How I Became a Naturalist. 



MY home as a boy was in a quaint old fishing village 

 close to the edge of the North Kent marshes. 

 The place had an old, irregular look; one would 

 think its inhabitants had begun building from the shore 

 inland to a certain point, and then come back and finished 

 along the water's edge. 



The top rooms of the houses generally projected over 

 the pavement somewhat savouring of Shakesperian with 

 queer gables, which were ornamented with grotesque 

 figures. By the water stood old mills, warehouses, and 

 shipyards, all having a decayed look. That business of 

 some kind had been once carried on there, the old wharves 

 and fine houses showed, but when that time was no one 

 about the place in my time knew. It was entirely isolated 

 from any other town or village, and railroads and steam- 

 boats were things known only by name to the general 

 community. Nearly all the people got their living on 

 the water. Poor they were, but a contented lot, and, as 

 this world runs, honest. Now and again it would be gently 

 hinted that they smuggled who can say? The virtuous 

 have enemies ; they, perhaps, had theirs. One thing I 

 can testify if at any time a little medicine was needed, it 

 was sure to come out of a very short-necked, dark-green 

 bottle holding more than a pint, and that medicine was 

 certainly made in Holland. 



The fishermen and their lads always passed our house 

 on their way to and from their fishing boats, which lay 

 at anchor below in the marshes. On the return journey 

 they were sure to have something in the shape of wild fowl 

 for you would find a duck gun on board all the boats and 



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