The Vagabond wandered along his favorite path beside the Charles River last evening and reflected on the possibilities of a beautiful Harvard if grass and God were allowed half a chance. In the smoke of autumn some of the grossness of the Harvard architecture was lost and the fire warden's caboose atop Eliot almost disappeared in mist. A few blades of grass between the Houses would have reduced their architectural wranglings.

The thing that impressed the wanderer most, however, was the river itself. For it was untroubled; its surface rippled only in rythms of rowing. It was past five o'clock so the customary rivetings and donkey engine snortings were over for the day and Harvard seemed quite unlike itself. Here and there along the banks of the Charles a professor enjoyed the sunset in a precise, pedantic way. And the inevitable Sargents patrolled.

The open season for lecturers is upon the College so the Vagabond must soon to his profession. It is pleasant to have as one's vocation one's avocation. A professional listener-to-music is no distant relative of the Vagabond's. For many times the old boy of Harvard has heard the same voice give the same lecture. And there are good and there are bad performances. The art of speech has suffered of recent years and rare indeed are the lecturers who command graceful address. But the Vagabond can point to some of his friends, most excellent fellows, who still expose their professions in suitable style. And he soon will advertise what he knows will be choice hours for the connoisseur.