shouted, "why do you wish to bite one who is a stranger to you?"

"You have a wife who is spending a few weeks and a few dollars at the Jersey seashore, is it not so?" inquired the hoarsest voice.

"Heaven help me, I have," I answered, manfully.

"She is at Cheesehurst-by-the-Sea?" that awful voice went on.

"She is," I admitted it.

"Well, yesterday evening she slapped her forehead suddenly and killed the bread-winner of this family," the voice shrieked, "and we are here for revenge!"

"What are your names, please?" I whispered.

"My name is Clementina Stinger, and with me is my son, little Willie Stinger, formerly of Cheesehurst-by-the-Sea," the voice answered.

I sat there listening while my knees shook for the drinks.

"We looked up your wife's home address and came hither to board with you, because she upset our bread-winner's apple cart," the voice went on, threateningly.

"Willie, my son, get a light luncheon from the gentleman's medulla oblongata, and I will eat a small steak from his solar plexus—ping-ding-a-zing-a-boom!"

"Have you no pity?" I said, pleadingly.

"Pity!" said Clementina—"pity! you ask for pity when my forefathers were the first to land on the only Plymouth Rock in the meadows of Hackensack! I wish you to know that the proud blood of many victims rushes through the veins of the Stinger Family. We do not belong to the pity push. Willie, if the gentleman kicks bore a tunnel through his cerebellum, near the medusa, and I will jump in his alimentary canal and take a swim—ping-ding-a-zing-a-boom!"

Then, just as these two ferocious members of the Stinger Family rushed at me, I awoke with a cry for help.

There was not a mosquito in the room.

Thank Heaven, it was only a dream!

At the door, however, was a messenger with a special delivery letter from my wife.

The letter read, "Dear John, I only want to say that Cheesehurst-by-the-Sea would be a nice place if a person could wear armor plate to avoid the mosquitoes. I have rubbed my complexion with peppermint, and I have worn smoke-sticks in my hair till I burned my pompadour, but the mosquitoes still look upon me as their meal ticket. I expect to insult everybody present and leave for home to-morrow. Lovingly, thy wife."

My dream was out.

I don't want to change the subject too abruptly, but you remember Uncle William, don't you?

Well, once upon a time, Uncle Bill was clear daffy on the subject of mosquitoes.

He invented more kerosene tablets to poison 'em and set more traps to catch 'em than any pest-remover in the business.

I must tell you about the time he was one of a committee of three appointed by Budweiser College or Anheuser University, or some such concern, to study the mosquito at close range in its native jungles.

The committee consisted of Professor Kenneth Glueface, Professor Oscar Soupnoodle, a German gentleman with thistles in his conversation, and my Uncle, Mr. William Gray.

The committee decided that the best way to study the New Jersey mosquito would be to live in their gloomy haunts and forsake civilization for the time being.

In accordance with this idea they had the Carnegie Steel Company build for them a steel cage, which was placed in the depths of the Hackensack jungles, and thither they went.

Dr. Soupnoodle was of the opinion that a Jersey mosquito has a language, and the other two members of the committee agreed to help him to settle this point.

"My idea is," said Dr. Soupnoodle, "dot der beasts haf a speech vich dey use, uddervise how can dey find our fairst families in der blue book und go after deir blue blood?"

"Do you hold, Doctor, that the mosquito speaks with a guttural inflection on the vowels?" inquired Uncle William.

"More likely with a stringency on the last syllable of the diphthong," suggested Dr. Glueface.

"Ve vill sprinkle near der cage a little Wienerwurst und a cubble of smoked hams," explained the Dutch doctor.