A comical illustration of his [Thoreau’s] readiness to cope with sudden emergencies occurred late one warm afternoon in summer, just as a short, sharp thunder-storm had passed and the sun was breaking through the dispersing clouds. We had finished supper, but were lingering at the table, when the servant threw open the door, exclaiming, with wild excitement, "Faith! the’ pig’s out o’th’ pin, an’ th’way he’s tearin’ roun’ Jege Hoore’s fluer-bids es enuf ter scare er budy." Henry and his father at once rushed out in pursuit of the marauder, and the ladies flew to the windows to see the fray. Never was practical strategy more in evidence; plotting and counterplotting on both sides, repeated circumvention of well-laid plans, and a final cornering and capture of the perverse beast, who, after his delicious taste of freedom, protested loudly and vigorously against being forced to return to his prison pen. It was truly a triumph of the intellectual over the animal nature, whose brief enjoyment of wild destructive liberty was suddenly ended by the power of a superior will. It was remarked at the time how muck mental and physical strength had to be expended to subdue so inferior an animal.
       — Anonymous, "Reminiscences of Thoreau," Outlook, LXIII (December 2, 1899), 816.

        If Henry happened to be with us, although we were unobservant of what was beneath our feet, his acute eyes, ever active, would detect Indian arrow-heads, or some implement for domestic purposes made of flint or other hard stone. I have seen him with a stick bring to light great [p. 818] numbers of clam-shells, remnants of Indian feasts of long ago. It was noticeable that these shell deposits were always found in places evidently selected for their pleasant situation and outlook.
       Occasionally Henry would invite us to go with him in his boat. One of these excursions was in late November, and the weather was of almost unearthly beauty; bees in great multitudes hummed loudly as they lazily floated in the golden slumberous haze only seen in the true Indian summer. At a particular spot Henry turned the boat toward the bank, saying: "We will make a call upon a wild flower that is not ordinarily at home at this date, but the unusually warm days and nights of the past fortnight may have prevented its depart sure, so we will knock at its door," tapping at the upper leaves of a low-growing plant; and, verily, there was the shy, dainty little blossom underneath—welcomed by at least one pair of alert, sympathetic eyes.
       — Ibid., LXIII, 818-819.

        It was often amusing to observe Henry’s want of gallantry; in getting in or out of a boat, or if a fence or wall were to be surmounted, no hand did he stretch forth; he assumed that a woman should be able to help herself in all such matters; but if she were defenseless, his inborn chivalry could be relied on; as in the case of a terrified girl pursued through the woods by a couple of young ruffians, sons of influential parents, Henry’s valiant rescue was most timely; and by his persistent efforts due punishment was inflicted upon the shameless offenders. Again, when a weary mother with a heavy child in her arms was struggling to reach the station, where the train had already arrived, her feet sinking in the hot sand at every step, with one glance Henry took in the situation. He bounded over the fence, transferred the child to his own arms, and, with strides that seemed to disdain the shifting sand, he moved over the ground with a conquering air that appeared to impress [p. 819] the inanimate engine and compel it to tarry till the belated mother and child were safely aboard the train.
       No one could more heartily enjoy his family life than Henry. He invariably came down from his study for a while in the evening for conversation; the sound of the piano was sure to draw him.
       Tears dim my eyes as those scenes arise before me; Sophia playing the old time music, notably Scotch melodies, which so well suited her flexible voice, and those quaint ballads of a past generation, whose airs were often so plaintive and with so much of heartbreak in the words. All the family had rich, sweet voices. If the song was a favorite, the father would join in, and thrilling was their singing of that gem, "Tom Bowline." I hear now the refrain:
       His soul has gone aloft.
       Often Henry would suddenly cease singing and catch up his flute, and, musical as was his voice, yet it was a delight never to be forgotten to listen to the silvery tones that breathed from the instrument.
       — Ibid., LXIII pp. 819-820.

        Once, after a day so stormy that he had not taken his customary outdoor exercise, Henry came flying down from his study when the evening was half spent. His face was unusually animated; he sang with zest, but evidently needed an unrestricted outlet for his pent-up vitality, and soon began to dance, all by himself, spinning airily round, displaying remarkable litheness and agility; growing more and more inspired, he finally sprang over the center-table, alighting like a feather on the other side—then, not in the least out of breath, continued his waltz until his enthusiasm abated.
       I know not why I was surprised at hearing his mother refer to his "dancing days," for I had never associated Henry with any fashionable follies, even in his boyhood; but it seems he had been taught the usual accomplishments of well-bred children.
       In sad contrast to the memory of Henry in his strength arises another, some years later—of him in his decline; he had returned from the West, whither he had been in search of health, and by evening a flush had come to his cheeks and an ominous brightness and beauty to his eyes, painful to behold. His conversation was unusually brilliant, and we listened with a charmed attention which perhaps stimulated him to continue talking until the weak voice could no longer articulate.
       This was the autumn before his death; in a few months his life on earth was ended. I was told that he retained his splendid courage and fortitude to the last.
       — Ibid., LXIII, 820.