HAMMOCK NIGHTS 211 
sleeping-bag, the joy of which is another story. 
More than once I have had to use a hammock at 
high levels, since there was nothing else at hand; 
and the numbness of the Arctic was mine. 
Every mesh seemed to invite a separate draught. 
The winds of heaven—all four—played unceas- 
ingly upon me, and I became in due time a sway- 
ing mummy of ice. It was my delusion that I 
was a dead Indian cached aloft upon my arbo- 
real bier—which is not a normal state of mind 
for the sleeping explorer. 
Anything rather than this helpless surrender 
to the elements. Better the lowlands and that 
fantastic shroud, the mosquitaro. For even to 
wind one’s self into this is an experience of note. 
It is ingenious, and called the mosquito shirt be- 
cause of its general shape, which is as much like 
a shirt as anything else. A large round center 
covers the hammock, and two sleeves extend up 
the supporting strands and inclose the ends, be- 
ing tied to the ring-ropes. If at sundown swarms 
of mosquitoes become unbearable, one retires into 
his netting funnel, and there disrobes. Clothes 
are rolled into a bundle and tied to the hammock, 
that one may close one’s eyes reasonably confi- 
dent that the supply will not be diminished by 
