als live in caves and crevices during the day, and sally forth at
evening to catch their prey. For this reason, there is a popular
disgust of the whole tribe; yet the species in our climate are a
harmless race. We cannot say as much of the larger kinds, which
sometimes darken the air, by their abundance, in hot climates. One
species, already mentioned, is a formidable animal.

Captain Stedman, in his "Narrative of a Five Years' Expedition against
the revolted Negroes of Surinam," relates that, on awaking about four
o'clock one morning in his hammock, he was extremely alarmed at finding
himself weltering in congealed blood, and without feeling any pain
whatever. "The mystery was," says Captain Stedman, "that I had been
bitten by the vampyre, or spectre of Guiana, which is also called the
flying dog of New Spain; and by the Spaniards, _perrovolador_. This is
no other than a bat of monstrous size, that sucks the blood from men
and cattle, while they are fast asleep, even, sometimes, till they die;
and, as the manner in which they proceed is truly wonderful, I shall
endeavor to give a distinct account of it.

"Knowing, by instinct, that the person they intend to attack is in a
sound slumber, they generally alight near the feet, where, while the
creature continues fanning with his enormous wings, which keeps one
cool, he bites a piece out of the tip of the great toe, so very small,
indeed, that the head of a pin could scarcely be received into the
wound, which is, consequently, not painful; yet, through this orifice,
he continues to suck the blood, until he is obliged to disgorge. He
then begins again, and thus continues sucking and disgorging until he
is scarcely able to fly, and the sufferer has often been known to pass
from time to eternity. Cattle they generally bite in the ear, but
always in places where the blood flows spontaneously. Having applied
tobacco ashes as the best remedy, and washed the gore from myself and
hammock, I observed several small heaps of congealed blood, all round
the place where I had lain, upon the ground; on examining which, the
surgeon judged that I had lost at least twelve or fourteen ounces of
blood."

"Some years ago," says Mr. Waterton, in his "Wanderings in South
America," "I went to the River Paumaron, with a Scotch gentleman, by
name Tarbet. We hung our hammocks in the thatched loft of a planter's
house. Next morning, I heard this gentleman muttering in his hammock,
and now and then