HE jogged around from town to town, “to see the world,” was his excuse;
he’d get a job and hold it down a little while, then turn it loose. “Oh,
stay,” employers use to say; “your moving is a foolish trick; you’ll
soon be earning bigger pay, for we’ll promote you pretty quick.” “This
town is punk,” he would reply, “and every street is surnamed Queer; I’d
see the world before I die—I do not wish to stagnate here.” Then he was
young and quick and strong, and jobs were thick, as he jogged by, till
people passed the word along that on him no one could rely. Then, when
he landed in a town, and wished to earn a humble scad, the stern
employers turned him down—“we want you not, your record’s bad.” He’s
homeless in these wintry days, he has no bed, no place to sup; he “saw
the world” in every phase; the world saw him—and passed him up. It’s
good to “see the world,” no doubt, but one should make his bundle first,
or age will find him down and out, panhandling for the wienerwurst.
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