Down in the jungle of central Jersey the Vagabond once got lost. Just the same old story. But eventually the crimson-hued challenger of Mr. Richard Halliburton found much for his satisfaction. And something for the enlightenment of the breakfast table.

In that jungle there is a football locker building on the side of which one sees a bronze plaque. Here formal tribute is emblazoned to men who hitched their wagon to a star, and who rode in that wagon until the hitchings broke. Here is recognition for men who failed; for the scrubs of Princeton's elevens.

The Vagabond has had a fellow-feeling for these Princeton scrubs ever since the inception of the House Plan. And he feels that, in the present pause between the dark and the daylight, he may be allowed a little moralizing.

In this latter day it is rare to find any trace of the boys who didn't make good. Moral victories cover up the short end of the score and the dice are cleverly loaded so that everybody wins an automobile and a radio, and forgets that workmen and vagabonds have no beer.

Just where this sheep-like gambol after perfection leads, the Vagabond has no idea. But he does believe there is a load of common sense in the words of a distinguished physician who dares people to be themselves without shame: "Let us not train our children to a style of life in which they shall always demand to be first. Let us teach them to go out into the world and not be perfect--to do a good job there and have the courage to make mistakes if necessary. Let them not feel that their self-cateem depends on their being perfect. And let them have the courage for imperfections."