Wherein Mrs. Comstock Faces the Almighty, and Philip Ammon Writes a Letter
Mrs. Comstock and Elnora were finishing breakfast the following morning when they heard a cheery whistle down the road. Elnora with surprised eyes looked at her mother.
“Could that be Mr. Ammon?” she questioned.
“I did not expect him so soon,” commented Mrs. Comstock.
It was sunrise, but the musician was Philip Ammon. He appeared stronger than on yesterday.
“I hope I am not too early,” he said. “I am consumed with anxiety to learn if we have made a catch. If we have, we should beat the birds to it. I promised Uncle Doc to put on my waders and keep dry for a few days yet, when I go to the woods. Let’s hurry! I am afraid of crows. There might be a rare moth.”
The sun was topping the Limberlost when they started. As they neared the place Philip stopped.
“Now we must use great caution,” he said. “The lights and the odours always attract numbers that don’t settle on the baited trees. Every bush, shrub, and limb may hide a specimen we want.”
So they approached with much care.
“There is something, anyway!” cried Philip.
“There are moths! I can see them!” exulted Elnora.
“Those you see are fast enough. It’s the ones for which you must search that will escape. The grasses are dripping, and I have boots, so you look beside the path while I take the outside,” suggested Ammon.
Mrs. Comstock wanted to hunt moths, but she was timid about making a wrong movement, so she wisely sat on a log and watched Philip and Elnora to learn how they proceeded. Back in the deep woods a hermit thrush was singing his chant to the rising sun. Orioles were sowing the pure, sweet air with notes of gold, poured out while on wing. The robins were only chirping now, for their morning songs had awakened all the other birds an hour ago. Scolding red-wings tilted on half the bushes. Excepting late species of haws, tree bloom was almost gone, but wild flowers made the path border and all the wood floor a riot of colour. Elnora, born among such scenes, worked eagerly, but to the city man, recently from a hospital, they seemed too good to miss. He frequently stooped to examine a flower face, paused to listen intently to the thrush or lifted his head to see the gold flash which accompanied the oriole’s trailing notes. So Elnora uttered the first cry, as she softly lifted branches and peered among the grasses.
“My find!” she called. “Bring the box, mother!”
Philip came hurrying also. When they reached her she stood on the path holding a pair of moths. Her eyes were wide with excitement, her cheeks pink, her red lips parted, and on the hand she held out to them clung a pair of delicate blue-green moths, with white bodies, and touches of lavender and straw colour. All around her lay flower-brocaded grasses, behind the deep green background of the forest, while the sun slowly sifted gold from heaven to burnish her hair. Mrs. Comstock heard a sharp breath behind her.
“Oh, what a picture!” exulted Philip at her shoulder. “She is absolutely and altogether lovely! I’d give a small fortune for that faithfully set on canvas!”
He picked the box from Mrs. Comstock’s fingers and slowly advanced with it. Elnora held down her hand and transferred the moths. Philip closed the box carefully, but the watching mother saw that his eyes were following the girl’s face. He was not making the slightest attempt to conceal his admiration.
“I wonder if a woman ever did anything lovelier than to find a pair of Luna moths on a forest path, early on a perfect June morning,” he said to Mrs. Comstock, when he returned the box.
She glanced at Elnora who was intently searching the bushes.
“Look here, young man,” said Mrs. Comstock. “You seem to find that girl of mine about right.”
“I could suggest no improvement,” said Philip. “I never saw a more attractive girl anywhere. She seems absolutely perfect to me.”
“Then suppose you don’t start any scheme calculated to spoil her!” proposed Mrs. Comstock dryly. “I don’t think you can, or that any man could, but I’m not taking any risks. You asked to come here to help in this work. We are both glad to have you, if you confine yourself to work; but it’s the least you can do to leave us as you find us.”
“I beg your pardon!” said Philip. “I intended no offence. I admire her as I admire any perfect creation.”
