People who must endure the mosquito population during the sultry summers and autumns of the South tend to create stories on the various sizes of these pesky creatures in their areas. Such exaggeration is not a new phenomenon. In the M. James Stevens collection of papers in the vertical file of the Hancock County Historical Society are found the following quips and anecdotes:
A few evenings since, I was at a swamp station of the Mobile & Chattanooga Railroad waiting for the train, and the mosquitoes of these parts took advantage of the situation and presented their bills without hesitation.
Mosquitoes are terrible,” said I slapping first to the right and then to the left. “I killed nine that shot.”
“They’re gallinippers, ain’t they,” inquired a bystander.
“I s’pose they’re called gallinipers,” said an Irishman present, “because they can take a gallon at a nip.”
“That’s good,” put in another, “but this ain’t nothing’ to the Jackson Railroad between Manchac and Kenner. Why I’ve seen ‘em so think there that they had to stop the cars and drive ‘em out so’s to give the passengers room to breathe!”
“Off Cat Island is the place for mosquitoes,” said another. “I’ve seen ‘em down there that boot leather would never worry. They’d tap your blood vessels through the thickest boot you ever saw.”
“Down here in the swamp they’re good sized ones,” said another. “I’ve seen ‘em there with bills six inches long and monstrous sized bodies. Why, we were out there one time and run short of provisions, and our cook just turned to and made a mosquito pot pie, by gum, and it wasn’t bad to take neither.”
The arrival of the train put an end to our talk and relieved one of further attacks form those active fellows, the “swamp mosquitoes.”
“M. James Stevens Collection.” Hancock County Historical Society vertical files.