I have the best chair again to-day.  Everywhere I see covetous eyes of this big leather armchair before the center window.  Ah, well, it was hard to get.  The former occupant seemed unnecessarily interested in that trade journal.  However, the daily paper guilelessly laid within his view and without his reach, at last turned the trick.  Witness the power of the press!  And so I take my book and settle down, priding myself on my little strategy, and well content.
      My feet are atop the radiator before the window.  Long years have taught this old chair its purpose;  it was made for relaxation, and defies my to sit upright.  Anyway, I won’t try; so I slip down into the old comfortable hollows, and place my feet on the radiator.  There is no other place for them except the window sill, and I acknowledge my consideration in saving the woodwork.  A boisterous little bit of wind slips thru the crack of the barely open window, flutters my trousers and sends a tickling thrill down my ankles.  Above me the window-shade fills and bellies, then settles again with a slow, soundless motion.  As it does so a narrow beam of sunlight filters in and plays across my chair.  I find it very pleasant.
     Outside, it is Spring.  The campus still shows only mud and last year’s weeds, and the buds have swelled upon the shrubbery near the entrance.  But I have looked further than these and I have read the unfailing signs.  Follow my eye up the drive to the path near the flagpole. A couple is wandering there, aimlessly direct for Burnet Woods.  And on ahead is another pair headed in the same direction.  One pair might be seen at any time, but only Spring can justify both.
     There is a great activity outside.  Students constantly erupt from the door below, and speed away up the path towards the Commons, trying to outdistance the crowd from the building to the right.  Yonder a steam shovel snots and swings and hisses, as it uproots the hillside to make way for another building [7] and more hurrying students.  This activity impresses me.  I moralize here in my chair, on the virtue of well-directed energy.  I glorify the industrious person, and predict dire failure for all others.  I remember my own work , and stir uneasily.  And then a thought comes, and I settle back content.  Most likely those out there would gladly changes places with me!
     My book is no technical discussion;  for times like this I pick a chronicle of travel.  Lazily, I glance through the pages, caught now and then by some stirring incident.  Intermittently, I doze, and let my mind run where it will.  Then the half-mast flag on the hill is not merely a banner upon a campus flag-pole.  It follows the Seven Seas, and floats over strange foreign lands.  In the basement below, the band struggles with a martial air.  The music floats up to me faintly, and the radiator beneath me vibrates in unison to the drum.  And I fall instep, and march away to lands of which I read, and the others are all unconscious of my doing.  Such is my hobby.