HENRY THOREAU
duced. Immediately this clergyman slapped him on the shoulder with his fat hand, exclaiming familiarly, “So here's the chap who camped in the woods.” Thoreau turned round and said promptly, “And here's the chap that camps in a pulpit.” His assailant was discomfited and said no more.
In the reed-pipes of Pan slept the notes of enchantment for him to wake at will. Our Concord genius of the wood was a master of the flute. It was his companion in his life there and the echoes of Walden hills were his accompaniments.1
Music was an early and life-long friend. His sisters made home pleasant with it. The sweet tunes of Mrs. Hawthorne's music-box were a comfort to him in the lonely days after John's death. “Row, Brothers, Row,” which I have heard him sing, recalled the happy river-voyage; and no one who heard “Tom
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