The Wreck of the Red Bird: A Story of the Carolina Coast

"What do you mean?" asked Ned.

"Why, that's the other thing I had to show you, but couldn't find. I caught him with the cast net."

"And kept him to show to me?" asked Ned.

"Yes, but he disappeared."

"Of course he did. He spat himself away."

"How's that?"

"Why, if you take a pin-cushion fish out of the water, and put him down on a board, he'll sit there looking like a judge for a little while; then he'll begin to spit, and when he spits all the water out, there's nothing left of him except a small lump of jelly. They're very curious things. I wish we had a good popular book about our Southern fishes and the curious things that live in the water here on the coast."

"Don't you suppose these things are represented at all in scientific books?" asked Jack.

"I suppose that many of them are, but many of them are not, and those that are described, are described by names that we know nothing about, and so only a naturalist could find the descriptions or recognize them when found. With all Northern fishes that are familiarly known, the case is different. If a Northern boy wants to find out more than he knows already about a codfish, he looks for the information under the familiar name 'Codfish,' and finds it there. He does not need to know in advance that the cod is a fish of the Gadus family, and the Morrhua vulgaris species. So, when he wants to know about the whiting that he is familiar with, he finds the information under the name whiting; but the scientific men who wrote the books, however much they may know about the fish that we call whiting, do not know, I suppose, that it is anywhere called whiting, and so they don't put the information about it under that head. They only come down South as far as New Jersey, and tell about a species of fish which is there called whiting, though it isn't the real whiting. If they had known that still another and a very different fish goes by that name down here, they would have told us about that too, in the same way."

"What's the remedy?" asked Charley.

"For you, or Jack, or me," answered Ned, "to study science, and to make a specialty of our Southern fishes. When we do that and give the world all the information we can get by really intelligent observation, all the scientific writers will welcome the addition made to the general store of knowledge. That is the way it has all been found out."

"Why can't we begin now?"

"Because we haven't learned how to observe. We don't know enough of general principles to be able to understand what we see. Let's form habits of observation, and let's study science systematically; after that we can observe intelligently, and make a real contribution to knowledge."

"You're not going to write your book on the Marine Fauna of the Southern States to-night, are you?" asked Jack.

"No, certainly not," said Ned, with a laugh at his own enthusiasm.

"Then let's go to bed; I'm sleepy," said Jack.

CHAPTER VII

AN ENEMY IN THE CAMP

The three tired boys went to sleep easily enough, and the snoring inside their hut gave fair promise of a late waking the next day. But before long Jack became restless in his sleep, and began to toss about a good deal. Charley seemed to catch his restlessness, and presently he sat up in the bunk and began to slap himself. This thoroughly aroused him, and as Jack and Ned were tossing about uneasily he had no scruple in speaking to them.

"I say, fellows, we're attacked."

"What's the matter?" muttered Ned, at the same time beginning to rub himself vigorously, first on one part of the body, then on another.

"Mosquitoes," said Jack, violently rubbing his scalp.

"Worse than mosquitoes," said Charley; "they feel more like yellow jackets or hornets, I should say; and they're inside our clothes too."

"Whew!" exclaimed Ned, leaping out of the bunk, "I didn't think of that."

"What is it?" asked both the other boys in a breath.

"A swarm of sand-flies."

"Sand-flies! what are they?" asked Jack.

"Wait, and I'll show you," replied Ned, going out and stirring up the fire so as to make a light. Meantime the boys rubbed and writhed and turned themselves about in something like agony, for, though they suffered no severe pain at any one spot, their whole bodies seemed to be covered with red pepper. Every inch of their skins was inflamed, and the more they rubbed the worse the irritation became.

When Ned had made a bright light, he showed his companions what their tormentors were. Jack and Charley saw some very minute flying insects – true flies indeed – not much larger than the points of pins. There were millions of the creatures. The whole air seemed full of them indeed, and wherever one rested for a moment upon the skin of its victim, there was at once a pricking sensation, followed by the intolerable burning and irritation already mentioned.

Charley was at first incredulous. "You don't mean to tell me," he said, "that those little gnats have done all this."

"Yes, I do," answered Ned, "and more than that, I have known them to kill a horse, tormenting him to death in a few hours. They'll get under a horse's hair by millions and literally cover him, until you can see the hair move with them. But they are not gnats."

"But, see here, Ned," said Jack; "when I barely touch one of the creatures, it not only kills him but distributes him pretty evenly over the surrounding surface. They haven't strength enough to hang together."

"Yes, I know," replied Ned; "what of that?"

"Why, how can such things bite so? and especially how can they force their way through our blankets and clothes? I should think they'd tear themselves to pieces in the attempt."

"So should I, if I didn't know better; but as a matter of fact they do manage to get through without dulling their teeth, as we have proof."

"Have the creatures teeth?" asked Charley.

"No, of course not; but they have a sort of rasping apparatus which is just as bad. They have an acrid kind of saliva too, which they put into the wounds they make, and that is what smarts so. But come, this won't do. We must make a good smudge."

"What's a smudge?" asked Jack.

"I'll show you presently," answered Ned, while he began to build a small fire immediately in front of the tent. When it had burned a little, he smothered it with damp leaves and moss, so that it gave off a dense cloud of smoke which quickly filled the hut.

"Now the tent will soon be clear of them," said Ned.

"Sand-flies object to smoke, I suppose," said Jack.

"Very much indeed," answered Ned, "and it is customary here on the coast to have a pair of smudge boxes in front of every house."

"I don't blame them for objecting," grumbled Charley, coughing and wiping his smoke-inflamed eyes; "I can't say that I find smoke the most delightful atmosphere myself. But what is a 'smudge box,' Ned?"

"Simply a shallow box of earth set upon a post, to build a smudge upon."

"I say, Ned," asked Jack, "what do you mean by saying that sand-flies aren't gnats?"

"Simply that they aren't," said Ned.

"What are they, then?"

"Flies."

"Well, what is a small fly but a gnat?"

"And what is a gnat but a small fly?" added Charley.