The thought of his specimens, his precious specimens, was too much for the poor fellow.

He threw himself on the ground and poured out his sorrows in sobs and tears.
In the afternoon, when the others all ran out rejoicing in the sunshine, he hid himself in a corner of the school-room, and wrote the following letter:-- DEAR AUNTY:--You will cry when you read this, I am sure.

It is all done for, my entire collection; all killed with a dust-cloth, squashed, smashed, driven out of windows, and into holes, and all by a maid-servant.

As I had no boxes for them, I naturally put my specimens into the best places I could find for them.

In the writing-desk in my room were ever so many little divisions, just the very thing to put different varieties into.