A labour of moles

How could you not love a book that not only informs you of how to properly term a group of moles but also instructs you in discerning the approximate century from which a building hails by the shape of its moulding, includes a tidbit of advice on achieving stealthiness ("Goloshes are capital thing. They keep the feet warm, and prevent your footsteps from being heard"), and contains this following delightfully silly poem, written by an anonymous 20th century author and simply titled The Rabbit:
The rabbit has a charming face:
Its private life is a disgrace.
I really dare not name to you
The awful things that rabbits do;
Things that your paper never prints –
You only mention them in hints.
They have such lost, degraded souls
No wonder they inhabit holes;
When such depravity is found
It only can live underground.
All this plus a jumbled treasure trove of instructions and information about everything from song birds (complete with music notation of their songs) to star gazing (intricate constellation maps included) to long forgotten parlor games (Nine Men's Morris, anyone?), no wonder this little tome sold out of its first edition in 1924 within days. I first admired the Week-end Book here ages ago and serendipitously found it on sale this week here for a ridiculously small sum of money.
By the way, did you know that to take away the stinging of nettles, you should apply a bruised dock leaf and chant this Cantrap?
Out Nettle, In Dock:
Dock shall have a new smock.
Oh yes. Have a good week-end!