I did as I was told, dragged my weary limbs in under carefully, tucked the skirt around and was soon off in a doze. But, oh, the merry noise overhead, up and down and round and round, until finally they found their way, in some manner, inside my shield. They commenced to bore into my forehead. I stood the torture for a while, thinking it was but a few stragglers who, when they had had their fill, would leave. They, however, loaded up, and spread their wings with a whirring buzzing, as if to call others to the feast. It seemed as if hundreds accepted the invitation. I tried to keep still, but all to no purpose. About two o’clock I thought if I could get the candle lighted and inside I could burn them out and no others would get in, and I might have the coveted rest. I lit the candle, got it safely inside, and commenced the work of slaughter. The candle was soon black with the dead insects. The first thing I knew, the dress was ablaze all around me. In my half sleepy condition I had got too near the light starched material, and it caught like tinder. I jumped up and dashed it out with my hands, burning my fingers; but, oh, the poor dress! I fought the mosquitoes in the dark the balance of the night. Next morning the old lady asked me how I had slept, and the whole thing came out. They laughed uproariously at my expense, and I--well, I made the best of the joke. It was on this river that I met two “tenderfoot” Englishmen who were out looking for land. It was in the height of the mosquito season, and, unheeding the advice given them to take the steamer, they started off in a canoe, as they said, “to prospect and see the country.” Some days after I met them in Chilliwack, and the sight they presented was, to say the least, ludicrous. They had evidently been in the water, for the legs of their pants had shrunken until there was quite four inches between the ends and the tops of their socks. The mosquitoes had been getting in their work, for their necks and legs and wrists were red and swollen. It was like perpetual motion, for while there were few mosquitoes around them, their hands were kept going scratching the bitten parts and making dashes at imaginary insects. “A PARSON AFTER HIS BITTERS.” The comical appearance of these “new-comers” after their trip up the forest-lined banks of the Fraser reminds me of an occasion when I, too, must have presented a spectacle worthy to be laughed at. I was making my way one evening from North Saanich to Victoria, about twenty-one miles, over a trail, poor enough at the best, but rendered all the more difficult by the presence of a dense fog. The little bit of daylight was soon gone, and the darkness which followed was impenetrable. I groped my way along, part of the time on hands and knees, to find the road.