The caterpillar was green, more like the spiny butterfly caterpillars
than any moth one I know. It had brown and white bands, brown patches,
and was covered with tufts of stiff upstanding spines that pierced
like sharp needles. This was not because the caterpillar tried to
hurt you, but because the spines were on it, and so arranged that if
pressed against, an acid secretion sprang from their base. This
spread over the flesh the spines touched, stinging for an hour like
smartweed, or nettles.
When I identified this caterpillar in my books, it came to me that
I had known and experienced its touch. But it did not forcibly
impress me until that instant that I knew it best of all, and that
it was my childhood enemy of the corn. Its habit was to feed on
the young blades, and cling to them with all its might. If I was
playing Indian among the rows, or hunting an ear with especially
long, fine 'silk' for a make-believe doll, or helping the cook
select ears of Jersey Sweet to boil for dinner, and accidentally
brushed one of these caterpillars with cheek or hand, I felt its
burning sting long afterward.
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