"Never you fear for _him_," she retorted. "He's allers a-prowlin' around lookin' fer a chance when God's back is turned. There ain't a lazy hair on _his_ head. I wish," she added significantly, "I could say as much for some others."[699] Beside Aunt Mary other characters appear upon the pages of his friends' journals; notably a garrulous, broad-brimmed Georgian farmer, who had served in the Confederate army. He was the father of a large family, which he had brought up on the _Leaves_. As for himself, he had the book by heart, and was never so happy as when reciting his favourite passages at Sunday School treat or Church meeting. He knew Emerson's writings with almost equal intimacy, but complained that these set his soul nagging after him, while Whitman's were soothing to it. With Walt he declared that he loafed and invited his soul; with Waldo, his soul became importunate and invited him.[700] Meanwhile, he admitted, his farm ran more to weeds than it should. Doubtless, during his pilgrimage the weeds prospered exceedingly; for he stayed long, and sad to say, in the end he went away a "leetle disappointed". "I have to sit and admire him at a distance," he complained, "about as I did at home before I came." Walt liked him, and was amused by his talk, but his advice, his criticism and his interpretations to boot, were overmuch for a weary man. There came one day a "labour agitator," who required an introduction or testimonial of some sort from Whitman; and he also went away disappointed. In answer to all his loud-flowing, self-satisfied declarations, Whitman merely ejaculated his occasional colourless monosyllable; and when at last the discomfited man took his leave, the poet's absent-minded "Thanks!" was more ludicrously and baldly opportune than intentional.[701] Humorous as they appeared at the time, there was another side to interviews of this character; for it began to be noised about that Whitman was quite spoilt by his rich friends, and had lost his interest in and sympathy with the American working-man. This was due, of course, to a complete misunderstanding. The old fellow who lived in his "little shack" on Mickle Street, and dined in Germantown in his cardigan jacket, might have a world-reputation, but he was not forgetful of the people from among whom he sprang and to whom he always belonged. At the same time it is true, as we saw, that he did not himself profess to understand or to approve the party organisation of labour. He was rather inclined to sit in his corner and have faith, and to listen to what the younger men had to say. In any case, he saw no remedy for present troubles in the exploitation of class feeling; he could see no help in urging the battle between two forms of selfishness.