Part 19

"They are alike in many ways. You remember, do you not, that the locust has a pair of soft jaws covering over the dark, hard ones? In the moths and butterflies these jaws are different. Each one is long, and has a deep groove on the inner side. These two grooves fit together, and make a slender tube called a proboscis. When flying this long tube is rolled up in a tight coil under the head; alighting, the proboscis is quickly uncoiled and dipped into the throat of the flower, and the sweet nectar sipped from it. See here, Jack, what have you on your fingers?"

"The dust from the butterfly's wings, sir."

"No, not quite dust, or powder, either. That dust is tiny hair and scales. If I had a powerful lens in my pocket I could show you how deeply some of these tiny scales are scalloped, so that they look like a hand with fingers. If you rubbed all the scales off that wing there would be no color left, for the scales are like little sacs, and many of them contain grains of color called pigment--red, yellow, or brown. You have all seen the rainbow of colors on a soap-bubble? Well, the brilliant colors of the wing are made in just the same way as the colors on a bubble: by the light striking the little ridges on the overlapping scales."

"It is not only we who are fearfully and wonderfully made," said Mrs. Reece, "but even the tiniest creatures God has created, and all with a purpose, all with a place."

The guide nodded his head. "The more you study, the more you see how every least thing is part of a great mysterious whole. If you look at a butterfly's wing from which the scales have been rubbed you will see plan and purpose in the placing of even those scales; for the little pits into which the stems of the scale fit are turned all one way, toward the base of the wing."

"They are so beautiful!" exclaimed Betty. "Are they always pretty?"

"That depends," replied the old man, "whether in their caterpillar youth you think them pretty. They have a bad name, then, for being homely, and do a good deal of damage."

"Oh, I hate caterpillars!" cried Hope.

"Fuzzy caterpillars hump so and crawl," said Betty.

"You mean woolly bears?"

"Woolly bears!" exclaimed the children.

"Yes; not Teddy bears. They have to play somehow, so they wiggle for joy, and this takes them along very fast--that is, fast for a caterpillar. Sometimes they spin a long thread by which they take a flying short cut and land--on your back."

Jimmie dropped a tiny twig down Betty's back, which made her scream.

"But they don't harm us," said Ben Gile. "They are so fussy about what they eat for dinner that they wouldn't think of biting even the sweetest little boy or girl. They prefer something far more tender. Ah, you wouldn't like Isabella!" The old man shook his head sadly.

"Isabella! Who is Isabella?" questioned the children.

"Isabella is always in a hurry," said the guide--"always. She is brown in the middle, and black on the head and tail end, Isabella is, and she walks rapidly, as if she had a great deal to do before she could take time to be made over into a tiger-moth. She stops every once in a while to make sure she is on the right road; then she hurries along in a nervous, fidgety way, looking for a nice, comfortable stone under which to have a winter home, for Isabella is in such haste that she could never think of taking time to spin a cocoon."

"But do all caterpillars turn into moths or butterflies?" asked Jack.

"Yes, every one, my son, that lives long enough, just as surely as a boy will turn into a man. The butterfly lays the egg, and after the egg has been quiet for a while out comes a little worm; the worm spins the cocoon, and out of the cocoon comes a perfect moth, or butterfly. It is a wonderful cycle, a wonderful series of changes. Little boys and girls seem to be surrounded with more love and don't change their skins as moths do, but the mystery of life belongs quite as much to the helpless moth as it does to any one of us."

"But is a caterpillar an insect, and is a butterfly an insect?" asked Betty.

"Of course, you goose," said Jimmie; "you don't expect to hatch a duck from a hen's egg, do you?"

But Ben Gile, who was older than Jimmie and decidedly more patient, explained, carefully: "If you look at a caterpillar and a moth you will see that their bodies aren't so unlike, after all. They are made up of rings, and both the moth and the caterpillar have six legs apiece. Most caterpillars have little prop legs, but these aren't real legs and shouldn't be counted. Caterpillars eat and eat and eat; they are such solid little chaps they must need a good many legs, real and false, to keep moving at all. Well, heigho! stretch your own legs, boys! We'll leave the caterpillar where it is, and move on to the top of the mountain, or we'll never be there in time to eat our own supper. One, two, three, march!"

And off they went, talking and laughing and scrambling up the side of the mountain, which swung dark and steep above them.

XII

CAMP-IN-THE-CLOUDS

The camp was reached. Once there, the children found the other two guides in the cabin. The cook-tent was already pitched; the sleeping-tents had been left so that the boys might choose their own locations and help in pitching them. It was a beautiful place--remote, wild, two-thirds up the side of the great mountain.

In front was the famous trout pond, and beyond the little valley made by the pond the crest of the mountain rose higher and higher. Dusk was coming on, and the crisp mountain air was filled with the shadows of the woods; along the mountain summit lay streamers of white cloud. Down, down, down reached the long fingers of cloud, and up, up, up reached the deep shadows, just as if a great hand were closing the world in dusk. Every little sound was as clear in the evening air as the water of the pond was transparent. Small shadows moved about the edge of the pond--deer, they were, said Ben Gile, that had come down to the edge to drink.

"Phew, isn't it cold!" shouted the children, as they ran from one thing to another; "and won't supper taste good!"

Jack, who hadn't on any stout boots like Jimmie's, and whose jacket was threadbare and thin, began to think the sleeping-blankets would feel good when it was time to crawl in. In front of the cabin blazed a big camp-fire, and around this fire supper was served. "Did stewed apricots, soda-biscuits, bacon, eggs, hot cakes, ever taste so good? Will they ever taste so good again? Did hot cakes and syrup ever make the butter fly so fast?" asked Ben Gile.