Late in the afternoon the plaited corolla of this long
trumpet-shaped flower expands to welcome the sphinx moths. So
deep a tube implies their tongues; not that these are the
benefactors to which the blossom originally adapted itself - they
were doubtless left behind in Asia - but apparently our moths
make excellent substitutes, for there is no abatement of the
weed's vigor here, as there surely would be did it habitually
fertilize itself. Any time after four o'clock in the afternoon,
according to the light, the sphinx moth, a creature of the
gloaming, begins its rounds, to be mistaken for a hummingbird
seven times out of ten. Hovering about its chosen white or yellow
flowers, that open for it at the approach of twilight, it remains
poised above one a second, as if motionless - although the faint
hum of its wings, while sucking, indicates that no magic suspends
it - then darts swift as thought to another deep tube to feast
again, of course transferring pollen as it goes. But what if the
Jamestown weed miscalculate the hour of her lover's call and open
too soon? Mischievous bees, quick to seize so golden an
opportunity, squeeze into the flower when it begins to unfold
(flies and beetles following them), to steal pollen, which will
sometimes be entirely removed before the moth's arrival.
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