This is all a mistake. Reall, you know, I am not the Vagabond, No, he is living up to his name by roaming through the rainy region of Boston. Brockton, Brighton, and Brookline, chasing--not a burglar--but an idea. When last seen he had queer instrument of a green color under one arm with which he said he hoped to bag the idea. Imagine searching Boston for an idea. I told him he was an optimist.

I expect to spend the day right here in Cambridge singing Songs from Vagabondia in the best Carmen manner as I gayly trip to Emerson J with shredded wheat on my breast and waistcoat--to hear Professor Prescott lecture on the Principle of Integration. Then to counteract this I shall blossom forth amid the literary buds in Sever 28 where ten o'clock will find Professor Lowes discussing Shelley--a far from, integrated person--or was he? At least I know the story about the ladies and his crossing the room clad only in disremembrance.

But surely, Vagabond or not, I must rest a bit. So eleven will discover my errant figure before the gate with the Latin inscriptions improving my mind as Bruin my digestion with a rank pipe. Twelve, however, since I have not the persistence of Socrates (though that's another story), will disclose my last peregrination of any purpose--for I intend to walk back and forth between Harvard 8 and Robinson determining whether Dr. Murdack's lecture on the background of Milton's work or Dean Edgell's on the Early Renaseence in France has the greater attraction. Anyone who wishes to walk with me can give his name and address to the Society for the Prevention of Peregrinating Pipe-ophuls and he will receive more than he has given--which will mean something if you read something into it, the eternal prerogative of scholars and gentlemen.