Speaking of Vachel Lindsay, his “Handy Guide for Beggars” will bring an itch along the shanks of those who love shoe-leather and a knobbed stick.  Vachel sets out for a walk in no mean and pettifogging spirit:  he proceeds as an army with banners:  he intends that the world shall know he is afoot:  the Great Elian of Springfield is unleashed—­let alewives and deacons tremble!

Ungenerous hosts have cozened Vachel by begging him to recite his poems at the beginning of each course, in the meantime getting on with their eating; but despite the naivete of his eagerness to sing, there is a plain and manly simplicity about Vachel that delights us all.  We like to know that here is a poet who has wrestled with poverty, who never wrote a Class Day poem at Harvard, who has worn frayed collars or none at all, and who lets the barber shave the back of his neck.  We like to know that he has tramped the ties in Georgia, harvested in Kansas, been fumigated in New Jersey, and lives contented in Illinois.  Four weeks a year he lives as the darling of the cisalleghany Browning Societies, but he is always glad to get back to Springfield and resume his robes as the local Rabindranath.  If he ever buys an automobile I am positive it will be a Ford.  Here is homo americanus, one of ourselves, who never wore spats in his life.

But even the plain man may see visions.  Walking on crowded city streets at night, watching the lighted windows, delicatessen shops, peanut carts, bakeries, fish stalls, free lunch counters piled with crackers and saloon cheese, and minor poets struggling home with the Saturday night marketing—­he feels the thrill of being one, or at least two-thirds, with this various, grotesque, pathetic, and surprising humanity.  The sense of fellowship with every other walking biped, the full-blooded understanding that Whitman and O. Henry knew in brimming measure, comes by gulps and twinges to almost all.  That is the essence of Lindsay’s feeling about life.  He loves crowds, companionship, plenty of sirloin and onions, and seeing his name in print.  He sings and celebrates the great symbols of our hodgepodge democracy:  ice cream soda, electrical sky-signs, Sunday School picnics, the movies, Mark Twain.  In the teeming ooze and ocean bottoms of our atlantic humanity he finds rich corals and rainbow shells, hospitality, reverence, love, and beauty.

This is the sentiment that makes a merry pedestrian, and Vachel has scrutineered and scuffled through a dozen states, lightening larders and puzzling the worldly.  Afoot and penniless is his technique—­“stopping when he had a mind to, singing when he felt inclined to”—­and begging his meals and bed.  I suppose he has had as many free meals as any American citizen; and, this is how he does it, copied from his little pamphlet used on many a road: 

RHYMES TO BE TRADED FOR BREAD

Being new verses by Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Springfield, Illinois, June, 1912, printed expressly as a substitute for money.