The Vagabond has passed through the turmoil of being finger-printed by the Bursar's minions and catalogued in the files of the Summer School like a rare bird's egg, with his collar dampened as much as his ardour and a fine healthy contempt for geographical distribution blanks, salmon-colored cards which the officials call pink, and courses which may or may not give him a half credit for an A.B. The Vagabond is a large man and impatient of all these peccadilloes. His spirit rides a swift charger and he would be off somewhere in the country, dawdling in some old pasture, climbing a hill, or floating down some tree-lined river in a canoe. Learning is sensitive and must be wood in quiet places, not commardeered by signing one's name six times. In the country thoughts come rythmically, easily, and smoking an old pipe is like a forgotten pleasure suddenly discovered.
The vicissitudes of life have not changed the Vagabond's silent enjoyment in the little things in life. Starlight, cool freshly laundered sheets, a patch of cloud, an ember glowing in the night, a dish heaped high with spaghetti bologiese and the light on the faces of little children, give him a twinge of sweet pain as if he had reawakened some memory of the days when his immortal soul strayed through regions bathed in endless beauty on the journey from the outer spheres. The Vagabond is old in love and the world has taught him to keep a way eye out for the treachery of men, but he will always be an inveterate esthete.