With the arrival of another Yale game on its bi-annual circuit to Cambridge the Vagabond feels the long departed spirit of youth creeping over him once more. It is the sort of thing that infuses a peculiar warmth throughout his windswept diggings high up in Memorial Tower and makes the fresh log on the hearth glow to a merry Crimson hue.

So the Vagabond straightens up the litter of papers which bestrew his desk, tills his briar with a fresh load of Cake Box and settles back to watch the smoke sail up until the first pale faint pulse of dawn beats into the eastern sky.

There is something about this Yale game week-end that seems not quite like anything else, unless it be a peculiar edition of New Year's Eve and New Year's Day brought out in the fall for the convenience of this weary adventurer. To blow the clouds away, this is rather a day of reckoning, of resolve, and of--yes--rejoicing.

Autumn is gone, the snow is here. The Vagabond can rake over the fallen leaves of the past season only with mixed emotions. If he has been regular in the performance of his duty in attendance at lectures, if those lectures have shown with their usual degree of luster, he has exhausted the store of his accomplishments. The full blossomed lot of pleasure has not been his during this last stretch of Saturdays. His coup detat, the carefully laid scheme to fly to Michigan, having been uncovered by the Yellow Press, he can reckon little for the credit side of his ledger.

But that is all done with and belongs to the past. A season has gone into the shades and another emerges in all its pristine glory. The Vagabond the new era with rousing spirit and a new hope of festive occasion. For it is here--der Tag.