THE WORKING-MAN NATURALIST 133 



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 if 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 collec- 

 tion 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 perished; 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. 



