e not a bit pious,
who, on the first warm day when customers were scarce, yawned themselves
into a prodigious holiness. Who, indeed, would resign himself to changing
moneys or selling doves upon the Temple steps when such appeal was in the
air? What cobbler even, bent upon his leather, whose soul would not mount
upon such a summons? Who was it preached the first crusade? There was no
marvel in the business. Did he come down our street now that April's here,
he would win recruits from every house. I myself would care little whether
he were Christian or Mohammedan if only the shrine lay over-seas and deep
within the twistings of the mountains.

[Illustration]

If, however, your truantry is domestic, and the scope of the seven seas
with glimpse of Bagdad is too broad for your desire, then your yearning
may direct itself to the spaces just outside your own town. If such myopic
truantry is in you, there is much to be said for going afoot. In these
days when motors are as plentiful as mortgages this may appear but
discontented destitution, the cry of sour grapes. And yet much of the
adventuring of life has been gained afoot. But walking now has fallen on
evil days. It needs but an enlistment of words to show its decadence.
Tramp is such a word. Time was when it signified a straight back and
muscular calves and an appetite, and at nightfall, maybe, pleasant gossip
at the hearth on the affairs of distant villages. There was rhythm in the
sound. But now it means a loafer, a shuffler, a wilted rascal. It is
patched, dingy, out-at-elbows. Take the word vagabond! It ought to be of
innocent repute, for it is built solely from stuff that means to wander,
and wandering since the days of Moses has been practiced by the most
respectable persons. Yet Noah Webster, a most disinterested old gentleman,
makes it clear that a vagabond is a vicious scamp who deserves no better
than the lockup. Doubtless Webster, if at home, would loose his dog did
such a one appear. A wayfarer, also, in former times was but a goer of
ways, a man afoot, whether on pilgrimage or itinerant with his wares and
cart and bell. Does the word not recall the poetry of the older road, the
jogging horse, the bush of the tavern, the crowd about the peddler's pack,
the musician piping to the open window, or the shrine in the hollow? Or
maybe it summons to you a decked and painted Cambyses bellowing his wrath
to an inn-yard.

[Illustration]

One would think that the inve