Our mere acquaintance developed early into a warm friendship and we had numerous walks together. His was ever a silent friendship and only by his manner were you sure he was enjoying the beauty and freedom of the country roads， the lush meadows， the cooling waters of the brooks we met. I used to enjoy watching his enjoyment， his feeling of companionship， his sense of being in friendly company， and I find myself responding to his moods and cheerful abandonment to the joy of the present moment. There was no guile in his heart， evidently， and with him I often forgot the pressing cares of the years， the youth that I’d left along those same roads， along those same brooks. I， too， could walk with a lighter step， feel the impulse to run and jump and let cold care go hang. When sad eyes sparkles and every step betrays enjoyment it’s hard to be a clam and not hear singing voices， feel new thrills in old veins. At least this is the way it always seemed to me when I walked with my friend.
I’ve seen him sitting quietly， pensively， as if trying to look beyond the distant blue hills， and I wished I could read his thoughts， and fathom the soul in those sad brown eyes. They were always appealing， the eyes of a trusting helpless one， one dependent on human kindness， and I couldn’t think of anyone wanting to be rude to him， or being unwilling to share a friendly meal if he happened to be around when the dinner bell rang. He was so appreciative of attention， though he never overdid it， or made you feel that he was only nice for what there was in it. So many can be nice when they are looking for some profit. This fellow was more thankful for a kind word than for any other gift. He simply couldn’t be happy without believing the human world was a friendly one. You have met this kind. I don’t mean the whiners， the fellows that beg， but the genuinely kind soul that gives himself and his friendship and love and only asks a return in kind.