MOSQUITOES 63 



us are killed, but that makes not the slightest percep- 

 tible difference in their manners or numbers. They 

 reminded me of the Klondike gold-seekers. Thousands 

 go; great numbers must die a miserable death; not 

 more than one in 10,000 can gel away with a load of 

 the coveted stuff, and yet each believes that he is to 

 be that one, and pushes on. 



Dr. L. 0. Howard tells us that the mosquito rarely 

 goes far from its birthplace. That must refer to the 

 miserable degenerates they have in New Jersey, for 

 these of the north offer endless evidence of power to 

 travel, as well as to resist cold and wind. 



On July 21, 1907, we camped on a small island on 

 Great Slave Lake. It was about one-quarter mile 

 long, several miles from mainland, at least half a mile 

 from any other island, apparently all rock, and yet it 

 was swarming with mosquitoes. Here, as elsewhere, 

 they were mad for our blood; those we knocked off 

 and maimed, would crawl up with sprained wings and 

 twisted legs to sting as fiercely as ever, as long as the 

 beak would work. 



We thought the stinging pests of the Buffalo country 

 as bad as possible, but they proved mild and scarce 

 compared with those we yet had to meet on the Arctic 

 Barrens of our ultimate goal. 



Each day they got worse; soon it became clear that 

 mere adjectives could not convey any idea of their 

 terrors. Therefore I devised a mosquito gauge. I 

 held up a bare hand for 5 seconds by the watch, then 

 counted the number of borers on the back; there were 

 5 to 10. Each day added to the number, and when 



