Another insect foe of ours is one not wholly unknown in other parts of the world. It is the nimble flea. St. Patrick is not to blame for leaving this reptile here. He is not indigenous. He was unknown to the Maoris until the coming of the Pakeha; but he has naturalized himself most thoroughly now. The "little stranger," as the natives playfully term him, is to be found in abundance in every Maori whare. Excluded with the greatest difficulty from the best appointed houses in the colony, in the humbler residences of the bush, and in our shanty, for example, his name is Legion. Why this should be so, we have never troubled our heads to inquire; we simply accept the fact as it is. Possibly our floor, that, in spite of a daily brooming and a weekly sluicing, is ever well carpeted with dust and mud, is one source of these pests. And, now I think of it, there is a nightly scuffling underneath the boards, which leads to the conclusion that pigs, dogs, and fowls, are harbouring among the piles beneath. Every night, before turning in, we are accustomed to shake whole regiments of fleas out of our blankets. Not infrequently we sprinkle the blankets with kerosene oil; and, sometimes, in hot weather find it necessary to anoint our bodies all over with the same thing. That keeps off the crawling plagues until we have time to get to sleep, and then we do not care for them. But I think we really have got hardened to the fleas. We feel the annoyance of them but little now. One of the chums, a harmless, peaceable fellow yclept "The Fiend"--I know not for what particular reason--has lately invented a new game for our evening's diversion. He calls it flea-loo. After supper it is our usual custom to sit on the edge of the floor, where it abuts upon the fireplace. That part of our domicile, it will be remembered, is paved with a sort of gravel of loose stones, and, sooth to say, with a good deal of _debris_ of every sort and kind. The stove stands in the middle. As we sit there, the sensations in our legs remind us that fleas like warmth too, and that the gravelly bottom of the chimney-place is a favourite assembly-room of theirs. But they are of aspiring nature, and this fact was known to the Fiend. Under his advice, each man plants a stick upright in the gravel before him. Then we make a pool and await the result. The fleas soon come out, and begin to crawl up the sticks; and, by-and-by, some individual of the race reaches the top of the stick. The owner of that stick takes the pool. Here is another gentle and Arcadian sport.