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THE VAGABOND

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

12th (Easter Sunday). Rose pretty betimes, and all a bubble, and glad to feel the warm sun on my face again. How happy did the dancing motes seem peopling the sunbeams and seeking out every speck of greyness, all too much in the Tower of late. This morning, also, playful cloudlets sailed across an open heaven; and below the natal earth brought forth many more Spring flowers and fresh odors. Glad indeed was I to be alive and young and my heart open to these earth's treasures.

Thence, this day to seek the sweet tradition. So as a Vagabond I to dress, very handsome, in mousey grey trousers, new ascot to match, and glad was the woman to fetch the cutaway: "Not in a year has it been out", and so with shining topper and swinging stick, I to church and my cloak blowing in the breeze.

Whereupon I did hear what, if only Greek I knew better, seemed some mighty fine words; but this did not matter for the singing was good and I thought to myself how wonderful is music which speaks a language all sensitive souls can feel.

But soon I, standing and kneeling so long, to get very fidgety and my eyes did wander; and was much surprised to see----whom I have not seen in a long time. How softly she sang; 'twas religion to see her. Anon I to say good morning and she too was surprised to see me here. And did ask was I not Presbyterian or Unitarian. I had to confess I was a Vegetarian but like a good service anywhere.

Hence she to ask me to dinner if "I dared change my creed." So to Milton and all the afternoon to give her little sisters many piggy-back rides and to tell them many stories of giants and flowers and fairies. Whence rose the serious discussion: "Are fairies real?" 'Tis a pity little ones doubt so young. Of course fairies are real. Real as Peter Rabbit and Easter bunnies; real as Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck; real as Robinson Crusoe and unfound treasures; real as princesses and bold Knights; real as songs never sung and poems never written; real as Cinderella and kind thoughts; real as the dreams of children--and who will doubt that these are real?

By and by I back to Cambridge and to Dunster House and was glad to see that Dr. Elliot Porter has put twenty of his fine photographs taken in Australia and parts of New England on display. There is some mighty fine work here; and no tea.

Soon I to the Tower and all the evening to must in letter writing. And so to bed, full moon above, but now too cloudy very much to see.

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