“The Wanderer” is from the pen of Charles Ashleigh. It is said to have been written in jail. It is a justification, not complete, of the hobo principle of living for the day and by the day, of enjoying the sweets of life, if they can be secured, and of avoiding its problems.
Is there no voice to speak for these, our kin;
The strange, wild sorrows for the wanderer’s soul;
The shining comradeship we sometimes win
When on our wilful way to visioned goals?
We are the ones to whom the forests speak,
For whom the little by-streets run awry;
Ships are our mistresses, and vaulted peaks
Draw us unconquered to the tyrant sky.
And what if we in sordid corners sink,