a handkerchief, and walked twenty to thirty miles to some likely hunting-ground, Delamere Forest being one favourite. When darkness cut off hopes of further finds he would lie down and sleep for a few hours, the bracken his bed, the trees his shelter; often the springy fir-needles provided a soothing couch. Up with the lark, he would beat through the woodlands the whole of Sunday, and at nightfall, weary and footsore, but happy it his pockets were full of coleopterous treasures, he would tramp back to Manchester, arriving in time for work on Monday morning. An accident deprived him of one leg and stopped these pedestrian excursions, but it did not quench his enthusiasm; he never tired of showing and arranging the collections, comparing notes with others, and relating the adventures of the past. Joe has gone, but his collection lives, and it contains much of great interest now that the city and other towns have spread and destroyed many of his old haunts.
A very different man was Sam. Like one of Bret Harte's heroes, he was "frequently drunk." Anything was game that came to his net—birds, butterflies, reptiles, fishes. He lived alone in a dirty cabin of a house; probably his rent was in arrears, for he was reluctant to let us cross the threshold until he had satisfied himself that we really only desired to see his collections. He was very drunk then, but not too drunk to remember the localities whence he obtained his dusty, moth-eaten specimens. Yet he was shy about giving information, though he undoubtedly knew the countryside. His collections have probably polished; they would be a danger in any museum, riddled by moth, mite, and beetle. He was a battered, unpleasant specimen himself, drink-soaked and dirt-encrusted; it is, however, fair to say that he was a rare type of working-man naturalist; the majority that I have met have been steady, sober men.
