I had been told of the ticks that infest the forests of the South, had

heard blood-curdling stories of how they sometimes bury themselves,

entire, in the flesh of animals and men and have to be cut out, and my

horror of them was great. In reality I found them unpleasant enough but,

as far as we were concerned, comparatively harmless.

The wood-tick is a small, rather disgusting-looking creature which, in

pearance and size, resembles the common bedbug. It fastens itself upon

you without your knowledge and you do not feel it even when it begins

to suck your blood, but something generally impels you to pass your

hand over the back of your neck, or cheek, where the thing is clinging,

and, feeling the lump, you pull it off and no great harm done. The tick

is supposed always to bury its head in the flesh, and it is said that if

the head is left in when the bug is pulled off an ugly sore will be the

result. We had no experience of that kind, however, nor, in our hurry to

get rid of it, did we stop to remove the bug scientifically by dropping

oil on it, as Kephart advises, but just naturally and simply, also

vigorously, we grasped it between thumb and forefinger and hastily

plucked it off. The effect of the bite was no worse on any of our party

than that of the Jersey mosquito.

Often your friends will see a tick on you and tell you of it even while

they have several, all unknown to themselves, decorating their own

countenance. The name by which science knows this unlovely bug is

_Ixodes leech_.