Most of those that bite us are killed but that
makes not the slightest perceptible 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 get 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.
