Page:Summer - from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau.djvu/174

164 three or four days. Though one of them was a stranger to the others, you would have thought them old and familiar cronies. They happened here together by accident. They addressed each other constantly by their Christian names, and rubbed you continually with the greasy cheek of their kindness. I was awfully pestered with the benignity of one of them, feared I should get greased all over with it past restoration, tried to keep some starch in my clothes. He wrote a book called &quot;A Kiss for a Blow,&quot; and he behaved as if I had given him a blow, was bent on giving me the kiss when there was neither quarrel nor agreement between us. I wanted that he should straighten his back, smooth out those ogling wrinkles of benignity about his eyes, and with a healthy reserve pronounce something in a downright manner. He addressed me as &quot;Henry&quot; within one minute from the time I first laid eyes on him; and when I spoke, he said with drawling, sultry sympathy, &quot;Henry, I know all you would say, I understand you perfectly, you need not explain anything to me,&quot; and to another, &quot;I am going to dive into Henry's inmost depths.&quot; I said, &quot;I trust you will not strike your head against the bottom.&quot; He could tell in a dark room, with his eyes blinded, and in perfect stillness, if there was one there whom he loved. One of the most attractive things