If the erstwhile geometrician were to follow any one of the infinitude of tangents he can plot around the well-known circle, it would be just as likely as not that he would find himself, perhaps a trifle bewildered, at the Museum of Comparative Zoology, the northern wing of the University Museum way down on Oxford Street. And being there, it is equally possible (and also, for the sake of this treatise) that he might seek out the library at the museum.

Frankly, the library is a useless place. That is, for the average undergraduate; unless he is able to read languages other than English. A book in English is looked upon as a rarity at the library. Greek, Latin, Pig-Latin, French (Louis Quatorze style), and Esperanto seem to be the popular idiom among the clientele of the establishment, most of whom have spent a good deal of their lives learning to read these languages so that they might peek into one of the many thousands of volumes therein. These people, their friends call them curators, also know something about comparative zoology, and they delight in tracking down crustaecea, plodding through the pisces, and going "with gun and camera through the Alimentary Canal." Such bliss can only be found at the Library of the Museum of Comparative Zoology.

Spend an afternoon in the charming, alcoholic atmosphere of this scientific ivory-tower of zoological knowledge. Pore through a few of its beautifully bound editions on the "sex-life of the mollusk" or "strange customs of the Chinese spider." The reward is boundless; the effort minute.