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It was not without pleasure that the Vagabond arrived in Cambridge a day or so ago. Times and indicia change but the old place seems to be as it always has been. Freshmen still have questions to ask; fond fathers still come to the Crimson offices seeking advice for their yearlings; Weld, Wigglesworth, all the freshmen dormitories are chattering with mother decorators; the Yard once again is buzzing with the seriousness of beginnings; the thought of the tercentenary has not disturbed old John Harvard; a young girl took his picture this morning remarking about his youth. And the happy Sophomores as they enter the Houses have always stirred the Vagabond's heart. Well he remembers the day when he wished for the warmth of a Dunster suite; but his heart was sadder and younger then.
And now maybe he'll have one, for the summer has been kind to the old fellow. His coffers have been filled. Vain thought that dreamers die! He was a reader this summer; reader to an old friend. He gave her poetry; saw the garden flowers for her; was her eyes through many a pleasant journey. She in turn told him tales which only the ripeness of age can tell: Of the court at Buckingham; of her romance; of the war; of her blindness; of the peace at Versailles.
And, bless her soul, she felt sory for the Vagabond: the Vagabond living alone in his Tower. Did he have a good bed? A lamp to read by? Was he warm at nights? "Stone walls! You'll catch your death of cold!" She would have him comfortable; yes, and rich. Rugs for his chamber; wood for his fire; drapes for his windows; even a new cloak to wear. But the Vagabond is not sure. Leave his Tower? New Furniture? Strange clothes?
That is not like him. These walls have sheltered him through many a cold night; for a mere nothing too. They understand each other. Cold at times, yes; but then again the sun rises to the old Tower first before lighting the world below. And that old chair is the Vagabond's true friend and was his father's father's friend. Live in a House and have the maid change and clean and handle the furniture at will? Friends need a friend's care. The Vagabond stays! And this coat: give up a garment which has served so well and so long. No. The Vagabond is a sentimentalist. New things, modern things will not pollute him; his is the richness of the past; his the luxuries only of the mind. Come Professors, warm over your courses. The Vagabond lives again!
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