost solely to the
perfect forms of insects, often collecting and studying a very large
number of species without regard to their earlier stages and metamorphoses.
This is decidedly a very great mistake. Although
the lifeless form pinned in a cabinet may be a most beautiful object
in itself, yet a study of this alone is uninteresting compared with
that of the wonderful changes it has undergone since the time it
was a very young larva.

The different stages of the insects should be known as far as
possible, and these, as well as the perfect forms, should be included
in the collection for future study and reference. A good cabinet,
according to my own opinion, is one that possesses, among other
good features, a number of complete sets illustrative of the life
history of at least the more typical forms; and as it is not a
difficult matter to preserve the earlier stages, there is really no
excuse for their omission from the collection.

The empty shells of ova are in themselves sometimes interesting
objects, especially when they illustrate some peculiar instinct
on the part of the parent. Sterile eggs, also, often fall into the
hands of breeders and rearers, and these, though in other respects
unprofitable, are useful in the cabinet.

If fertile eggs are to be prepared for a collection, they must be
killed. This is easily done by thrusting into each one the point of
a very fine needle, or by immersing them for a moment in boiling
water, or by shutting them up in a bottle with camphor. In drying
they often contract more or less, and frequently change their
colour; still these are useful, providing notes have been taken of
the characters thus lost. The larger eggs are capable of special
treatment where the owner has the necessary time and patience,
and where the highest results are desired. By means of a surgeon’s[Pg 131]
injector of small size the contents of the eggs can be removed; and
then, by the same instrument, a warm solution of gelatine, coloured
in such a way as to restore the natural tint, may be forced into the
empty shell. As the gelatine cools and hardens, it prevents any
shrinking of the shell, and thus both form and colour are well
preserved.

For the preservation of larvæ you will require one or two
simple appliances.

The first of these is a suitable glass blowpipe, one form of which
is here illustrated. It consists of a glass tube, one end of which
has been drawn out very fine; a piece of watch spring tied to it in
such a manner that it will hold the skin of a larva at the small end,
and a piece of india-rubber tubing at the other end, pressed by
means of a brass spring clip.

Fig. 64.—A Blowpipe for Larvæ.

A little drying oven is also very useful, but not absolutely necessary.
If you decide to have one, any square box of sheet iron (not
soldered tinned iron) may be readily converted into one. It must
be provided with a hinged door in the front with a ventilator at the
bottom, a hole for the escape of hot air at the top, and a tripod wire
stand inside on which to rest the specimens while drying. The
whole should be supported on a wire stand, so that heat may be
applied below.

Each larva to be preserved should be dealt with in this way.
First kill it by means of any one of the killing bottles or boxes already
described, or by immersion in spirit of wine. When quite dead,
enlarge the anal orifice by thrusting a needle into it, and then lay
it on a piece of blotting paper with its head toward you. Now
take a round ruler, previously covered with blotting paper, and roll
the larva gently from head to tail till all the contents of the skin
have been expelled. Next fix the skin on the fine end of the blowpipe,
by thrusting the point of the latter into the opening, and
allowing the spring to press gently on its edge. Gently blow into
the skin till it is inflated just to a little below natural size, then[Pg 132]
either hold it near a fire or rest it in the drying oven till it is quite
dry and rigid.

If you have done your work neatly, the skin and blowpipe will
both be quite air-tight when the clip is closed; and the air, finding
no outlet, will still further inflate the skin when it expands on
exposure to heat. This is the reason why you are directed to blow
it out to something short of the natural dimensions. If you find
that this expansion causes the skin to stretch beyond its normal
size, a little of the air must be allowed to escape while it is yet soft
and flexible.

The front of the larva is generally the last portion to become
dry, and when this is quite rigid the skin may be removed from
the blowpipe. This is a matter that requires the greatest care; for
the skin is so very thin and brittle that a little rough handling will
break it to pieces. As a rule it may be easily pushed off the pipe
by a slight pressure behind, or a gentle twisting motion will loosen
its hold; but this latter method can hardly be applied to hairy
larvæ without breaking off the hairs, now rendered very brittle by
the heat.

If you find the slightest difficulty in detaching the skin of a
valuable specimen, it is far better to damage the blowpipe than to
risk spoiling the skin. Supposing your blowpipe is a glass one,
you can easily break off the end of it after making a cut with a very
small triangular file, and the portion thus removed may be left
attached to the skin. Then, after softening the glass blowpipe in a
gas flame or the flame of a spirit lamp, it can be drawn out thin
again for future work. Those who can manipulate glass tubing in
this way will find it far better to lay in a stock of suitable material,
drawing it out when required, than to purchase blowpipes ready
made at the naturalist’s shop.

Very fine hollow stems, such as those of the bamboo cane, may
be used instead of glass; and these possess the advantage of being
easily cut with a sharp knife when there is any difficulty in removing
the skin. Again, whether glass or fine stems are used, a little
grease of any kind placed previously on the end will allow the dried
skin to be slid off with less difficulty.