“And nothing in all this world spoils the average girl so quickly and so surely,” said Mrs. Comstock. She raised her voice. “Elnora, fasten up that tag of hair over your left ear. These bushes muss you so you remind me of a sheep poking its nose through a hedge fence.”
Mrs. Comstock started down the path toward the log again, when she reached it she called sharply: “Elnora, come here! I believe I have found something myself.”
The “something” was a Citheronia Regalis which had emerged from its case on the soft earth under the log. It climbed up the wood, its stout legs dragging a big pursy body, while it wildly flapped tiny wings the size of a man’s thumb-nail. Elnora gave one look and a cry which brought Philip.
“That’s the rarest moth in America!” he announced. “Mrs. Comstock, you’ve gone up head. You can put that in a box with a screen cover to-night, and attract half a dozen, possibly.”
“Is it rare, Elnora?” inquired Mrs. Comstock, as if no one else knew.
“It surely is,” answered Elnora. “If we can find it a mate to-night, it will lay from two hundred and fifty to three hundred eggs to-morrow. With any luck at all I can raise two hundred caterpillars from them. I did once before. And they are worth a dollar apiece.”
“Was the one I killed like that?”
“No. That was a different moth, but its life processes were the same as this. The Bird Woman calls this the King of the Poets.”
“Why does she?”
“Because it is named for Citheron who was a poet, and regalis refers to a king. You mustn’t touch it or you may stunt wing development. You watch and don’t let that moth out of sight, or anything touch it. When the wings are expanded and hardened we will put it in a box.”
“I am afraid it will race itself to death,” objected Mrs. Comstock.
“That’s a part of the game,” said Philip. “It is starting circulation now. When the right moment comes, it will stop and expand its wings. If you watch closely you can see them expand.”
Presently the moth found a rough projection of bark and clung with its feet, back down, its wings hanging. The body was an unusual orange red, the tiny wings were gray, striped with the red and splotched here and there with markings of canary yellow. Mrs. Comstock watched breathlessly. Presently she slipped from the log and knelt to secure a better view.
“Are its wings developing?” called Elnora.
“They are growing larger and the markings coming stronger every minute.”
“Let’s watch, too,” said Elnora to Philip.
They came and looked over Mrs. Comstock’s shoulder. Lower drooped the gay wings, wider they spread, brighter grew the markings as if laid off in geometrical patterns. They could hear Mrs. Comstock’s tense breath and see her absorbed expression.
“Young people,” she said solemnly, “if your studying science and the elements has ever led you to feel that things just happen, kind of evolve by chance, as it were, this sight will be good for you. Maybe earth and air accumulate, but it takes the wisdom of the Almighty God to devise the wing of a moth. If there ever was a miracle, this whole process is one. Now, as I understand it, this creature is going to keep on spreading those wings, until they grow to size and harden to strength sufficient to bear its body. Then it flies away, mates with its kind, lays its eggs on the leaves of a certain tree, and the eggs hatch tiny caterpillars which eat just that kind of leaves, and the worms grow and grow, and take on different forms and colours until at last they are big caterpillars six inches long, with large horns. Then they burrow into the earth, build a water-proof house around themselves from material which is inside them, and lie through rain and freezing cold for months. A year from e
gg laying they come out like this, and begin the process all over again. They don’t eat, they don’t see distinctly, they live but a few days, and fly only at night; then they drop off easy, but the process goes on.”
A shivering movement went over the moth. The wings drooped and spread wider. Mrs. Comstock sank into soft awed tones.
“There never was a moment in my life,” she said, “when I felt so in the Presence, as I do now. I feel as if the Almighty were so real, and so near, that I could reach out and touch Him, as I could this wonderful work of His, if I dared. I feel like saying to Him: ‘To the extent of my brain power I realize Your presence, and all it is in me to comprehend of Your power. Help me to learn, even this late, the lessons of Your wonderful creations. Help me to unshackle and expand my soul to the fullest realization of Your wonders. Almighty God, make me bigger, make me broader!’“
The moth climbed to the end of the projection, up it a little way, then suddenly reversed its wings, turned the hidden sides out and dropped them beside its abdomen, like a large fly. The upper side of the wings, thus exposed, was far richer colour, more exquisite texture than the under, and they slowly half lifted and drooped again. Mrs. Comstock turned her face to Philip.
