p-life is the absence of monotony.
In Hobo Land the face of life is protean--an ever changing
phantasmagoria, where the impossible happens and the unexpected jumps
out of the bushes at every turn of the road. The hobo never knows what
is going to happen the next moment; hence, he lives only in the
present moment. He has learned the futility of telic endeavor, and
knows the delight of drifting along with the whimsicalities of Chance.

Often I think over my tramp days, and ever I marvel at the swift
succession of pictures that flash up in my memory. It matters not
where I begin to think; any day of all the days is a day apart, with a
record of swift-moving pictures all its own. For instance, I remember
a sunny summer morning in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and immediately
comes to my mind the auspicious beginning of the day--a "set-down"
with two maiden ladies, and not in their kitchen, but in their dining
room, with them beside me at the table. We ate eggs, out of egg-cups!
It was the first time I had ever seen egg-cups, or heard of egg-cups!
I was a bit awkward at first, I'll confess; but I was hungry and
unabashed. I mastered the egg-cup, and I mastered the eggs in a way
that made those two maiden ladies sit up.

Why, they ate like a couple of canaries, dabbling with the one egg
each they took, and nibbling at tiny wafers of toast. Life was low in
their bodies; their blood ran thin; and they had slept warm all night.
I had been out all night, consuming much fuel of my body to keep warm,
beating my way down from a place called Emporium, in the northern part
of the state. Wafers of toast! Out of sight! But each wafer was no
more than a mouthful to me--nay, no more than a bite. It is tedious to
have to reach for another piece of toast each bite when one is
potential with many bites.

When I was a very little lad, I had a very little dog called Punch. I
saw to his feeding myself. Some one in the household had shot a lot of
ducks, and we had a fine meat dinner. When I had finished, I prepared
Punch's dinner--a large plateful of bones and tidbits. I went outside
to give it to him. Now it happened that a visitor had ridden over from
a neighboring ranch, and with him had come a Newfoundland dog as big
as a calf. I set the plate on the ground. Punch wagged his tail and
began. He had before him a blissful half-hour at least. There was a
sudden rush. Punch was brushed aside like a straw in the path of a
cyclone, and that Newfound