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The Vagabond


Like a child that grows into his father's fancy as he adds weeks and months to his infancy, Spring has captured the heart of Nature and transfused blood into her checks and a sparkle into her motley eyes. Landscapes bleak and foreboding a month past bloom today in green luxuriance. The march of the seasons is indeed inexorable, but what man, confronted with the newborn loveliness of May, will have it otherwise?

"The Spring is her--the delicate footed May,

With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers,

And with it comes a thirst to be away,

In loveller scenes to pass these sweeter hours."

Perhaps, as the friend who is reading the sports page in his old green armchair complains, these thoughts tend to the sentimental and the florid, but how else would one think of Spring? Would one peek out the window, sec leaves waving on trees, lawnmowers on the grass, and merely cry, "Swell"? Would one stroll along either bank of the Charles, search the darkness for couples increasing the pleasure of the night, and, but sigh? At least, one should do more than sigh.

Spring not only gives birth to a child destined to die an early but slow and happy death; it also enlivens the soul of Man. It quickens the beat of his heart and draws the dopey poison of winter from his veins. Man is momentarily aware of joy. For a moment he lefts his eyes from his book, takes his glass from his lips, or looks away from the little white ball on the tee and embraces a nebulous, exhilarating something. He is filled with urgings. Surely it is either a strong-willed or unfeeling individual who can learn chemical formulas and read sports pages seven days a week during May.

The blossoming of foliage, trees, and flowers is an expression of Man's feeling towards Spring. Many people travel miles to sec the first crab apple blossoms, the first petals on the Japanese cherry trees. Thousands are thronging natural parks to view magnolias, azaleas, and other fragrant flowers. Most any Sunday afternoon the Vagabond can be seen walking, with a dark-haired lass in a lovely white frock on his arm, through the paths of the Arnold Arboretum, which is located five miles out of Boston on Jamaica Pond Parkway.

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