“Phe-ew!  It took all my nerve to do it!” said he, frankly.  “I felt for a minute as if a strong-arm cop’d chased me up an alley and pulled his gun on me.  The feeling of a bug’s legs on your bare skin is something fierce at first, ain’t it?  But after him none of ’em can scare me any more.  I could play tag with pink monkeys with blue tails and green whiskers without sending in the hurry-call.”

The setting boards and blocks, the arrays of pins, needles, tubes, forceps, jars and bottles, magnifying-glasses, microscope, slides, drying-ovens, relaxing-box, cabinets, and above all, the mounted specimens, raised his spirits somewhat.  This, at least, looked workman-like; this, at least, promised something better than stoking worms!

If not hopefully, at least willingly enough, he allowed himself to be set to work.  And that work had come in what some like to call the psychological moment.  At least it came—­or was sent—­just when he needed it most.

He soon discovered, as all beginners must, that there is very much more to it than one might think; that here, too, one must pay for exact knowledge with painstaking care and patient study and ceaseless effort.  He discovered how fatally easy it is to spoil a good specimen; how fairy-fragile a wee wing is; how painted scales rub, and vanish into thin air; how delicate antennae break, and forelegs will fiendishly depart hence; and that proper mounting, which results in a perfect insect, is a task which requires practice, a sure eye, and an expert, delicate, and dexterous touch.  Also, that one must be ceaselessly on guard lest the baleful little ant and other tiny curses evade one’s vigilance and render void one’s best work.  He learned these and other salutary lessons, which tend to tone down an amateur’s conceit of his half-knowledge; and this chastened him.  He felt his pride at stake—­he who could so expertly, with almost demoniac ingenuity, force the costliest and most cunningly constructed burglar-proof lock; he whose not idle boast was that he was handy with his fingers!  Slippy McGee baffled, at bay before a butterfly?  And in the presence of a mere priest and a girl-child?  Never!  He’d show us what he could do when he really tried to try!

Presently he wanted to classify; and he wanted to do it alone and unaided—­it looked easy enough.  It irked him, pricked his pride, to have to be always asking somebody else “what is this?” And right then and there those inevitable difficulties that confront every earnest and conscientious seeker at the beginning of his quest, arose, as the fascinating living puzzles presented themselves for his solving.

To classify correctly is not something one learns in a day, be he never so willing and eager; as one may discover who cares to take half a dozen plain, obscurely-colored small moths, and attempts to put them in their proper places.

Mr. Flint tried it—­and those wretched creatures wouldn’t stay put.  It seemed to him that every time he looked at them they ought to be somewhere else; always there was something—­a bar, a stripe, a small distinctive spot, a wing of peculiar shape, antennae, or palpi, or spur, to differentiate them.