That the man who packs his bag with heavy books and notes there is no greater moral coward. To stoop to that ultimate degradation of deceiving one's own conscience, to carry books vacationing with one, not to be opened until the fine for lateness has reached appalling dimensions, is the last stage in the degeneration of a vagabond.

Academic thoughts and fancies should, and probably will, fade as quickly as the iris and narcissus so carefully planted in one's rooms only to bloom for the janitor's delectation during Christmas vacation. But strange to say, the world will be no husk, no empty shell. There will be left, among other things:

An El Greco "Madonna Dolorosa", at the Anderson Galleries in New York, which was sold last week for $14,000, but which may be seen for fifty cents.

A novel, "The Sun Also Rises", by Ernest Hemingway, which may be very good or very bad, but which at least it is inconceivable not to have read.

A performance of "Die Walkuere", on Saturday night, with Jeritza doing some remarkable galloping over the pasteboard mountains of the Metropolitan stage.

Another novel, "A Man Could Stand Up", by Ford Madox Ford, the third of the great trilogy on the last living Tory, Xtopher Tietjens, which is, excepting "The Great Parade", the only great thing that the last war produced.

An exhibition at the Milch Galleries, in New York, of the paintings of one Thomas Monan, a man who sat down at 9 o'clock every morning for some forty years with a black cigar in his mouth, to paint pictures for the Sauta Fe railroad, and whose work is as full of life and energy today as it is empty of form or grace.

A book, "The Golden Day", by Lewis Mumford, which is, among other things, the application of Irving Babbitt's canons of literary criticism to American civilization what Van Wyck Brooks is willing to call the greatest book of American criticism, and a book that will thrill and depress any self-conscious and curious-about-himself American down to the very bottom of his feet.