Preserved larvæ should preferably be mounted on small twigs
or artificial imitations of the leaves of the proper food plants. A
little coaguline applied to the claspers will fix them very firmly on
these twigs or leaves, which are then secured in the cabinet by
means of one or two small pins.[Pg 133]

It is much to be regretted that the natural colours of many
caterpillars cannot be preserved in the blown skins. Some are
rendered much lighter in colour on account of the withdrawal of
the contents, while others turn dark during the drying. In the
smooth-skinned species the natural tints may be restored by painting
or by staining with suitable aniline dyes, but these artificial imitations
of the natural colours are always far less beautiful than the
hues of the living larvæ.

Very few words need be said on the preservation of pupæ.
Many of them do not alter much in form and colour, and therefore
they require no special preparation.

If a pupa has to be killed for the purpose of adding to the value
of the collection, simply plunge it into boiling water, and it is ready
to be fixed in the cabinet as soon as it is quite dry.

The empty pupa cases, too, from which the perfect insects have
emerged, are often worth preserving, especially if the damage done
by the imago on forcing its way out is repaired with the aid of a little
coaguline.

Let all larvæ and pupæ be preserved in their characteristic attitudes
and positions as far as possible, so that each one tells some
interesting feature of the life history of the living being it represents.
Further, enrich your collection by numerous specimens of
the various kinds of cocoons constructed by the larvæ, pinning each
one beside its proper species; and never refuse a place to any
object that relates something of the life history of the creatures
you are studying.

[Pg 134]

CHAPTER XI

THE CABINET—ARRANGEMENT OF SPECIMENS

The selection of a cabinet or other storehouse for the rapidly
increasing specimens of insect forms is often a matter of no small
difficulty to a youthful entomologist. Indeed, there are very many
points of considerable importance to be considered before any final
decision is made. Freedom from dust, the exclusion of pests, the
convenience of the collector, the depth of his pocket, and the
general appearance of the storehouse must be considered, and it is
impossible, therefore, to describe a form that is equally suitable
to all.

If it is absolutely necessary that the cabinet (or its substitute)
be of a very inexpensive character, and if, at the same time, the
collector has not the mechanical skill necessary for its construction,
then perhaps the best thing he can do is to procure a number of
shallow (about an inch and a half deep) cardboard, glass-topped
boxes, such as are to be obtained at drapers’ shops. For the sake
of uniformity and convenience in packing, have them all of one
size. Glue in small slices of cork just where the insects are to be
pinned, and see that each box is supplied with either camphor or
naphthaline. All the boxes may be packed in a cupboard or in a
case made specially to contain them; and a label on the front of
each will enable you to select any one when required without disturbing
the others.

It may be mentioned here that glass is not necessary, though it
is certainly convenient at times, especially when you are exhibiting
your specimens to admiring non-entomological friends, who have
almost always a most alarming way of bringing the tip of the first
finger dangerously near as they are pointing out their favourite
colours. ‘Isn’t that one a beauty?’ is a common remark, and[Pg 135]
therewith off snaps a wing of one of your choicest insects. When
glass is used, however, see that the specimens are excluded from
light, or the colours will soon lose their natural brilliancy.

Anyone who has a set of carpenter’s tools and the ability to use
them well will be able to construct for himself either a set of store
boxes or a cabinet of many drawers in which to keep his natural
treasures. In this case a few considerations are necessary before
deciding on the form which the storehouse is to take.

A cabinet, if nicely made, forms a very sightly article of furniture;
and, if space can be found for it, is the best and most convenient
receptacle. One of about twelve to twenty drawers will be
quite sufficient for a time; and the few following hints and suggestions
may be useful.

The wood used should be well seasoned, and free from resin.
The drawers should fit well, and slide without the least danger of
shaking. Each one should be lined with sheet cork, about one-eighth
of an inch thick, glued to the bottom, nicely levelled with
sand paper, and then covered with thin, pure white paper, laid on
with thin paste. It is also advisable to cover each with glass,
inclosed in a light wood frame that fits so closely as to prevent the
intrusion of mites.

The drawers may be arranged in a single vertical tier if the
cabinet is to stand on the floor, or in two tiers if it is to be shorter
for placing on the top of another piece of furniture; and glass doors,
fastened by a lock and key, may be made to cover the front if such
are desired as a matter of fancy, or as a precaution against the
meddlesome habits of juvenile fingers.

Store boxes are sometimes chosen in preference to cabinets
because they are more portable, and because they can be arranged
on shelves—an important consideration when floor space is not
available.

These boxes should be cork-lined and glazed like the cabinet
drawers; and if they are made in two equal portions, lined with
cork on both sides, and closing up like a book, they may be arranged
on shelves like books, in which position they will collect but little
dust.

Both store boxes and cabinets are always kept in stock by the
dealers, the former ranging from a few shillings each, and the latter
from fifteen shillings to a guinea per drawer. Knowing this, you
can decide for yourself between the two alternatives—making and
purchasing.[Pg 136]

We have now to consider the manner in which our specimens
should be arranged and labelled.

The table forming Appendix I contains the names of all the
British butterflies and larger moths, and shows their division
into Sections, Tribes, Families, and Genera. This table is the
result of most careful study on the part of leading entomologists,
and shows how, in their opinion, the insects can best be arranged
to show their relation to one another; and you cannot do better
than adopt the same order in your collection.