There is no grander heritage than a noble tradition. Traditions do more than add quaint lustre to old and great names; they grant a stability and a tranquility which would be impossible without them. In the darkest hours England has ever known she has hung on and muddled through, because, generations before, men of England had hung on and muddled through. That is one of the finest traditions, but there are countless others. For centuries "the brethren in their sorrows overseas" have stood, glass in hand, in barren mess rooms looking at a homely portrait on the wall. One amongst them has said in a quiet hushed tone, "Gentlemen, the Queen", and, with a clicking of heels, the toast has been drunk. After this the little glass shanks of the goblets are flicked apart and they are hurled into the fireplace. This is a very expensive tradition, but a most pleasant and necessary one. And then there is the custom of searching the cellar for Guy Fawkes' men at the opening of every parliament. The torch bearer as he steals about the dripping cellars of the building is not a simple man. He knows that Guy Fawkes and all his men have gone and that if Parliament is to be destroyed it will be by their own hand. But this is not as absurd as it all sounds to the crass materialist. It is what makes the English a great nation, a great band of comfortable, content, utterly confident Soames Forsytes. Take away their traditions and the pomp and circumstance of all England would be dragged in the dust.

At Harvard there are certain traditions. There is Reinhardt, that last, and lingering remnant of the late nineties. The Vagabond loves Reinhardt as a brother. It is comfortable to hear Freshmen leaning out of their windows of a balmy evening shouting his name as though it were something altogether new and entertaining. There is also indifference. There is the Yale tradition. And there is the Radcliffe girl.

Long years ago our fathers in the pride of their youth set out to build up a Radcliffe tradition. She had chestnut hair, in long braids; she had large, low heeled, button shoes; she had cotton stockings. She wandered into the library like the witch of Endor and enquired if the lost volume of Kant had been returned. She raised Christian eye brows when a student said, "Hell." She peered through thick glasses and talked through a shiny nose. A thoroughly unattractive figure she was.

This tradition has lasted even until now. The Vagabond has always accepted it as one of the few eternal, absolute truths. And then one day last week his path fell, by chance, through that indefinite area of brick known as the Radcliffe Yard. Hello, what was this? No doubt a Debutante hurrying to a tea on Brattle street. Hardly had the Vagabond turned around to pursue his course than he blundered onto another. By heavens, the place was full of them! Slick, svelte, trim as a new yacht. It was Radcliffe. A tradition was passing. Worse, it had come to a pretty pass. Here, for how many years he did not know, the Vagabond had lived, lived shall he say?--existed, with this land of plenty just around the corner. Well, he mused as he swung off toward the abbatoir, tradition may have been the salvation of England, but not so with Radcliffe.

The Vagabond feels that he owes a word of thanks and apology to his friend Dr. Huey. It was this wily Oriental who first brought the matter to his attention, but he disregarded it as merely another one of Huey's idle prognostications which are founded upon no firmer foundation than faith and hope, albeit they are received in charity. One or two of the more dubious witticisms are also his.