I often used to think of that drive—the tragedy of the young girl guiding the horse over miles of muddy road in a blinding rain, and the arrival at the brightly lighted house, full of laughter and merriment, with the sad burden by her side. How did she tell them? Did she call from the road, or did she leave him there and go into the house? How _could_ one tell what to do under such circumstances? Perhaps the joyous crowd ran out to meet her and there was a great hush—they never told me that part. But I liked to believe that it was my grandmother Ripley, who, all alone, was watching from the doorway, and knowing intuitively that something was wrong, took the whole situation into her strong, capable hands. Like all boys, I was intensely interested in birds and animals. One day I was playing in the grass in front of the Old Manse, when I suddenly looked up to see a short man with a blond beard leaning over me. “What have you there, Eddie?” “A great crested flycatcher’s egg,” I replied. This was a very rare find. He wanted me to give it to him, but I would not. Then he proposed a swap. “If you will give it to me, I will show you a live fox,” he said. This was too much to resist. We made a rendezvous for the next Sunday. Although descended from a line of parsons, I had already learned that Sunday was, for me, merely a holiday, and it was evidently the same for him. This man was Henry D. Thoreau. Accordingly, the following Sabbath I trudged down to his place at Walden Pond, and he, who had “no walks to throw away on company,” proceeded to devote his entire afternoon to a boy of ten. After going a long way through the woods, we both got down on our bellies and crawled for miles, it seemed to me, through sand and shrubbery. But Mr. Fox refused to show himself—and worse luck than all, I never got my egg back! I have always had a grudge against Thoreau for this. Concord was a town utterly without crime. There was no gazing into the jail windows to catch a glimpse of the hideous offenders against the law. I never really heard of but one prisoner in my life, and he was so mild that he hardly made an impression. During my time this man was the only inhabitant of the jail and, technically, he did not belong there. A number of years before he had been imprisoned for some offense, and, after being released, returned and begged to be taken in again, as he was lonely and had gotten used to the place. So, one could see him ’most any summer evening sitting out on the steps of the jail. He was a great pet of the Emerson family, and was hired to play the violin for all the dances.