The Mena weekly star., 1897-09-29
sstANg TO \ TRAMP.
Whcsa Naxan NeStgser Comes He Icn-
 ses e4i<. tagabond.

whcss xsaxm Meather Comes He En-
 se* fsi@ tagabond.
 "This is the kind of weather that makes me wish | were yagabond in practice as well as in spirit, was the surprising confession made by styl- ishiy-dressed guest at the Planters He was lolling lazily in fat up- holstered chair and gazing indolently out the window
 What q glorious time the tramp is having to-day. We heap contumely upon the tramp, and sometimes set the dog on him, but that doesn't bather the tramp nearly as much as the worry over getting g new spring suit bothers the average man not tramp. The vagabond who is roaming over the green-carpeted earth to-day not know ing, and caring less, where he is going to sleep tonight, or how he will break fast to-morrow, is happier than I am, and have q comfortable bank account and no hard physical or mental work to do. He is responsibility free, and Is not hampered and hedged in by pride. Ambition does not thrill him, and as piration does not lindle in him q fire that eats out his heart. In word. none of the conventionalties which fence in our horizon and confine our conduct within the limits prescribed by that intangible. but tyrannical, something called society chafes his spirit or arrests his natural bent. He f<f1 I.s sxo q | world from standpoint without the pale of the hampering social structure and with equanimity unknown to the individual whose neck is bowed under the ganing yoke of obligation and re- sponsibility. The line of least resist ance is the path for him, and conse- quently there Is no strife or combat in his life. Desire to him means posses sion, and appetite is only the forerun- ner of feast that all the wealth of the world expended on single meal could not buy for the rich dyspeptic.
 "Oh, the drudgery and restraint of civilization. The philosophy of the vagabond sweeps these away as the ris- ing sun dissolves the mists. He does not move about in cloud of virtuous pretense. Your genuine vagab bond has neither excuse for failure nor apology for living. He lives because he wants to live. He lives because he loves life. He Is not ennuied with its artificial lux nr!eess sisss- sreTvatei by it's houhouse at mosphere. The air to him is fresh and crisp. The sun warms the cookies oi his heart and drives films from his eyes Thus he can feel nature and see nature. He drinks deep of it's joys without inn bibing the dregs of sorrow. In his chronology an hour Is but minute and week but a day. He contracts the season Into a month, and eternity into year. To his counterpart in inertia at the top of the social heap--the dawdling idler of wealth--a minute is an hour, q day is week and year is eternity.
 Who, then, of some mind and nature undefiled, wouldn't be a tramp in such lieve. call the vagabond spirit atavism. Whatever it is, I possess it strongly, and believe the average man, if he would be honest with himself, would also confess its possession. The green IS back in the trees, the birds are mat ing, the bulbs are bursting, the apples are blossoming, the flowers are scent ing the air with their perfumes, the cattle are browsing through new pas lures, the solitude has left the forests and crept into the cities, the stars blink saucily through the rents in the blue vault at highland here l am tied and fettered, while the vagabond is luxuriating in life that is fuil and rich-St. Louis Republic.