ing which is worse than no knowledge at all. Unfortunately he believes anything which is in print.
Within my memory many of the old school have passed to happy hunting-grounds; those who remain will not be hurt by recollections of their companions of the past. One by one they pass—forgotten. Few of these men boasted general knowledge; they took up some special hobby and made a collection, striving with untiring zeal to obtain specimens of everything within their reach. Botany and entomology were the favourite callings, but the accumulating of stuffed birds, birds' eggs, land and fresh-water shells, and of geological specimens occupied the attention of many. Taxidermy was the employment of leisure time, and not only did the devotees of this art stuff their own specimens, but they added to their incomes by preserving and setting-up foxes, dogs, cats, and cage birds for their friends, and some were expert in making plaster casts of fishes, the record catches of the local angling clubs. These works of art have in many cases perished, but others still grace the walls of small public-houses or, from time to time, appear, unclaimed, in the pawnbroker's window.
Beetles were what Old Joe went in for, and a very fine and valuable collection he gathered together. He had hunted for and captured beetles in every locality near Manchester, had mounted them carefully and arranged them in boxes, each specimen with its scientific name. His heart was in his work, and he loved order; the smallest beetles, too tiny for the finest pins, were neatly fixed on cards. In his palmy days, say in the fifties. Joe would go any distance for a beetle. There were no cheap excursions, and had there been his purse would have been too empty; so he would tramp or beg a lift in a farmer's cart. On Saturday, soon as his work ended, he gathered together a few boxes and nets, tied his food in
