 | A thousand more verses |  |
91
TO THE LAST MOSQUITRESS.
“Only the female ones bite.”
If we did not hate the mosquito so bitterly, perhaps we would study it. We would find that it exists all over the earth, even in the Arctic regions, and is one of the plagues of explorers.
The male ones live upon such plants as they can find; relieving them, probably, of superfluous juices, which they can do better without. Having no nerves, the plants make no resistance, and the male insect has the pleasure of predatory dining, with none of its dangers. The female, however, has more courage, and attacks the thin-skinned human race, not seeming to apprehend any trouble, until the palm of a sturdy hand comes crashing against its frail anatomy.
Last wing-vampire of the season!Final of uncounted numbers!
You, for some sufficient reason,
Sing a requiem to my slumbers.
All the friends that you have known
Twined in merriment or pain,
From your gentle side have flown,
Or at sanguine feasts were slain.
Are you oldwife, mem'ry-laden,
Or a matron, blithe and bustling,
Or some fair insectile-maiden,
For a placid future hustling?
Were you watched by wingéd swain,
As you fluttered to and fro?
Are you—with or without brain,
Handsome, as mosquitoes go?
92
Did a grandame boast the process
Of the sinking of a well
In proud Caesar's strong proboscis?
Did fair Cleopatra pause
In her international cooing,
To extend bejewelled claws
For your ancestress' undoing?
Anyhow, you are my guest:
In the lamplight's faint refulgence,
Go ahead and do your best,
At one unrestrained indulgence!
Take your drop of blood, I say!
Mine a thousand times could fill you:—
Guiltless vampire, go your way:
I'd be hanged before I'd kill you!
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