WHO ventures to say that length of years bringeth wisdom? And yet who has ever met an octogenarian whom he did not look upon as wise? One hears so much about gaining wisdom through experience that it seems impossible not to hold him as very knowing who has reached fourscore years. It is very proper to look up to our elders, but it does not follow that the only course to pursue is that pointed out by them. May it not seem ungracious to say so, but there are many aged men living who cannot be accounted wise. Even in those things pertaining peculiarly to their own sphere they are lacking. I met a curious character lately: an old man who professed to be a victim of Thoreau.

The day was fitting for such a meeting. Although in March, there was a wealth of summer sunshine, an abundance of green grass, of singing birds, of piping frogs, and, here and there, scattered dandelions and violets. The day teemed with life, and yet mankind was not astir. No farmer was ploughing, and the highway was deserted. This added zest to my stroll, for such solitude gives one the feeling of a world to himself. I walked a mile or more alone, and then, where the road turned that a brook and noble elm might remain as nature placed them, I met an old man. He was sitting at the foot of the tree and gazing steadily at the rippling waters before him. It was a pretty picture, and I stopped to study it. Then, with a woman's curiosity, I ventured to speak. To have merely said “good-morning" and passed on would not have sufficed. Strangely enough, I was disposed to talk. Although the question was absurd, “Fishing?” I asked.

“No; frogging, after a fashion," he replied, with an assuring smile.

Then I drew nearer, and, resting against the tree, waited for an explanation of his ambiguous remark.

“I have been sitting here for hours watching that frog," and he pointed to one squatted upon a stone immediately before him. "It takes the world easy, it seems to me, and, as this same world provides its wants, why should not I do the same, — sit still and let the world supply me?”

I thought I had met with some wanderer from the poor-house, or the grandfather of some one of my neighbors; but instead, here was a new phase of humanity, — a mild type of philosophical tramp.

“Do you live near by?” I asked, ignoring his remarks.

“My home, if you can call it so, is the range of my rambling; but why are you curious about me? Such a corner as this ought to be no man's land, except his who rests for a time here, on his way to nowhere."

“I'm sure I have no claim to your cozy seat, and am only too glad to have met you. You are a stranger about here, I take it?" I remarked, without any definite reason for speaking at all.

“Yes, I am," and, turning towards me, he said, in most inviting tones, “and yet not altogether. I was here sixty years ago, and sat under this same tree, and again thirty-five years ago, when I read a book that turned my head, and I've been wondering where the mistake was ever since."

I was thoroughly interested in the old man now, and could scarcely wait until he had finished speaking to ask what book had so marred his fortunes.

“Thoreau's ‘Walden,' “he replied; “there are pages of it I can repeat, and often do so, wondering all the time where's the hitch in his philosophy. Did you ever read the book?” he asked, abruptly, eying me closely as he put the question.

“I have, several times," I replied.

“And what do you think of it?” he asked.

"All that I understand I like extremely; the rest I let go unheeded," I told him.

“It's all easy enough to understand; but what puzzles me is why his philosophy won't work. I have been trying it, and the contemplation and study of nature, and all that, came easy enough, but I could not get bread from my bean-field."

"Did you plant one?" I asked.

“No; but I helped myself to others' beans, here a little and there a little; but never in a whole neighborhood could I gather enough to trade for bread enough."

“Was that Thoreau's plan?” I asked.

“Not exactly; but mine had the advantage of allowing more time for study and contemplation. Still, it didn't work. His philosophy is at fault, and mine, which is an improvement, has never worked; and yet why I do not see;" and here the old man thrust his cane at the frog before him, sending it spinning into the brook.

“May I ask who you are and where you come from?” I asked, with some impatience, for the old fellow thoroughly puzzled me.

“Not who I am," he replied, “nor where from; but I will venture this far with you, stranger, to tell you how I live. Nine months in the year I'm like the frog I stirred up just now. I squat where it suits me, and stick until some fellow-creature comes along with a cane and sends me afloat to squat on the nearest flat stone I come to. There's that frog, a yard or two farther down the brook, and there he'll stick until forced to get up, I suppose; and so it's been with me. I've never found a seat that the world did not force me to quit; and I've never been able to see why I am not one of the world as well as the crowd that jostles me."

“How do you expect to get food and clothing if you sit still all day ?''

“I can get them as easily as did the savages from whom we all came; but there, too, at every turn I'm headed off. Some one claims the wild berries I gather, as if God labelled them, 'These berries grew for John,' and so James must not touch them, — not even if John is disposed to let them rot. And if I make cloth out of birch-bark and am suited, why not? But if I do, I am landed in the mad-house."

“I cannot see why you blame your ill luck on Thoreau; the fact is, you've been too lazy to work."

“You simply talk like all the rest," he replied, with no trace of ill humor. “I have had only myself to consult, and tried the Walden plan, with improvements, and the result was, as you see, a failure. I was told I must do as the world was doing; must drift with the human tide or strand and rot. The world was right, and yet is not right. Should there not be a little more personal liberty? Why cannot a man break away from this tyranny of established custom? Of course, it is useless to try; but then comes up the old question, Where's the hitch in independent philosophy, as I call it?"

“It lies in the fact, perhaps, that man is a social and gregarious animal, and in communities the good of all must be considered as well as the comfort of one's self. Life is a game of give and take. Give your energy to the community, and take what pay you can."

“And if the world, young man," he remarked, quietly, as he stood up, “has elbow-room to spare, as it has, for would-be hermits and contemplative ramblers, why should they be molested? I tried Thoreau's plan, as I understood it, and liked it; but every man I meet has some harsh criticism. And one thing more before I go; here's my summing up of the whole matter: there's a screw loose somewhere in the world's ways when a man — without detriment to his fellows — cannot do as he pleases. If I prefer the sky to any other roof, I am held a nuisance. Why is it?”

And the old man, slinging a small bundle over his shoulder, walked down the road, leaving me to wonder who he was. Truly there is an endless series of strange human freaks, yet none so odd, in my experience, as this self-styled victim of Thoreau. Who would not walk in the country to see such strange men?