The moth’s wings were fully expanded, and it was beginning to exercise, so a camera was set up hastily, and several pictures of it secured.  The woman helped me through the entire process, and in talking with her, I learned that she was Mrs. McCollum, from a village a mile and a half north of ours; that when she reached home she would have walked three miles to make the trip; and all her neighbours had advised her not to come, but she “had a feeling that she would like to.”

“Are you sorry?” I asked.

“Am I sorry!” she cried.  “Why I never had a better time in my life, and I can teach the children what you have told me.  I’ll bring you everything I can get my fingers on that you can use, and send for you when I find bird nests.’

Mrs. McCollum has kept that promise faithfully.  Again and again she trudged those three miles, bringing me small specimens of many species or to let me know that she had found a nest.

A big oak tree in Mrs. McCollum’s yard explained the presence of a Luna there, as the caterpillars of this specie greatly prefer these leaves.  Because the oak is of such slow growth it is seldom planted around residences for ornamental purposes; but is to be found most frequently in the forest.  For this reason Luna as a rule is a moth of the deep wood, and so is seldom seen close a residence, making people believe it quite rare.  As a matter of fact, it is as numerous where the trees its caterpillars frequent are to be found, as any other moth in its natural location.  Because it is of the forest, the brightest light there is to attract it is the glare of the moon as it is reflected on the face of a murky pool, or on the breast of the stream rippling its way through impassable thickets.  There must be a self-satisfied smile on the face of the man in the moon, in whose honour these delicate creatures are named, when on fragile wing they hover above his mirrored reflection; for of all the beauties of a June night in the forest, these moths are most truly his.

In August of the same year, while driving on a corduroy road in Michigan, I espied a Luna moth on the trunk of a walnut tree close the road.  The cold damp location must account for this late emergence; for subsequent events proved that others of the family were as slow in appearing.  A storm of protest arose, when I stopped the carriage and started to enter the swamp.  The remaining occupants put in their time telling blood-curdling experiences with `massaugers,’ that infested those marshes; and while I bent grasses and cattails to make the best footing as I worked my way toward the moth, I could hear a mixed chorus “brought up thirteen in the dredge at the cement factory the other day,” “killed nine in a hayfield below the cemetery,” “saw a buster crossing the road before me, and my horse almost plunged into the swamp,” “died of a bite from one that struck him while fixing a loose board in his front walk.”