JUNE IN BROADLAND. 57 



of travel, but I can pretty well reckon what they'd be like; but give me my low- 

 lying, marsh-covered, reedy Broadland, where the redshank, the coot, the grebe, 

 and the lapwing ring out their strange weird cries. The land of the bullrush and 

 the water-lily has delights for me that I am positive no other could possess. 



* These fifty years have I spent, boy and man, amongst snips of leather; lasts 

 and lapstone were my toys in childhood, and they get me my living now. Thump! 

 thump ! thump! Snobbing is dull monotonous labour, to be sure, from morning 

 to night, with the smell of leather beneath your olfactories; but a man must live by 

 the sweat of his brow. But then, sir, when one does manage to get his leg loose 

 from the boot-strap, and let it and the other stride and scamper out in the open 

 country on such a day as this, why, how much lighter becomes the burden of life, 

 and what a pleasant little oasis in its dreary routine, to be sure it is ! not that I 

 am unhappy or discontented, by any means, for the fruits of many a jaunt in 

 Broadland surround me when at my labour, in the shape of well-preserved speci- 

 mens, which stir up many a pleasant recollection of sunny days and jolly doings 

 among the flowers and insects, the birds and molluscs, in times gone by. To accom- 

 plish much real work as a naturalist, a man needs to be above the necessity of 

 earning his daily bread, and the time should be his own ; but then, sir, there's this 

 about it, when one's destined to earn his livelihood by close, hard, grinding labour, 

 because fortune failed to smile upon his predecessors, he cannot afford to quarrel 

 with her. Labour! well, one has got used to it by this time, without the comfort 

 or inconvenience of having grown any the richer, for competency is not won, you 

 know, by snobbing; but there's this to be said of it, its more a matter of hand 

 than head-work. You can sit and thump, and think and thump, and plan and 

 meditate between them to your heart's content, which can't be said of every occu- 

 pation. It comes hard where a man hasn't a hobby, or any mental employment, 

 and nothing to anticipate in event of a holiday, then the humdrum becomes a bore. 

 That's why so many of my fraternity grumble about life's monotony over their pipe 

 and pot, and engender discontent against their fellow-men and the good Grod 

 above us all, who never destined man, I am quite convinced, to be unhappy, 

 whatever sphere of life He placed him in. Sir, there is dignity in labour.' 



Such is a sample of the interesting chat our loquacious friend unreels, and 

 we regret our paths diverge as we step out from the village platform. Whistling a 

 merry song, away hies the little man with the nets and wallet which contains 

 his store-boxes and bottles, and the hundred other little knick-knacks that go to 



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