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The Vagabond

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

10th. Up betimes to stand long in the window before dressing myself. Down under me the Charles running along toward the Basin with as little concern as if it never heard of February. Lord, how forlorn the little islands of ice do look! It seems as if they wait hopefully for some sudden chill to freeze them into their accustomed mass. The sky is bright and blue. Methinks much too much for a winter's morning. In my ears hum those pretty lines of Mr. Wordsworth:

"There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

And grass in the green field."

To breakfast alone, glowering down at underdone griddle-cakes and overdone headlines. What a pity it is we humans can never concentrate the heat in the right places. To classes in the Yard all morning long, making private promises to do no cutting for several weeks. In the end it appears choice between the lectures and later imprisonment in the Widener reading-room. And who would not choose to have his learning injected one hour at a time?

Met G. in the Square at noon, looking very healthy and contented after his first skiing of the year. Snow falls like the very manna from Heaven these days, and the skiers spend their time listening for the weather reports over the radio, all waxed up and no place to go. Another season like this, they tell me, and they will cover Mt. Washington with borax and let the sports try the substitute a la Saks-Fifth Avenue. On to lunch at Eliot with G.'s tutor who is in the government department and now looks upon Roosevelt as the very plague. Much talk about the process, minority decision, and writs of certiori until my head did sorely ache. A most sensible and provident plan was suggested by G. who would have the Chief Justice ask Congress to pass a bill creating new Presidents for all those over fifty-five who will not retire. Indeed, it would seem that one poor President is more overburdened with the affairs of state than are nine justices. Must take the time to write my Senator of the idea.

Passing through Widener in the afternoon, stoped to look at the fine exhibition of the books of Pushkin, Russia's greatest poet. It does my heart good to see that much-maligned country have something to show off to us all. It would seem that there is something Mr. Trotsky and Mr. Stalin can both agree is good. Into the Harry Elins room to see the first four folios of Shakespere laid out under glass like Harvard's very crown jewels. Which they really are, judging from what the white haired lady told me of their rareness and value.

In the evening to the theatre, to see Mr. Gielgud play "Hamlet" To live up to the tributes given him in New York is an accomplishment indeed, and I find his the best interpretation of the Danish prince I have yet seen. Back to Cambridge soon afterwards, with the lights of the Business School leering contemptuously across the river at the far dimmer eyes of the Houses on the other side. To bed to dream of sitting at "Hamlet" with Mr. Widener's first folio of Shakespere in my lap, keeping careful track of Mr. Gielgud's lines.

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