So until my Io settled where I wanted
her with the wings open, she was kept in the shadow. Only when I
grasped the bulb and stood ready to snap, was the covering lifted,
and for the smallest fraction of a second the full light fell on
her; then darkness again.
In three days it began to be apparent there was something wrong
with the eggs. In four it was evident, and by five I was not
expecting the little caterpillars to emerge, and they did not.
The moth had not mated and the eggs were not fertile. Then I saw
my mistake. Instead of shutting the female in the conservatory
at night, I should have tied a soft cotton string firmly around
her body, and fastened it to some of the vines on the veranda.
Beyond all doubt, before morning, a male of her kind would have
been attracted to her.
One learns almost as much by his mistakes as he profits by his
successes in this world. Writing of this piece of stupidity,
at a time in my work with moths when a little thought would
have taught me better, reminds me of an experience I had with
a caterpillar, the first one I ever carried home and tried to
feed.
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