As for men， they will hardly fail one anywhere.  I had more visitors while I lived in the woods than at any other period in my life； I mean that I had some.  I met several there under more favorable circumstances than I could anywhere else.  But fewer came to see me on trivial business.  In this respect， my company was winnowed by my mere distance from town.  I had withdrawn so far within the great ocean of solitude， into which the rivers of society empty， that for the most part， so far as my needs were concerned，only the finest sediment was deposited around me.  Beside， there were wafted to me evidences of unexplored and uncultivated continents on the other side.

　　Who should come to my lodge this morning but a true Homeric or Paphlagonian man ―― he had so suitable and poetic a name that I am sorry I cannot print it here ―― a Canadian， a woodchopper and post-maker， who can hole fifty posts in a day， who made his last supper on a woodchuck which his dog caught.  He， too， has heard of Homer， and， "if it were not for books，" would "not know what to do rainy days，" though perhaps he has not read one wholly through for many rainy seasons.  Some priest who could pronounce the Greek itself taught him to read his verse in the Testament in his native parish far away； and now I must translate to him， while he holds the book， Achilles' reproof to Patroclus for his sad countenance. ――

　　"Why are you in tears， Patroclus， like a young girl？" "Or have you alone heard some news from Phthia？

　　They say that Menoetius lives yet， son of Actor，And Peleus lives， son of AEacus， among the Myrmidons，Either of whom having died， we should greatly grieve."

　　He says， "That's good."  He has a great bundle of white oak bark under his arm for a sick man， gathered this Sunday morning.  "I suppose there's no harm in going after such a thing to-day，" says he.  To him Homer was a great writer， though what his writing was about he did not know.  A more simple and natural man it would be hard to find.  Vice and disease， which cast such a sombre moral hue over the world， seemed to have hardly any existance for him.  He was about twenty-eight years old， and had left Canada and his father's house a dozen years before to work in the States， and earn money to buy a farm with at last， perhaps in his native country.  He was cast in the coarsest mould； a stout but sluggish body， yet gracefully carried， with a thick sunburnt neck， dark bushy hair， and dull sleepy blue eyes， which were occasionally lit up with expression. He wore a flat gray cloth cap， a dingy wool-colored greatcoat， and cowhide boots.  He was a great consumer of meat， usually carrying his dinner to his work a couple of miles past my house ―― for he chopped all summer ―― in a tin pail； cold meats， often cold woodchucks， and coffee in a stone bottle which dangled by a string from his belt； and sometimes he offered me a drink.  He came along early， crossing my bean-field， though without anxiety or haste to get to his work， such as Yankees exhibit.  He wasn't a-going to hurt himself.  He didn't care if he only earned his board.  Frequently he would leave his dinner in the bushes， when his dog had caught a woodchuck by the way， and go back a mile and a half to dress it and leave it in the cellar of the house where he boarded， after deliberating first for half an hour whether he could not sink it in the pond safely till nightfall ―― loving to dwell long upon these themes.  He would say， as he went by in the morning， "How thick the pigeons are！  If working every day were not my trade， I could get all the meat I should want by hunting-pigeons， woodchucks， rabbits，partridges ―― by gosh！  I could get all I should want for a week in one day."

　　至于人，哪里都少不了人的。林中的訪客比我這一生中的任何時期都多；這是說，我有了一些客人。我在那里會見幾個客人，比在別的場合中會見他們更好得多。可很少是為小事情而來找我的人。在這方面，由于我住在離城較遠的鄉下，僅僅我那一段距離便把他們甄別過了。我退入寂寞的大海有這樣深；社會的河流雖然也匯流到這海洋中，就我的需要來說，聚集在我周圍的大多是最優秀的沉積物。而且還有另一面的許多未發現、未開化的大陸，它們的證物也隨波逐浪而來。

　　今天早晨來我家的，豈非一位真正荷馬式的或帕菲拉戈尼亞的人物嗎，――他有個這樣適合于他身份的詩意的名字，抱歉的是我不能在這里寫下來，――他是一個加拿大人，一個伐木做柱子的人，一天可以在五十個柱子上鑿洞，他剛好吃了一頓他的狗子捉到的一只土撥鼠。他也聽到過荷馬其人，說“要不是我有書本”，他就“不知道如何打發下雨天”，雖然好幾個雨季以來，他也許沒有讀完過一本書。在他自己那個遙遠的教區內，有一個能念希臘文的牧師，曾經教他讀《圣經》里的詩；現在我必須給他翻譯了，他手拿著那本書，翻到普特洛克勒斯滿面愁容，因而阿基里斯責怪他的一段，“普特洛克勒斯，干嗎哭得像個小女孩？”――――-“是不是你從畢蒂亞那里得到什么秘密消息？

　　阿克脫的兒子，伊苦斯的兒子，還是好好兒地活在瑪密同；除非他倆死了，才應該悲傷。“

　　他對我說，“這詩好。”他手臂下挾了一大捆白橡樹皮，是這星期日的早晨，他收集來給一個生病人的。“我想今天做這樣的事應該沒有關系吧，”他說。他認為荷馬是一個大作家，雖然他寫的是些什么，他并不知道。再要找一個比他更單純更自然的人恐怕不容易了。罪惡與疾病，使這個世界郁憂陰暗，在他卻幾乎不存在似的。他大約二十八歲，十二年前他離開加拿大和他父親的家，來到合眾國找工作，要掙點錢將來買點田產，大約在他的故鄉買吧。他是從最粗糙的模型里做出來的，一個大而呆板的身體，態度卻非常文雅，一個曬焦了的大脖子，一頭濃密的黑頭發，一雙無神欲睡的藍眼睛，有時卻閃爍出表情，變得明亮。他身穿一件骯臟的羊毛色大衣，頭戴一頂扁平的灰色帽子，足登一雙牛皮靴。他常常用一個鉛皮桶來裝他的飯餐，走到離我的屋子幾英里之外去工作，――他整個夏天都在伐木，――他吃肉的胃口很大；冷肉，常常是土撥鼠的冷肉；咖啡裝在一只石瓶子中間，用一根繩子吊在他的皮帶上，有時他還請我喝一口。他很早就來到，穿過我的豆田，但是并不急急乎去工作，像所有的那些北方佬一樣。他不想傷自己的身體。如果收入只夠吃住，他也不在乎。他時常把飯餐放在灌木叢中，因為半路上他的狗咬住土撥鼠了，他就口頭又

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