A full moon in Cambridge is like a campaign speech of "Fighting Bob" La Follette's before a group of deaf mutes. In the country there is some raison d'etre for a moon. Mountains, valleys, and tall timber are creatures of the night. They take on new lustre and majesty in cool October moonlight, and the awkwardness of day is softened. There have been, there are, and there will be many apostles of the moon. An Emperor or of Rome, one Caligula, a mad wight, once paid court and married her. He died soon after, broken hearted and without an heir. That ephemeral immortal, Ted Lewis, sings a fetching song called Moonlight Madness, which has to do with a beautiful evening, a beautiful moon and a beautiful girl. And once an extremely decadent romantic conceived of a poem that began "If all the stars were pretty babies and I was the man in the moon."

These and kindred thought welled up within the Vagabond's soul as he stared up some nights ago at the clear harvest moon. Cambridge is a hard place for such gifts of nature, but the wanderlust was upon him. There dashed across his mind the swift thought that the dubutante season had begun. It was a tough thought, but classes had just begun and there was the moon. And, for a bit of rationalization, it is the Vagabond's business to have traffic with all peoples. Like the cat that walks by himself all places are alike to him. So he girded up his loins and went to a Deb party. There were the girls, the widows from Winsor; there were the ushers, suave and important with gardenias; there were the punch bowls overflowing; there were great cascading bouquets. There were laughing faces and broken hearts and heels. There were immaculate dress shirts, and a soiled white dress. There was the fanfare of an orchestra and the husky croon of a singer. There were tinkling glasses and the dull thud of a bass drum. There was the ecstacy of a first dance, there was the boredom of a thousand. There was the lonely terrace and the crowded ballroom. There were long, embrassing conversations; there were short, embrassing silences. There were scrambled eggs and Grade A milk. There were those who cut in and those who, most unfortunately, did not. There were top hats and Chesterfields. There were purple satins and old golds. There were the first warm greeting and the last cold good night. There were the best of times, and there were the worst of times. There was an evening mist. There were missed chances. There was the garish, gilt ballroom flooded with light. And there was the moon.