One
day in May, when the trees were in full bloom, I was working on a
tulip bed under an apple tree in the garden, when Molly-Cotton said
to me, "How did you get that cocoon in your room wet?"
"I did not water any of the cocoons," I answered. "I have done no
sprinkling today. If they are wet, it has come from the inside."
Molly-Cotton dropped her trowel. "One of them was damp on the top
before lunch," she cried. "I just now thought of it. The moths
are coming!" She started on a run and I followed, but stopped
to wash my hands, so she reached them first, and her shout told
the news.
"Hurry!" she cried. "Hurry! One is out, and another is just
struggling through!" Quickly as I could I stood beside her.
One Polyphemus female, a giant indeed, was clinging to a twig with
her feet, and from her shoulders depended her wings, wet, and
wrinkled as they had been cramped in the pupa case. Even then she
had expanded in body until it seemed impossible that she had
emerged from the opening of the vacant cocoon.
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