There is a certain fly in the American forests which is worthy¹ of notice, because it exercises a great influence over the happiness of man in those regions. This fly is found in many other parts of the world, but it swarms² in immense numbers in America, particularly in the swampy³ districts of that continent, and in the hot months of summer. It is called a mosquito—pronounced moskeeto—and it is, perhaps, the most tormenting⁴, the most persevering⁵, savage⁶, vicious little monster on the face of the earth. Other flies go to sleep at night; the mosquito never does. Darkness puts down other flies—it seems to encourage the mosquito. Day and night it persecutes⁷ man and beast, and the only time of the twenty-four hours in which it seems to rest is about noon, when the heat puts it down for a little. But this period of rest strengthens it for a renewal⁸ of war during the remainder of the day and night. In form the mosquito very much resembles the gnat⁹, but is somewhat larger. This instrument of torture is his nose, which is quite as long as his body, and sharper than the finest needle. Being unable to rest because of the mosquitoes, Heywood resolved to have a chat.

 

“Come, Jasper,” said he, looking up into his companion’s grave countenance¹⁰, “although we have been many weeks on this journey now, you have not yet told me what has brought you here, or what the end of your trip is going to be.”

 

“I’ve come here a-hunting,” said Jasper, with the look and tone of a man who did not wish to be questioned.

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