NATURE IN SHORT / Rambles lead nature lovers to come across unfamiliar species

Kevin Short / Daily Yomiuri Columnist

A few days ago, I was just setting out on one of my typical afternoon rambles through the Japanese rice paddy countryside. The skies were deep blue, without even a hint of clouds, but that rascal Jack Frost had whipped up a cold dry wind and was sending it forth in powerful gusts. As I passed through a residential area on the way to the fields, I nearly stepped on a huge katydid that was blocking my path.

This, of course, came as a wonderful surprise--almost like a delayed Christmas present. Who would expect to be blessed by an insect on one of the coldest days of the year. The katydid made no attempt to flee, even when I dropped down on my stomach and began taking close-up pictures. From this vantage, I could easily see by the sharply pointed head and bright orange mouth that it was an adult of the species, which the Japanese call kubikirigisu (Euconocephalus thunbergii). An even closer inspection showed a long, swordlike extension attached to the tip of the abdomen. This is the ovipositor (sanranki), or egg-laying organ, and identified the katydid as a female.

Most species of katydid mate and lay their eggs from late summer through autumn. The adults then die at the first touch of Jack Frost's magic brush, usually in early to mid-December. Their eggs survive the winter and hatch out the following spring. This particular species, however, winters over as adults. They then mate and lay their eggs when the weather warms up the following May and June.

I don't know where these katydids spend the winter, but I suspected that this individual must have been blown out of her warm, safe den by an especially powerful gust of wind. The males, however, can usually be heard singing in the dense hedges planted along the side of the paths, so I assumed they must winter in similar habitats. I thanked Jack for his late but wonderful present, and placed the katydid inside some deep leaf litter that had accumulated underneath a promising-looking hedge.

Even though the katydid seemed paralyzed by the cold, I handled her very carefully. These insects are armed with razor-sharp, incredibly powerful jaws, which from painful experience I know can deliver a nasty chomp. The Japanese name is thought by some to derive from this bulldoglike bite. Once attached to something, the insect will simply not let go, and will hang on desperately until the head is pulled completely off.

Local children call this katydid "chisuibatta," which means "blood-sucking grasshopper." This name may derive from the awesome bite--certainly powerful enough to draw blood; or perhaps from the bright orange color around the mouth, which does have a bit of that ghastly vampireish look.

Actually, Ol' Jack had another fine gift waiting for me. After depositing the katydid in what I hoped was a suitable winter home, I just happened to glance at the hedge itself. From the medium-size glossy evergreen leaves I had unconsciously assumed that this hedge was one of the very popular sazanka camellias. As I stood up, however, I noticed that the branches were bedecked with very unusual fruits: small reddish capsules that split open to reveal one or two bright shiny orange seeds.

From the form of these fruits, I suspected that the hedge might be a species of spindle tree in the genus Euonymus. This genus comprises over 100 species of shrubs and vines, mostly native to Asia. Japan alone hosts a dozen or so species, several of which thrive along the edge of the forest in the southern Kanto region. All the species I was familiar with, however, are deciduous, and I was both surprised and delighted to find an evergreen one.

To us druid-naturalists and tree-lovers, coming across an unfamiliar species right in our own backyard is a wonderful if somewhat unsettling experience. I again thanked Jack, and as is my custom, clipped a few leaves and fruits to take home to sketch and study in depth. One whole wall in my office is occupied by field guides, and later that evening I was able to quickly and reliably identify the shrub as the masaki or Japanese spindle (E. japonicus).

This particular species is native to coastal woodlands in the warmer areas of southern and western Japan, but is also planted as an ornamental hedge, both here in Japan as well as in the warmer areas of Europe and North America. The common English name spindle tree derives from a European species (E. europaeus), the very hard wood of which was traditionally used to make spindles for spinning wool.

Japanese horticulturalists utilize an amazing variety of trees and shrubs, and getting to know the Japanese spindle was fascinating work. I can't wait to study the flowers next spring. Far more shocking was an encounter I experienced last autumn. While rambling along a familiar country road I noticed a deciduous tree with bright red berries growing at the edge of a forest. I stopped to take a closer look and realized with a start that I didn't know what it was.

I have lived in this area for 25 years. There are still many ornamental trees, as well as smaller vines and herbaceous wildflowers, with which I am not yet familiar. But a native tree--of reasonable size--with conspicuous bright red berries--and growing right along a road I have walked on dozens of times. How could I have possibly overlooked it!

The tree turned out to be a native species of deciduous holly known as the aohada (Ilex macropoda). This species is found throughout the Japanese islands, but somewhat to my relief normally thrives in hill and mountain forests, and is very rare in the lowland countryside where I live and work.

Short is a naturalist and cultural anthropology professor at Tokyo University of Information Sciences.