Majestic Moths 4

This moth’s scientific name is Hyalophora cecropia, a.k.a. Samia cecropia. Like the polyphemus, the io, and the luna, the cecropia moth is a member of the family Saturniidae. Hoosier author Gene Stratton–Porter and others of her time period were fond of calling it the “robin moth” because its colors are similar to those of the bird called “the robin.” The cecropia bears the distinction of being North America’s largest moth. Wingspans of six inches are fairly common and some greatly exceed that measurement!

My Photograph of a Cecropia Moth in June of 2002

The cecropia is named for a mythical king of Athens, Greece. It is said that King Cecrops ruled for over half a century. He was a sort of “mer-king”: that is, his upper half was that of a human, but his lower half was the tail of a fish. He taught his people to read and write. He encouraged them to practice meaningful rituals such as marriage and funerals. Cecrops was the first to distinguish Zeus as the head god, and Cecrops taught the people how to worship Zeus. In honor of Cecrops, the Acropolis (the rocky citadel crowned with many famous buildings) was designated “Cecropia.”

Cecropia Moth in Montana’s Bowdoin National Wildlife Refuge

Photo by the Mountain–Prairie Region of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

The cecropia moth makes a pursy cocoon usually well attached along a lengthy twig. Over the years, I have found several of the cocoons, but rarely have I happened across the moth itself. When I have discovered the moth, I have stood in awe of its colors. Having earned three degrees from Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana, I would like to say that the moth wears the cream and crimson, but I will admit it is more accurate to state that the moth is adorned with the scarlet and gray of The Ohio State University of Columbus, Ohio. The scarlet can vary from moth to moth, with some moths wearing the wedding red of India.

When I was living in Cincinnati, I found a cecropia with a wingspan of six and a half inches clinging to the concrete block wall behind my neighbor’s house. What maple or cherry tree had fed what must have been a gigantic larva, and what birds considered themselves fools for having overlooked such a prize? Where was the cocoon, and how many squirrels had scampered past it without realizing what a tasty morsel it contained? The moth had survived to adulthood—in the midst of a city—and I hoped its line would carry on. The next morning, the cecropia was nowhere to be seen, and I trusted that, in the night, it had found a mate.