Word: vagabonder
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...Vagabond gets this way every spring--what with all the doxies around and car-lights glittering on the Charles at night. It steals upon him suddenly, and before he knows it--a Renaissance...
Yesterday morning unexpectedly it happened. Steadying his head to prevent its rolling heavily off onto the floor the Vagabond groaned from his couch, achieved the window, and peered querulously up into the April sky. The winey sunlight warmed his gouty limbs and made his head contract pleasantly. Suddenly the Vagabond turned and frowned at the disgusting clutter of his room. He saw the remnants of his Vintage 99 (99 cents), his pictures awry, his clothes in disarray. Winter and sottish hibernation. . . Turning again to the window and with a last fine whiff of April morning, the Vagabond strode with Merrimanly...
Spring, spring! And Mother Nature--the trollop! The Vagabond is too honest not to tell the sequel to these optimistic whiffings:--his zealous disposal of the Vanities, his airing and dusting, his meticulous dressing in his most summery suitings; and his light-hearted setting forth into the world. All to no end! For April soon twitched her sunny smile into a frozen leer, and the Vagabond ran home to his celibate cubicle cringing from the cold and mumbling imprecations...
...Vagabond drove by hills and valleys, through mill towns and the country seats of the mighty. He tarried at metropolitan hostelries and rural inns. He ran by rivers at twilight and by factories in the glare of noon. Mountains shouldered out of the plains in front and fell away to the horizons behind. He saw the sun catch the chromium glint, of the skyscraper and he watched a single pine tear the rising moon to shreds on a distant hill. And always by the side of old and winding roads, on the kerbs of four-width highways, red dress...
...past times the Vagabond has written of spring as a season of roaring brooks, thawing snows, bursting buds, foaming mugs, a yellow moon, drifting music, and charming laughter. But it is none of these, delightfully as he said so. Nor yet was Tennyson correct when, with awful Victorian punctilio, he wrote of a dove and a young man's fancy. It is only a time when for a few weeks a man will spend his pay check on poor movies, bad beer, a rented canoe, and a ride on a roller coaster. And all because the shrubs grow greener upon...