Summer is indeed "a-cuminage in". There is no surer sign of it than the advent of the spring vacation-now for once the Easter vacation-and the completion of the first batch of April hours. O custom, what crime are committed in thy name! And then yesterday afternoon, as the Vagabond was wandering along the sylvan banks of the limpid, winding Charles-somewhere up near Watertown, just this side of the abattoir-wandering be it said with no ulterior purpose but perhaps with a lurking desire to see a burnished dove and prove the business about the newer iris and all the rest of it, he felt that indeed a new era had begun.

And a pleasant one. No more will the Vagabond be in imminent danger of contracting pneumonia from having to walk through the muddy slush of Massachusetts Avenue, as he makes his way to the shines of learning. From hence forth his steps will be bent through the pleasant lush valleys, flitting like a ghost under the shimmering moonlight of former nights of striving to separate the pure gold from ore, the grains of knowledge from the chaff of the win-nower of learning. And the danger to his health will be immensely reduced.

But for the next week neither the banks of the Charles, nor the board walks of the Yard may they soon be removed nor even the spirit of that white, cold and immovable bust that gazes so silent and steadfastly out through the halls of the Fogg, far out into what one knows not, will move the Vagabond to pursue his search of the things which one rendered unto the mind. In fact, about the only thing which will move him is the 1 o'clock to New York, and he advises all his readers to let this beneficent influence effect them too,