THE TUNDRA AND ITS ANIMAL LIFE. 85 



though he be the most equable philosopher under the sun. It is 

 not the pain caused by the sting, or still more, by the resulting 

 swelling; it is the continual annoyance, the everlastingly recurring 

 discomfort under which one suffers. One can endure the pain 

 of the sting without complaint even at first, still more easily when 

 the skin has become less sensitive to the repeatedly instilled poison; 

 thus one can hold out for a long time. But sooner or later every 

 man is bound to confess himself conquered and beaten by these 

 terrible torturing spirits of the tundra. All resistance is gradually 

 paralysed by the innumerable, omnipresent armies always ready for 

 combat. The foot refuses its duty; the mind receives no impres- 

 sions; the tundra becomes a hell, and its pests an unutterable tor- 

 ture. Not winter with its snows, not the ice with its cold, not 

 poverty, not inhospitality, but the mosquitoes are the curse of the 

 tundra. 15 



During the height of their season the mosquitoes fly almost 

 uninterruptedly, during sunshine and cairn weather with evident 

 satisfaction, in a moderate wind quite comfortably, in slightly 

 warm weather gaily, before threatening rain most boisterously 

 of all, in cool weather very little, in cold, not at all. A violent 

 storm banishes them to the bushes and moss, but, as soon as it 

 moderates, they are once more lively and active, and in all places 

 sheltered from the wind they are ready for attack even while 

 the storm is raging. A night of hoar-frost plays obvious havoc 

 among them, but does not rid us of them; cold damp days thin 

 their armies, but succeeding warmth brings hosts of newly developed 

 individuals on the field. The autumn fogs finally bring deliverance 

 for that year. 



Autumn in the tundra comes on as quickly as spring came 

 slowly. A single cold night, generally in August, or at the latest 

 in September, puts an end to its summer life. The berries, which, 

 in the middle of August, looked as if they would scarcely ripen 

 at all, have become as juicy and sweet as possible by the end 

 of the month; a few damp, cold nights, which lightly cover the 

 hills with snow, hasten their ripening more than the sun, which is 

 already clouded over all day long. The leaves of the dwarf-birch 



