However, something better happened.  I say better, because I think if they will make honest confession, all people who have gathered eggs and raised caterpillars from them in confinement, by feeding cut leaves, will admit that the pupa cases they get, and the moths they produce are only about half size.  The big fine cases and cocoons are the ones you find made by caterpillars in freedom, or by those that have passed at least the fourth or fifth moult out of doors.  So it was a better thing for my illustration, and for my painting, when in June of this year, Raymond, in crossing town from a ball game, found a large, perfect Modesta female.  He secured her in his hat, and hurried to me.  Raymond’s hat has had many wonderful things in it besides his head, and his pockets are always lumpy with boxes.

Although perfect, she had mated, deposited her eggs, and was declining.  All she wanted was to be left alone, and she would sit with wings widespread wherever placed.  I was in the orchard, treating myself to some rare big musky red raspberries that are my especial property, when Raymond came with her.  He set her on a shoot before me, and guarded her while I arranged a camera.  She was the most complacent subject I ever handled outdoors, and did not make even an attempt to fly.  Raymond was supposed to be watching while I worked, but our confidence in her was so great, that I paid all my attention to polishing my lenses, and getting good light, while Raymond gathered berries with one hand, and promiscuously waved the net over the bushes with the other.

During the first exposure, Modesta was allowed to place and poise herself as seemed natural.  For a second, I used the brush on her gently, and coaxed her wings into spreading a little wider than was natural.  These positions gave every evidence of being pleasing and yet I was not satisfied.  There was something else in the back of my head that kept obtruding itself as I walked to the Cabin, with the beautiful moth clinging to my fingers.  I did not feel quite happy about her, so she was placed in a large box, lined with corrugated paper, to wait a while until the mist in my brain cleared, and my nebulous disturbance evolved an idea.  It came slowly.  I had a caterpillar long ago, and had investigated the history of this moth.  I asked Raymond where he found her and he said, “Coming from the game.”  Now I questioned him about the kind of a tree, and he promptly answered, “On one of those poplars behind the schoolhouse.”

That was the clue.  Instantly I recognized it.  A poplar limb was what I wanted.  Its fine, glossy leaf, flattened stem, and smooth upright twigs made a setting, appropriate, above all others, for the Modest moth.

I explained the situation to the Deacon, and he had Brenner drive with him to the Hirschy farm, and help secure a limb from one of the very few Lombardy poplars of this region.  They drove very fast, and I had to trouble to induce Modesta to clamber over a poplar twig, and settle.  Then by gently stroking, an unusual wing sweep was secured, because there is a wonderful purple-pink and a peculiar blue on the back wings.