down to me, perhaps, a little of your physical vigor, a little of
your love of work; but certainly you were no more accountable than
grandfather for my passion for insects.

Nor was either of my own parents. My mother, who was quite
illiterate, having known no teacher than the bitter experience of a
harassed life, was the exact opposite of what my tastes required
for their development. My peculiarity must seek its origin
elsewhere: that I will swear. But I do not find it in my father,
either. The excellent man, who was hard working and sturdily built
like granddad, had been to school as a child. He knew how to
write, though he took the greatest liberties with spelling; he knew
how to read and understood what he read, provided the reading
presented no more serious literary difficulties than occurred in
the stories in the almanac. He was the first of his line to allow
himself to be tempted by the town and he lived to regret it. Badly
off, having but little outlet for his industry, making God knows
what shifts to pick up a livelihood, he went through all the
disappointments of the countryman turned townsman. Persecuted by
bad luck, borne down by the burden, for all his energy and good
will, he was far indeed from starting me in entomology. He had
other cares, cares more direct and more serious. A good cuff or
two when he saw me pinning an insect to a cork was all the
encouragement that I received from him. Perhaps he was right.

The conclusion is positive: there is nothing in heredity to explain
my taste for observation. You may say that I do not go far enough
back. Well, what should I find beyond the grandparents where my
facts come to a stop? I know, partly. I should find even more
uncultured ancestors: sons of the soil, plowmen, sowers of rye,