Word: vagabondism
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...Vagabond, April Hours are over. Where a few days ago it was March, and drab, it is now spring. Largely because of parietal restrictions applying to Memorial Hall Tower, love and the flowery path have played little part in the Vagabond's life; he has sulked in the gloom while others soared to free, empyrean heights. Yet now, with the advent of the vernal release, he feels strange stirrings deep within him. He clamps his unruly heart with all the force of the elaborate apparatus of inner standard given him by Professor Babbitt. But the bolts have rusted and weakened...
There is a musty, tropic shade to the atmosphere as the Vagabond deserts his tower. For the first time in years he realizes his own fine youth and strength. His steely frame carries him down the streets in a series of mad gyrations, leaps, and striving. Gradually the objects he meets merge in a slurred monotone of grey, with occasional bursts of color. He is going faster, faster, faster. Faces loom up; they speak, but he hears them not, for he is imbued with the essence of spring. Swirling down out of his course to a peaceful rigidity, he buries...
...Great grandmother's ear rings have gone back into mother's jewelry box. In one short month the sound and fury have dropped below a far horizon. And the girls have drifted off to Bermuda in new tweed suits, or to Florida in picture hats. Now this, to the Vagabond, is altogether fitting. Not the vanishing of the pomp of little circumstance, but the drifting off of the girls. They have gone up into the collar like good Clydesdales and true and they should have rest from labor. But the Hegira, gentlemen, leaves Harvard strangely quiet and sorrowful and alone...
...stone. The gilt shimmer of Imperial Napoleon tarnishes under the leaden light of a March sky and there is soil upon the green breeches. Rousseau weeping for his brain children beneath the trees seems only rather maudlin where before his cries ran down the avenues of revolution. The Vagabond, being no mathematician, can only wonder what an equilateral triangle can seem like in March...
...Vagabond recalls such things, and how Bismarck in his forsaken years had only dogs to love and mourn, how Kipling bid ". . . you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear." Phantom has taken his place among shades. The day is denied its white stone, for one remembers, not CAVE CANEM, but St. Bernard's "Qui Meamat, amet et canem meum...