The Peterkins had wire mosquito-nets all over the house,—­at every door and every window.  They were as eager to keep out the flies as the mosquitoes.  The doors were all furnished with strong springs, that pulled the doors to as soon as they were opened.  The little boys had practised running in and out of each door, and slamming it after them.  This made a good deal of noise, for they had gained great success in making one door slam directly after another, and at times would keep up a running volley of artillery, as they called it, with the slamming of the doors.  Mr. Peterkin, however, preferred it to flies.

So Elizabeth Eliza felt she would venture to write of a summer evening with all the windows open.

She seated herself one evening in the library, between two large kerosene lamps, with paper, pen, and ink before her.  It was a beautiful night, with the smell of the roses coming in through the mosquito-nets, and just the faintest odor of kerosene by her side.  She began upon her work.  But what was her dismay!  She found herself immediately surrounded with mosquitoes.  They attacked her at every point.  They fell upon her hand as she moved it to the inkstand; they hovered, buzzing, over her head; they planted themselves under the lace of her sleeve.  If she moved her left hand to frighten them off from one point, another band fixed themselves upon her right hand.  Not only did they flutter and sting, but they sang in a heathenish manner, distracting her attention as she tried to write, as she tried to waft them off.  Nor was this all.  Myriads of June-bugs and millers hovered round, flung themselves into the lamps, and made disagreeable funeral-pyres of themselves, tumbling noisily on her paper in their last unpleasant agonies.  Occasionally one darted with a rush toward Elizabeth Eliza’s head.

If there was anything Elizabeth Eliza had a terror of, it was a June-bug.  She had heard that they had a tendency to get into the hair.  One had been caught in the hair of a friend of hers, who had long luxuriant hair.  But the legs of the June-bug were caught in it like fish-hooks, and it had to be cut out, and the June-bug was only extricated by sacrificing large masses of the flowing locks.

Elizabeth Eliza flung her handkerchief over her head.  Could she sacrifice what hair she had to the claims of literature?  She gave a cry of dismay.

The little boys rushed in a moment to the rescue.  They flapped newspapers, flung sofa-cushions; they offered to stand by her side with fly-whisks, that she might be free to write.  But the struggle was too exciting for her, and the flying insects seemed to increase.  Moths of every description—­large brown moths, small, delicate white millers—­whirled about her, while the irritating hum of the mosquito kept on more than ever.  Mr. Peterkin and the rest of the family came in to inquire about the trouble.  It was discovered that each of the little boys had been standing in the opening of a wire door for some time, watching to see when Elizabeth Eliza would have made her preparations and would begin to write.  Countless numbers of dorbugs and winged creatures of every description had taken occasion to come in.  It was found that they were in every part of the house.