2$O K I ASUI.KJMTS ON N.XI ' 



daytime as ;it night. Hut when evening (alls, ;md 

 all els*.- is still, then wander forth these sons (or 

 daughters) of lielial, Hown with insolence and 

 blood. " What time the grey lly winds her sultry 

 horn," says Milton ; and that sultry horn is almost 

 more annoying than the bite which it precedes. 

 You lie coiled within your mosquito - curtains, 

 wooing sweet sleep with appropriate reflections, 

 when suddenly, by your ear, comes that still small 

 voice, so vastly more pungent and more irritating 

 than the voice of conscience. You light a candle, 

 and proceed to hunt for the unwelcome intruder. 

 As if by magic, as you strike your match, that 

 mosquito disappears, and you look in vain through 

 every fold and cranny of the thin gau/e curtains. 

 At last you give it up, and lie down again, when 

 straightway, " /-/-/-/," the humming at your ear 

 commences once more, and you begin the unequal 

 contest all over again. It is a war of extermina- 

 tion on either side you thirst for her life, and 

 she thirsts for your blood. No peace is possible 

 till one or other combatant is finally satisfied. 



You can best observe the mosquito in action, 

 however, by letting one settle undisturbed on the 

 back of your hand, and waiting while she fills 

 herself with your blood ; you can easily watch her 

 doing so with a pocket lens. Like the old lady 

 in "Pickwick," she is soon " swelling wisibly." She 

 gorges herself with blood, indeed, which she straight- 

 way digests, assimilates, and converts into the 300 

 eggs aforesaid. But if, while she is sucking, you 

 gently and unobtrusively tighten the skin of your 



