About the middle of June, the trees in New York and Brooklyn were infested with swarms of caterpillars. Elms were everywhere completely stripped, but Lindens, Horse Chestnuts, and in fact all save the Ailantus, had suffered seriously. The air was filled with the caterpillars suspended by their silken invisible threads, so that persons walking in the parks and along the side walks, often found themselves in very disagreeable company. We were surprised to find that no special effort was made to abate such a nuisance. The workmen employed in dressing the grounds in the Park, at the Battery, were in the midst of the insects, without seeming to be aware of their existence; and we saw them along the streets of Brooklyn, dangling in thousands by the doors and windows of elegant residences without being molested. It is a great pity that some destructive measure had not been taken while the insects were young, and before they had scattered themselves over the trees. As it is, we should think something might be done. A powerful stream of water, turned upon the trees by means of a garden engine and a piece of hose, might be effective to some extent in bringing them them down.

It is certainly too bad to permit them to defoliate the trees, and accomplish their transformation undisturbed.