Observations, Species Names and some things to read
14 June
We chanced upon a new species of moth - new for us, anyway. Pyrausta signatalis, the Raspberry Pyrausta Moth, is a grassland species whose larvae feed amongst other related species, on Monarda plants, of which we have many in the garden, and Bergamots. The moths cab be seen all cross Canada, but usually a little to the south of where we are. The biology of this species is poorly understood, even the exact number of annual generations is unknown, but there is thought to be at least a partial second generation. Hibernation occurs in the prepupal stage within a cocoon spun by the larva in the autumn. Adults emerge around June, and the females lay their eggs. The larvae are particularly easy to spot in early summer when the bee balm plants are in full bloom. The adults of the partial second generation can be observed in August. It is the offspring of these adults that will survive the winter. Perhaps climate change and warming has caused this newly emerged adult to appear here where its host plants will not be flowering for perhaps a few weeks … bad timing.
And … Dryads Saddles (Cerioporus squamosus) sprang out overnight. These very impressive, and rather common, fungal fruiting bodies are the size of a dinner plate. These are a parasitic saprophyte that cause a white rot disease and will kill the tree it is attached to if the tree isn’t already dead. It will then continue feeding on the dead tree until no nutrient sources are left. They emerge after a long soaking rain – and we had certainly had almost two days of that before they ere sighted. Apparently edible if you get them young - personally, I am content to leave them along to scatter their spores where they will.
Physocarpus - a genus of deciduous shrubs in the rose family (Rosaceae). Common name is “ninebark,” after the distinctive exfoliating bark that peels in multiple layers. Native to North America.
A Capital Idea
Quote: “For the style police among you, yep, contrary to most style manuals, I capitalize the common names of plants, animals, fungi, and other wild things here at Chasing Nature ... Hey, it’s my Substack — I set the rules.”
Quoted from:
Almost all birders, and books specifically about birds, will capitalise the common names of species. Blue Bird and not blue bird, Barred Owl and not barred owl etc. Doing so is simply automatic even if the style books of newspapers etc. have yet to catch on. Personally, I like to capitalize the common names of insects and flowers and everything else that is alive, but my preferences are not so widely adopted. I think that is illogical, but there are taller hills to die on. Then last week I happened on the article liked to above and cheered. After a brief exchange with the author he wrote “Maybe I’ll write on it some day. Have you?” to which I thought, no time like the present. Here we go:
The argument for universal capitalization of all species names, be they mammals, plants, insects, fungi, or microorganisms, is founded in the principles of semantic precision, taxonomic dignity, and the mitigation of ambiguity inherent in the current “split” system. While the birding community has long embraced this convention to honor distinct entities, trying to do so universally resolves a fundamental inconsistency in how we linguistically categorize life. I did some reading around this not widely written about topic and found that we have:
Biologically, there is no functional difference between a Canis lupus (wolf) and an Acer saccharum (sugar maple) in as much as both represent a specific, defined biological entity with a binomial Latin name. In scientific nomenclature, these names are always capitalized (Canis, Acer) and italicized because they denote proper nouns within the Linnaean hierarchy. Common names are merely vernacular approximations of these formal identifiers. To capitalize “Red-tailed Hawk” while leaving “red oak” or “Monarch butterfly” in lowercase might imply a hierarchical worthiness among living things, suggesting that avian diversity is particularly important while botanical or entomological diversity is less so. Universal capitalisation gets around this and makes sense to me.
Then there is the fact that using lowercase initials for common names is potentially confusing. Consider the sentence: “We spotted a red fox in the field.” Is “red fox” referring to the specific species Vulpes vulpes, or is it describing the color of any fox that happens to be reddish? Similarly, “black berry” could refer to the fruit of any black-colored berry, whereas Blackberry (capitalized) clearly identifies the genus Rubus or the specific species. This ambiguity is made worse when distinguishing between “white pine” (a descriptive phrase) and “White Pine” (Pinus strobus, a protected species) can have significant ecological and legal implications for conservation. Capitalization acts as an immediate visual flag that distinguishes a defined biological unit from a generic physical description.
Of course, English grammar dictates that we capitalize proper nouns to distinguish specific identities from general groups. We do not write “the president met with the senator”; we write “President Smith met with Senator Jones” when referring to specific individuals. By treating species names as proper nouns (e.g., Tyrannosaurus rex, E. coli), we acknowledge them as distinct individuals within the natural world.
The birding community’s adoption of capitalization over the last few decades demonstrates that this shift is not only manageable, but beneficial for precision. There are benefits in standardization across biology, ecology, and journalism.
In summary:
Universal capitalization is not merely a stylistic preference. It eliminates ambiguities between species and adjectives, and aligns our vernacular with the logic of taxonomy. Treating every species with the grammatical respect of a proper noun may seem a small thing, but it reinforces a mindset where every living thing is recognized as a distinct, valuable entity.
This was close to my relationship with my grandfather too …
My grandfather would show me where to put things, how deep, how far apart, and then we would come back the next day and the day after that to watch what had happened. He had a farmer’s patience, the kind that comes from understanding that most things worth having cannot be hurried.
And I remember the butterflies. Hundreds of them, in varieties I no longer see anywhere, covering the flowers in numbers that seemed completely normal because we had nothing to compare them to. We took them entirely for granted, assuming this was simply what gardens contained. That there would always be this many.
For decades now, I have never again seen the number of butterflies I saw in that garden as a child. I don’t know exactly when they disappeared, because disappearance of that kind happens gradually enough that you don’t notice until it’s already long done. One summer there are fewer. Then fewer again. Then one day you realize you can’t remember the last time you saw more than two or three on a single plant, and you try to remember when that changed, and you can’t.
Taken from:
Hedges
Here’s one positive memory I retain of having grown up in Britain … much, more than most other so-called national treasures.
Pollination Deficit
Nothing new here, but it’s worth being reminded now and again
We’ve arrived at a crucial moment. Bee declines may seem like an environmental tragedy at the margins, but their losses destabilize our food system. The problem isn’t a series of isolated issues; it’s a nexus of stressors built by the very agriculture system that depends on them. To support bees, we need to – at the very least – restore and increase funding for pollinator research, maintain and plant more conservation lands across the US, and require pesticide labels to better capture sublethal toxicities.
and
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2026/jun/10/agriculture-bees-environment
Kettles
Happens to everyone …
My kettle broke this week. Bleary eyed one morning I staggered into the kitchen, picked it up to take it to the sink, pulled the knob on the lid to open it when, to quote the title of a Louise Rennison book, “And That’s When It Fell Off In My Hand”. I could have just boiled a saucepan of water for tea but no thank you. When tired and parched I will absolutely choose the difficult path, so I made my first morning cup by filling the kettle through the spout, angling a narrow stream of of water from the tap right up it, thinking “TAKE THAT, SECONDARY SCHOOL SCIENCE TEACHER WHO SAID I LACKED LOGICAL THINKING AND SCIENTIFIC PROBLEM SOLVING SKILLS!”
Then, but minutes later, I burned myself on steam coming through the tiny screw hole on the lid where the knob used to be.
This is from “Joy Parade” which I have just discovered and intend to enjoy …
Amen on the capitalization front.