Word: vagabonde
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as Egdon Heath embrowned itself moment by moment. Overhead the hollow stretch of whitish cloud shutting out the sky was as a tent which had the whole heath for its floor," the Vagabond gets one definite mental picture, while you may get an entirely different impression. Vag's mental picture of tents is always biased by a very rainy camping trip last summer. When Vag hears of lents, it has just got to be raining. To some, however, tents may always mean armies...
This "someone" of the woodpile was a cavalier, Mr. Frost was saying. But that's what the poet was, too. He picked up his knowledge anywhere; he turned from task to task. This disturbed the Vagabond. He shouldn't know about things the way a scholar...
Here he was making fun of the scholar again. "I've got one poem," Mr. Frost was saying, "that I want to publish by itself. It's very booky. It would only take about a page, and then I would have about 25 pages of notes." The Vagabond was not the only one who thought of "The Waste Land" as the room rippled with laughter. But he liked T. S. Eliot. And Mr. Frost was making...
...room was still again. He was reading a poem called "Precaution." It was a short one, but it seemed good common sense to the Vagabond as he listened...
...Vagabond sloshed home and he couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Frost. He was cavalier. He wasn't scholarly. He was almost home-spun. He was definitely provincial, definitely New England. Yet any man with that twinkle in his eye, with that simplicity that couldn't be dismissed must be eminently wise. The Vagabond wishes he could hear Mr. Frost more often. Every time he sees the birch trees he will think of that lecture and the next time the poet of New England comes to Harvard the Vagabond will be there, sitting in the front...