In mid-stream he had not bothered us much, but after
supper it rained a little, the day had been warm, and with cymbals,
banners, and brass-bands, he comes in cohorts to greet us. The scows
have their noses poked into the bank, the men have built smudge fires in
front, but we decide that the best way to escape the mosquito is to go
to bed. We lie down in the stern-sheets with our clothes on, make
night-caps of our Stetson hats, pull the veils down over our necks, and
try to sleep, but it is no avail. Each one of these mosquitoes is a
Presbyterian mosquito and it has been ordained that this night he is to
taste of white blood. It rains incessantly, and that hot hole in which
we lie is one brown cloud of mosquitoes. The men on the bank have
finally given it up as a bad job, and they set round the fires smoking
and slapping different parts of their persons, swearing volubly in
English. For the Cree language is devoid of invective. In the morning we
are a sorry crowd, conversation is monosyllabic and very much to the
point. It is the first serious trial to individual good-humour. When
each one of your four million pores is an irritation-channel of
mosquito-virus it would be a relief to growl at somebody about
something.
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