The Student Vagabond

The tower is the scene of great activity on this morning. Motes dance in the sunbeams, and the Vagabond dances behind a screen as he dons his trousers. Water tinkles against the sides of the basin as he sluices his gnarled face in the limpid pool. He dashes through the room, adding touch after touch to his creation of sartorial ineffability. His cutaway in place, he adds a final caressing stroke to his ascot, bathes its center in the refulgent aura of a heavy gold pin, and descends the innumerable stairs.

Outside the world is swaying in a light and airy rhythm. The swank blues and mousey grays of Central Square hoyer by; gay bucks and their plebeian maids are on the shabby avenue, tempting one to stray abroad. The Vagabond, pigeon-breasted from long days at his books, expands his lungs, and plunges into the indescribale subway entrance. There, his stick and gloves, his shining topper, are the center of a half-awed admiration. He enters the car like a fairy prince swirling away in his coach; even the guards bow and scrape like tousled sycophants.

The bricks of Boston smile with a certain ruddy charm as the Vagabond strolls to church. He nods to acquaintances, and looks with a wistful hope for the sight of a lone green bud. In the church, he becomes solemn, and regards his image on the glistering toe of his boot, with a feeling of wonder. Falling in with a party of friends, he skips merrily along, not a thought in his head. Like an intellectual kitten, he likens himself to Rousseau; for a moment he toys with the idea of completing this marvelous day by inviting his soul in a boat, but his more mundane friends, drag him off on their worldly course. The Easter afternoon blurs and shimmers in a quintessential furor of sheer delight. The Vagabond realizes that Nirvana is near. The day wears away; the sun is setting in a receptive, motherly, western glow; in a culminative ecstasy of bliss, the Vagabond sits on the edge of a pool in the Common, watching the dying orb, and dabbling in the placid water with the tips of his toes; he is a child again, and quite, quite happy.