Word: vagabonding
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Time hangs lightly on the Vagabond's hands. It dangles there, a flimsy rainbow bubble, catches the sun a moment and disappears...
...Vagabond reads Hobbes and thinks of Spain, the embattled loyalists running for cover, food gone, hearts gone, courage gone, the Cause gone. Snarling Whites plunging down the craggy Spanish hills, naked to their waists, indomitable, their powder dry-and plenty of it. Liberty! We Spit On Thee....A dictator, blood and thunder, kill the damn Reds, Vive L'Espagna....An ideology crumbles before gunfire...
...first snow yesterday just past noon and the flakes melting before they touched the sidewalks. The Vagabond busy as the squirrels in the Yard, leafing through his Chaucer, reading J. Q. Adams: "Chief Pre-Shakespearian Dramas," (Shakespearian always looks wrong after a year of Kitty's Shakespere), listening to Crane Brinton in History 34a, taking a brisk walk along the Charles, breathing October...
...Crimson the Vagabond notices through a sheaf of printed letters. Dear Sir: Will you fill out enclosed postcard . . . . your lectures . . . . most interesting to undergraduates outside your course . . . . thrice-weekly Vagabond column...
...Vagabond and his love to the Army game tomorrow . . . . brass buttons and brass music, smoky-blue greatcoats, lean American faces, gloved hands in a row as straight as a die; black jerseys with horizontal stripes, red jerseys with huge white numerals, golden pants. The Vagabond and his Love on cold stone seats, bruised by the carnival mob. And afterwards sweet dry applewood on the fire and lights coming on in windows across the Quadrangle and a long godbye...