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Out there you don't find any of Cambridge with its everpresent carbon monoxide from cars, with the soot from factories close-by, with all the dirt in the streets and yard cops and pan-handlers, with slums lying close to luxurious red-brick houses, with parking spaces and no-parking places, with rearing trucks at night and clattering milk cans inevitable in the morning--all these things don't exist in that wonderful country where men are men and won't borrow from the government, where the country is green and the roads bad, where girls giggle in the streets and drug stores are individually owned, where the milk tastes like the top of the bottle and beer is brewed strong.
On the side of a hill in the south-western part of this region lies a settlement of twelve small houses dominated by a large building. The country is usually quiet on warm Spring evenings, but now an atmosphere of gayety pervades the place. Girls wearing beautiful dresses and boys trailing them are running in the direction of the parent building where a dance is progressing.
The Vagabond is in high spirits. He meets so many of his friends whom he has not seen since Easter. With such a dazzling number of girls the dance goes merrily, and he whirls from one to another. Suddenly he spots a nifty girl whom he has not seen for years. He had forgotten all about her and it takes him a little while to remember her name. But after that, it all comes easy as he waltzes her around and around regardless of the music and other people. How could he have forgotten her? After a while the pair swing out into the cool air, and he feels so refreshed and gay that he cannot help doing hand-springs on the lawn. They drift out into the darkness and look down the valley lighted only in a small village far off. Soon the music stops, and the noise of voices dies away on the night air. And the stillness of the country surges back over the hills.
This afternoon the Vagabond will go to the North Station and board the 4:00 P.M. for Bennington, Vermont.
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