The Vagabond

Tomorrow would be Thursday, and Vag knew exactly what Society would expect of him. It would expect him to go to Church and register gratitude all over his face and then go out somewhere and stuff said face just as full of turkey and cranberry sauce as he could. That was Thanksgiving.

Vag had always wondered what he should be thankful for on Thanksgiving. If he said he was thankful for his new roller-skates, God would think he was easily satisfied. And if (in this Year of Grace) he pulled in some big, white, fluffy word like "peace," God would know he was just another hypocrite praying through his hat.

Back in the days when Thanksgiving originated, it had been pretty easy. They knew how many bushels of apples they had taken in and how many eggs each hen had laid; their thanks could be an itemized receipt.

It was different today. Vag didn't have any hens. And he didn't have a lot of other things, such as something to do when he got out of college or someone to pay him to do it, or a roof and three meals while he was doing it. And there was no place to go where he could shoot Indians or pan gold. He was going to have to do it the hard way. Security was no more, and even America's muchtouted opportunity was slowly vanishing. And yet somehow Vag was distinctly glad he had not been one of the founding fathers, with their stove-pipe hats and bigoted ways and narrow, distorted minds.

Yes, perhaps there was something Vag could be truly thankful for, that he was privileged to live in this cruel, fascinating age. There was work to be done. The land had been cleared, tilled, peopled; it had been mechanized and industrialized. Silent, sullen breadlines had replaced the noise of stage-coaches and saloons; the shouts of congressional orators had given way to the quiet buzz of committee rooms. The pioneers and their heroics were laid to nest.: America had been made and it was being remade.

In the complexity of this day there was a challenge, in its very danger there was a thrill of reality, and in the vision it offered there lay the reward. For all these the Vagabond was grateful. And he was grateful for Harvard, too, because it fitted in and was fitting him . . . Perhaps he would have the chance someday to trace the steps of some pioneer, doing the job quietly, methodically, the way they taught him at Harvard, Perhaps someday he would even have some hens. Even more than for the present, Vag was grateful for the future . . . .