Manuscripts/Mixed Material [Tramp Poet]
Brighter, in fine, than anything I know
Like sunset on a distant sea a-glow
My curious memory alone maintains
The richer worth beneath the wretched show
Of vagrant life still sweet for all its pains.
The tea was poured into two cracked mugs. Harry sipped it appreciatively, and went on talking.
“Books on adventure gave me my first glimpse of the delights of freedom. By the time I was eight— my family lived in Youngstown, Ohio, at that time— I had read Stanley's “Adventures in Africa” three times in succession, “Polar Explorations” by Kane— and I was especially fascinated by a book called, “Savage Races of the World” — I've forgotten the author's name. I revelled and rolled in these books like a colt let out to first pasture.
“Mother was a wonderfully impracticable woman — and she let me do as I pleased. It was really her doing that accounted for my early contagion, of the wanderlust. One day, I came home from school, to find a dirty old yellow-haired tramp established in the ground floor of our house. He had in the first place come to our back door to beg a hand-out. And sitting on the doorstep and eating, he had persuaded my mother that if she would give him a place to locate on credit, he knew a way to clear a whole lot of money. His prospect for making money was the selling of homemade hominy to the restaurants up in town.
“I found him squatted on the bare floor, with no furniture in the room. He had a couple of dingy washboilers, which he had picked up from the big garbage dump near the race tracks. Day in and day out I