With the disappearance of the moisture so prevalent in Cambridge last Friday, and the gratifying results of medicinal draughts upon the Vagabond's imminent pneumonia--now happily he is out of danger and once more able to set pen to paper--a problem confronts him; or rather be it admitted, a problem did confront him until very recently. In a word he has decided to quit the hallowed shades of Sever, the exalted glories of Emerson--in short the fair, silvan banks of the winding crystal Charles itself--and bask in Bermuda for the rest of this miserable, cold weather.

And after all, who will blame the Student Vagabond? Who, indeed! Who is so hard hearted as not to shed a tear--even only figuratively speaking at the thought of the grievous impediment which the freezing slush of Massachusetts avenue would offer to progress of the wanderer's roller skates? Who would not weep to see him, lightly skimming along the boardwalks from Harvard to Sever, trip with dire results upon a protruding nail, half hidden by the snow? Who would not but why call up more misery? It is, indeed, lost too many tears should flow, least those who are enjoying the advantages of the Reading. Period should spoil their books, lest, in fact, the Widener steps should become impracticably icy, that the Vagabond is leaving and for other reasons too.

But let that too cause no sadness, for the very tears of the parting are, as they say, swallowed up in the smile of the return, and as soon as the weather and various other conditions grows milder, the Vagabond will once more be a frequenter of the Yard.