THE PROCESSIONARIES
There is an old story about a Ram which was thrown into the water from on board ship, whereupon all the sheep leaped into the sea one after the other; “for,” says the teller of the story, “it is the nature of the sheep always to follow the first, wheresoever it goes; which makes Aristotle mark them for the most silly and foolish animals in the world.”
The Pine Caterpillars are even more sheeplike than sheep. Where the first goes all the others go, in a regular string, with not an empty space between them.
They proceed in single file, each touching with its head the rear of the one in front of it. No matter how the one in front twists and turns, the whole procession does the same. Another odd thing: they are all, you might say, tight-rope walkers; they all follow a silken rail. The leading Caterpillar dribbles his thread on the path he makes, the second Caterpillar steps on it and doubles it with his thread; and all the others add their rope, so that after the procession has passed, there is left a narrow white ribbon whose dazzling whiteness shimmers in the sun. This is a sumptuous manner of road-making: we sprinkle our roads with broken stones and level them by the pressure of a heavy steam-roller; they lay over their paths a soft satin rail!
“They Proceed in Single File.”
What is the use of all this luxury? Could they not, like other Caterpillars, walk about without these costly preparations? I see two reasons. It is night when the Processionaries go forth to feed, and they follow a very winding route. They go down one branch, up another, from the needle to the twig, from the twig to the branch, and so on. When it is time to go home, they would have hard work to find their way if it were not for the silken thread they leave behind them. It reminds one of the story of Theseus (in the “Tanglewood Tales,” or the old mythologies), who would have been lost in the Cretan labyrinth if it had not been for the clue of thread which Ariadne gave him.
Sometimes, too, they take longer expeditions by day, marching in procession for thirty yards or so. They are not looking for food; they are off on a trip, seeing the world, perhaps looking for a place to bury themselves later on, in the second stage before they become Moths. In a walk of this distance, the guiding-thread is very necessary.
The guiding-thread, too, brings them all back home to the nest when they are separated, hunting for food in the pine-tree. They pick up their threads, and come hurrying from a host of twigs, from here, from there, from above, from below, back to the group. So the silk is more than a road: it is a social bond that keeps all the members of the community united.
At the head of every procession, long or short, goes the first Caterpillar, the leader. He is leader only by chance; everything depends upon the order in which they happen to line up. If the file should break up, for some reason, and form again, some other Caterpillar might have first rank. But the leader’s temporary duties give him airs of his own. While the others follow passively in a close file, he, the captain, tosses himself about and flings the front of his body hither and thither. As he marches ahead he seems to be seeking his way. Does he really explore the country? Does he choose the best places? Or are his hesitations only the result of the absence of the guiding-thread the rest follow? Why cannot I read what passes under his black, shiny skull, so like a drop of tar? To judge by actions, he has sense enough to recognize very rough places, over-slippery surfaces, dusty places, and, above all, the threads left by other Caterpillars. This is all, or nearly all, that my long acquaintance with the Processionaries has taught me about their brain power.