very apt to think that he sounds as if he were at
least as big as a bat.

In some parts of our country, mosquitoes are at certain seasons so
plentiful and bloodthirsty that it is impossible to get along
comfortably in their company. But, except in spots where no one would
be likely to live, whether there were mosquitoes there or not, these
insects do not exist in sufficient numbers to cause us to give up our
ordinary style of living and devote all our energies to keeping them
at a distance.

In some other countries, however, the people are not so fortunate. In
Senegal, at certain seasons, the inhabitants are driven from their
habitations by the clouds of mosquitoes which spread over the land,
and are forced to take refuge on high platforms, under which they keep
fires continually burning.

The smoke from these fires will keep away the mosquitoes, but it
cannot be very pleasant to the Senegalians. However, they become used
to it, and during the worst of the mosquito season, they eat, drink,
sleep, and enjoy themselves to the best of their ability on these
platforms, which for the time become their houses.

[Illustration: A SMOKY DWELLING.]

It would probably seem to most of us, that to breathe an atmosphere
constantly filled with smoke, and to have it in our eyes and noses all
the time, would be almost as bad, if not quite, as suffering the
stings of mosquitoes.

But then we do not know anything about Senegalian mosquitoes, and the
accounts which Dr. Livingstone and other travellers give of the
insects in Africa, ought to make us feel pretty sure that these
woolly-headed folks on the platforms know what is good for them.

THE CANNON OF THE PALAIS ROYAL.

[Illustration]

In the Gardens of the Palais Royal, in Paris, there is a little cannon
which stands on a pedestal, and is surrounded by a railing. Every day
it is loaded with powder and wadding, but no one on earth is allowed
to fire it off. However, far away in the realms of space, ninety-three
millions of miles from our world, there is the great and glorious Sun,
and every day, at twelve o'clock, he fires off that little cannon,
provided there are no clouds in the way. Just before noon on bright
days, the people gather around the railing, with their watches in
their hands,--if they are so lucky as to have watches,--and precisely
at twelve o'clock, _bang!_ she goes.

The arrangement which produces this novel artillery-practice is very
simple. A bu