“Am I an old fool, or do you feel it, too?” she half whispered.
“You are wiser than you ever have been before,” answered he. “I feel it, also.”
“And I,” breathed Elnora.
The moth spread its wings, shivered them tremulously, opening and closing them rapidly. Philip handed the box to Elnora.
She shook her head.
“I can’t take that one,” she said. “Give her freedom.”
“But, Elnora,” protested Mrs. Comstock, “I don’t want to let her go. She’s mine. She’s the first one I ever found this way. Can’t you put her in a big box, and let her live, without hurting her? I can’t bear to let her go. I want to learn all about her.”
“Then watch while we gather these on the trees,” said Elnora. “We will take her home until night and then decide what to do. She won’t fly for a long time yet.”
Mrs. Comstock settled on the ground, gazing at the moth. Elnora and Philip went to the baited trees, placing several large moths and a number of smaller ones in the cyanide jar, and searching the bushes beyond where they found several paired specimens of differing families. When they returned Elnora showed her mother how to hold her hand before the moth so that it would climb upon her fingers. Then they started back to the cabin, Elnora and Philip leading the way; Mrs. Comstock followed slowly, stepping with great care lest she stumble and injure the moth. Her face wore a look of comprehension, in her eyes was an exalted light. On she came to the blue-bordered pool lying beside her path.
A turtle scrambled from a log and splashed into the water, while a red-wing shouted, “O-ka-lee!” to her. Mrs. Comstock paused and looked intently at the slime-covered quagmire, framed in a flower riot and homed over by sweet-voiced birds. Then she gazed at the thing of incomparable beauty clinging to her fingers and said softly: “If you had known about wonders like these in the days of your youth, Robert Comstock, could you ever have done what you did?”
Elnora missed her mother, and turning to look for her, saw her standing beside the pool. Would the old fascination return? A panic of fear seized the girl. She went back swiftly.
“Are you afraid she is going?” Elnora asked. “If you are, cup your other hand over her for shelter. Carrying her through this air and in the hot sunshine will dry her wings and make them ready for flight very quickly. You can’t trust her in such air and light as you can in the cool dark woods.”
While she talked she took hold of her mother’s sleeve, anxiously smiling a pitiful little smile that Mrs. Comstock understood. Philip set his load at the back door, returning to hold open the garden gate for Elnora and Mrs. Comstock. He reached it in time to see them standing together beside the pool. The mother bent swiftly and kissed the girl on the lips. Philip turned and was busily hunting moths on the raspberry bushes when they reached the gate. And so excellent are the rewards of attending your own business, that he found a Promethea on a lilac in a corner; a moth of such rare wine-coloured, velvety shades that it almost sent Mrs. Comstock to her knees again. But this one was fully developed, able to fly, and had to be taken into the cabin hurriedly. Mrs. Comstock stood in the middle of the room holding up her Regalis.
“Now what must I do?” she asked.
Elnora glanced at Philip Ammon. Their eyes met and both of them smiled; he with amusement at the tall, spare figure, with dark eyes and white crown, asking the childish question so confidingly; and Elnora with pride. She was beginning to appreciate the character of her mother.
“How would you like to sit and see her finish development? I’ll get dinner,” proposed the girl.
After they had dined, Philip and Elnora carried the dishes to the kitchen, brought out boxes, sheets of cork, pins, ink, paper slips, and everything necessary for mounting and classifying the moths they had taken. When the housework was finished Mrs. Comstock with her ruffle sat near, watching and listening. She remembered all they said that she understood, and when uncertain she asked questions. Occasionally she laid down her work to straighten some flower which needed attention or to search the garden for a bug for the grosbeak. In one of these absences Elnora said to Philip: “These replace quite a number of the moths I lost for the man of India. With a week of such luck, I could almost begin to talk college again.”
