Ever since his debut upon the stage o" the world; the Vagabond has suffered from the handicap of an innocent and benign exterior. Old gentlemen used to pat him on the head in public places, and kind relatives used to supply him with constant provender, the gentlemen with buffalo nickels, and the ladies with peppermints. A utilitarian even at his early age, the Vagabond would persist in harmonizing his actions with his appearance, to his immense material profit and moral advantage in times of stress.

This policy was studiously followed for five days a week. Sunday was a day apart, and so was Saturday. This sixth cay was a day of untrammeled freedoom, and the young wanderer doffed his assumed naivete and reveled. From cops, and robbers over the back fences in the morning to surreptitions ice cream cones at the corner (on uncle's nickels) in the afternoon, and the glorious splash in the tub at night, Saturday was a grand day of Back To Nature.

And now there is no change. With Sunday still a blank, five days a week the Vagabond roams academic purlieus, poking his head into lecture rooms and art exhibits, and himself exhibiting a healthy interest in the things of the mind. But on Saturday, especially in the fall, all this generally goes off with the Friday night undressing, and Saturday's clean shirt brings with it a new character. Ice cream cones have vanished, and tub splashing is gone with all dead things, but the splashing spirit is still ready to splash.

Today in particular is the Vagabond ready to burst forth. Late last night he disturbed the occupants of a certain dormitory with his efforts to master the war whoop of a Dartmouth Indian on the march, so that he might be polite when he greets his New Hampshire friends. And his spirit is so buoyant that he expects to get his quota of enjoyment out of his Section 17 perch in the Stadium. To all luckier and less lucky brethren he wishes a strong weekend.