The Story of a Caterpillar

A caterpillar had crawled up on a twig. It looked the twig over, then grabbed tightly to it by its hind legs and began twisting itself and moving its head up and down with a weaving motion. Every time the caterpillar’s head moved, it left behind it something that looked like a glistening thread of silk.

An ant crawling along the branch stopped and stared in wonder. ”What in the world are you doing?” it asked.

The caterpillar paused to rest for a moment. It was hard work, bending and doubling itself in that way. “I’m making a house,” it said.

”Making a house!” cried the ant.

A bee that had landed close by began to buzz with laughter. “Will you tell me, if you please, what sort of a house that is?” he cried.

“The only sort of house I know how to make,” the caterpillar answered humbly.

“I never heard of anything so absurd. Why don’t you hunt about and find a hollow tree or a good hive, and live in that? Then you would be safe.” 

”Or you might find a hole under a stone.” added the ant. “That’s a very good place.”

The caterpillar shook its head. ”This is the only sort of house I know how to make,” it repeated. Then it set to work again.

As for the bee and the ant, they went their own ways.

“A poor sort of a house indeed, ” each one thought to itself.

But the caterpillar went on working.

Up and down, its head moved, weaving and weaving. Now, the silk was like a thin, silvery veil about it. Through the veil, you could still faintly see the caterpillar moving.

At last, the veil grew so thick that you could not see the caterpillar at all. You could only guess that it might still be at work inside.

After a while, the bee came by that way again.

It stopped and looked the little house all over. Then it flew down to the ant-hill. “Miss Ant, Miss Ant, come out here,” it buzzed. “I’ve such a joke to tell you.”

The little ant stuck its head up from the hill.

“Such a joke! That caterpillar we were watching has finished its house and has forgotten to leave any door,” and the bee buzzed very hard.

“That is too bad,” said the ant, “I’m afraid it will starve.”

But the caterpillar did not die. It was not even hungry. It was fast asleep in its little cocoon house. While it slept the sun shone or the rain beat, but the little house let in neither sun nor rain. It was snug and dark.

If anyone had opened the cocoon now, he would have found a wonderful thing. Inside the hard, gray outside shell was a lining as soft as silk, and still inside of this was something — what was it? Not a caterpillar, not a moth either, though if one looked carefully, one could see what looked like tiny wings folded closely down each side of folded legs and the shape of feathery antennae such as moths have, but these, too, folded closely down. All were sealed together in what looked like a brown, soft skin. This thing was what we call a pupa.

Days and nights passed, and at last, what had once been the caterpillar began to stir and wake.

“How strange I feel! How strange I feel!” the thing said to itself. I must have light and air.”

One end of the cocoon was very soft and loose. It was through this end that what had once been the caterpillar pushed its way out into the air.

Oh, how weak it felt! Fastened to it on each side were two crumpled wet things, which it began to move feebly up and down. As it moved them, it felt its strength returning, and the crumpled things began to spread and dry. Broader and broader, they spread until they were strong, velvety wings, two on each side. They were of the most beautiful soft brown color, with a pinkish border along the edges. In the middle of each of the lower wings was a glistening spot like the eye spot on a peacock’s feather.

This thing was no caterpillar: it was a beautiful winged moth.

Presently, it walked from the twig down upon the gray cocoon, within which it had lain so long. Then it spread its wings and floated softly off through the air and down to the earth. It did not fly far, for it had not yet reached its full strength.

When it alighted, where should it be but on the ant-hill ! The little ant was very busy there, tugging at twigs and leaves, and hunting for food. It stopped its work to stare with awe at the wonderful stranger. ”You beautiful thing,” it said, “where did you come from?’

”Don’t you remember the caterpillar that made itself a house on the twig above?’*

”Oh yes, poor thing, it must have died long ago,” said the ant. “I went up there once or twice to see if I could help it, but there was no sound nor stirring.

“I am that caterpillar,” said the moth gently.

The ant stared and wondered. “I was once a pupa myself,” it cried. “But I did not hatch out with such wings as those.”

Just then, who should come buzzing by but the very bee that had laughed at the caterpillar’s house? It, too, stopped to gaze at the wonderful stranger. When it learned that this moth was that very caterpillar it buzzed for wonder. “Well, well!” it said, “so that was what you were about, was it; growing wings in your little house!”

But the moth stirred itself. “Now I must go,” it said. ”I must find a shelter under a rock or in some hollow tree until the sun goes down. But tonight — ah, tonight! Then I shall come out to fly wherever I will.”

So it waved its great wings and flew softly and noiselessly away out of sight.

The ant and the bee sat looking after it. “And to think,” cried the bee, “that we should not have understood what that caterpillar was doing! After all, every one knows his own business best.”