“There is no reason why you should not have the week and the luck,” said he. “I have taken moths until the middle of August, though I suspect one is more likely to find late ones in the north where it is colder than here. The next week is hay-time, but we can count on a few double-brooders and strays, and by working the exchange method for all it is worth, I think we can complete the collection again.”
“You almost make me hope,” said Elnora, “but I must not allow myself. I don’t truly think I can replace all I lost, not even with your help. If I could, I scarcely see my way clear to leave mother this winter. I have found her so recently, and she is so precious, I can’t risk losing her again. I am going to take the nature position in the Onabasha schools, and I shall be most happy doing the work. Only, these are a temptation.”
“I wish you might go to college this fall with the other girls,” said Philip. “I feel that if you don’t you never will. Isn’t there some way?”
“I can’t see it if there is, and I really don’t want to leave mother.”
“Well, mother is mighty glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Comstock, entering the arbour.
Philip noticed that her face was pale, her lips quivering, her voice cold.
“I was telling your daughter that she should go to college this winter,” he explained, “but she says she doesn’t want to leave you.”
“If she wants to go, I wish she could,” said Mrs. Comstock, a look of relief spreading over her face.
“Oh, all girls want to go to college,” said Philip. “It’s the only proper place to learn bridge and embroidery; not to mention midnight lunches of mixed pickles and fruit cake, and all the delights of the sororities.”
“I have thought for years of going to college,” said Elnora, “but I never thought of any of those things.”
“That is because your education in fudge and bridge has been sadly neglected,” said Philip. “You should hear my sister Polly! This was her final year! Lunches and sororities were all I heard her mention, until Tom Levering came on deck; now he is the leading subject. I can’t see from her daily conversation that she knows half as much really worth knowing as you do, but she’s ahead of you miles on fun.”
“Oh, we had some good times in the high school,” said Elnora. “Life hasn’t been all work and study. Is Edith Carr a college girl?”
“No. She is the very selectest kind of a private boarding-school girl.”
“Who is she?” asked Mrs. Comstock.
Philip opened his lips.
“She is a girl in Chicago, that Mr. Ammon knows very well,” said Elnora. “She is beautiful and rich, and a friend of his sister’s. Or, didn’t you say that?”
“I don’t remember, but she is,” said Philip. “This moth needs an alcohol bath to remove the dope.”
“Won’t the down come, too?” asked Elnora anxiously.
“No. You watch and you will see it come out, as Polly would say, ‘a perfectly good’ moth.”
“Is your sister younger than you?” inquired Elnora.
“Yes,” said Philip, “but she is three years older than you. She is the dearest sister in all the world. I’d love to see her now.”
“Why don’t you send for her,” suggested Elnora. “Perhaps she’d like to help us catch moths.”
“Yes, I think Polly in a Virot hat, Picot embroidered frock, and three-inch heels would take more moths than any one who ever tried the Limberlost,” laughed Philip.
“Well, you find many of them, and you are her brother.”
“Yes, but that is different. Father was reared in Onabasha, and he loved the country. He trained me his way and mother took charge of Polly. I don’t quite understand it. Mother is a great home body herself, but she did succeed in making Polly strictly ornamental.”
“Does Tom Levering need a ‘strictly ornamental’ girl?”
“You are too matter of fact! Too ‘strictly’ material. He needs a darling girl who will love him plenty, and Polly is that.”
“Well, then, does the Limberlost need a ‘strictly ornamental’ girl?”
“No!” cried Philip. “You are ornament enough for the Limberlost. I have changed my mind. I don’t want Polly here. She would not enjoy catching moths, or anything we do.”
“She might,” persisted Elnora. “You are her brother, and surely you care for these things.”
“The argument does not hold,” said Philip. “Polly and I do not like the same things when we are at home, but we are very fond of each other. The member of my family who would go crazy about this is my father. I wish he could come, if only for a week. I’d send for him, but he is tied up in preparing some papers for a great corporation case this summer. He likes the country. It was his vote that brought me here.”
The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter Page 47
