Mosquitoes—Camp-Fire Talk.  
There is a certain fly in the American forests which is worthy 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 swarms in immense numbers in America, particularly in the swampy districts of that continent, and in the hot months of summer. It is called a mosquito—pronounced moskeeto—and it is, perhaps, the most tormenting, the most persevering, savage, 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 persecutes 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 renewal of war during the remainder of the day and night. In form the mosquito very much resembles the gnat, 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 countenance, “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.
 
“Nay, now, I know that is not the reason,” said Heywood, smiling; “you could have hunted much nearer home, if you had been so minded, and to as good purpose. Come, Jasper, you know I’m your friend, and that I wish you well. Let me hear what has brought you so far into the wilderness—mayhap I can give you some good advice if you do.”
 
“Well, lad, I don’t mind if I do. Though, for the matter of good advice, I don’t feel much in need of any just at this time.”
 
Jasper shook the ashes out of his pipe, and refilled it as he spoke; then he shook his head once or twice and smiled, as if his thoughts amused him. Having lighted the pipe, he stretched himself out in a more comfortable way before the blaze, and said—
 
“Well, lad, I’ll tell ye what it is—it’s the old story; the love of woman has brought me here.”
 
“And a very good old story it is,” returned Heywood, with a look of interest. “A poor miserable set of creatures we should be without that same love of woman. Come, Jasper, I’m glad to hear you’re such a sensible fellow. I know something about that subject myself. There’s a pretty blue-eyed girl, with golden hair, down away in Canada that—” Heywood stopped short in his speech and sighed.
 
“Come, it ain’t a hopeless case, is it?” said Jasper, with a look of sympathy.
 
“I rather fear it is; but I hope not. Ah, what should we do without hope in this world?”
 
“That’s true,” observed Jasper, with much gravity, “we could not get on at all without hope.”
 
“But come, Jasper,” said the artist, “let’s hear about your affair, and I’ll tell you about mine some other time.”
 
“Well, there is not much to tell, but I’ll give ye all that’s of it. You must know, then, that about two years ago I was in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company, at one o’ their outposts in the McKenzie’s River district. We had little to eat there and little to do, and I felt so lonesome, never seein’ a human bein’ except the four or five men at the fort an’ a few Indians, that I made up my mind to quit. I had no reason to complain o’ the Company, d’ye see. They always treated me handsomely, and it was no fault o’ theirs that the livin’ in that district was poor and the post lonesome.
 
“Well, on my way down to Lake Winnipeg, I fell in with a brigade o’ boats goin’ to the Saskatchewan district, and we camped together that night. One o’ the guides of the Saskatchewan brigade had his daughter with him. The guide was a French-Canadian, and his wife had been a Scotch half-caste, so what the daughter was is more than I can tell; but I know what she looked like. She just looked like an angel. It wasn’t so much that she was pretty, but she was so sweet, and so quiet lookin’, and so innocent! Well, to cut the matter short, I fell in love at once. D’ye know what it is, Heywood, to fall in love at first sight?”
 
“Oh! don’t I?” replied the artist with sudden energy.
 
“An’ d’ye know,” continued Jasper, “what it is to be fallen-in-love-with, at first sight?”
 
“Well, no, I’m not so sure about that,” replied Heywood sadly.
 
“I do, then,” said Jasper, “for that sweet critter fell in love with me right off—though what she saw in me to love has puzzled me much. Howsoever, she did, and for that I’m thankful. Her name is Marie Laroche. She and I opened our minds to each other that night, and I took the guide, her father, into the woods, and told him I wanted his daughter; and he was agreeable; but he would not hear of my takin’ her away then and there. He told me I must go down to Canada and get settled, and when I had a house to put his daughter in, I was to come back into the wilderness here and be married to her, and then take her home—so here I am on my way to claim my bride. But there’s one thing that puzzles me sorely.”
 
“What is that?” asked Heywood.
 
“I’ve never heard from Marie from that day to this,” said Jasper.
 
“That is strange,” replied the other; “but perhaps she cannot write.”
 
“That’s true. Now, you speak of it, I do believe she can’t write a line; but, then, she might have got some one to write for her.”
 
“Did you leave your address with her?”
 
“How could I, when I had no address to leave?”
 
“But did you ever send it to her?”
 
“No, I never thought of that,” said Jasper, opening his eyes very wide. “Come, that’s a comfort—that’s a good reason for never havin’ heard from her. Thankee, lad, for putting me up to it. And, now, as we must be up and away in another hour, I’ll finish my nap.”
 
So saying, Jasper put out his pipe and once more drew his blanket over him. Heywood followed his example, and while he lay there gazing up at the stars through the trees, he heard the worthy hunter muttering to himself, “That’s it; that accounts for my not hearin’ from her.”
 
A sigh followed the words, very soon a snore followed the sigh, and ere many minutes had passed away, the encampment was again buried in darkness and repose.