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THE VAGABOND

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

26th.--Lay too long for breakfast; so, up, and to the office all morning where I hear much talk of the Crimson's September Tercentenary issues, and very sore at heart I shall not be here to work and read the many fine articles which are promised even, perhaps, from President Roosevelt and Dr. Lowell.

Thence to lunch at Winthrop House and hear much gossip of this and that and then reminded of a sentence I once did write: "A gossip, dear Sagmus, is one who gets the strongest impression from our weakest moments." So to the country where all is sweet.

But first to stop at Mounty Auburn Cemetery: I do like the dignity of graveyards exceedingly, though I do not like the hopelessness of graves. Here, under weeping willow tree to lie; and many lines did come to me:

"Softly, O ivy, softly creep,

He is asleep.

Thy fair pale tendrils gently spread

Above his head.

O roses, let your blossoms grace

His resting place.

Ye tender vine-leaves, weave a shade

Where he is laid."

And I know no modern lines have surpassed the old scpulchral majesty of Simonides of Ceos:

"Go tell the Spartans ye that passest by.

That here obedient to their laws we lie,"

Much filled with these ancient thoughts I do doze awhile, but soon awakened by child's voice asking young mother, "Where do dead flowers go?" And the mother did say they go to make other flowers. Without illusions I do think we would die.

By and by, very pensive, to the Tower and soon comes----to take me to the Opera House to see Saint Joan. A mighty chronicle play it is with sparklingly conversation in good Shavian style. Yet I did not like the River Loire scene which is weak with miracles, not the epilogue, it being too openly didactic. But Katharine Cornell, though not saintly enough as Joan, does make the Maid a convincing martyr.

So back to the Tower, the line still running through my brain: "Miracles are anything that create faith," and thus to bed watching the Great Dipper.

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