It came over the Vagabond a few short days ago that a college year was dying. What was it old Omar said, "The Bird of term has but a little way to flutter?" And there came with his regret at seeing the old order changing, the wanderlust. He crammed his briar, swung his great grey Burberry around his shoulders, and was off. The old fellow strode along the banks of father Charles off which the evening mists were rising, and on which the evening mists were rising, and on which the evening dews were falling. How long he walked or on what paths he trod will never be known; for he was deep in thought. At long last he looked up to see before him two graceful Spanish buildings. He is not quite sure about the Spanish part, but the structures stood on a moor anyway. Over the front door of one was a stork medallion; that would be the "Lying In" hospital Over the front door of the other dangled a beer bottle from the window above; that would be the medical school. It was.

The old fellow made shift to enter and was warmly greeted within by his old and loyal followers of years past. They bade him sup with them in their large and paneled dining room. All unwitting he accepted. Hardly had the little group sat down before one of the young medics began mouthing pendantically about his sacra lillac joint. In his usual gallant way the Vag abond played the game. "I find that front bites better with a Dowaglac." O God, O Montreal what had he done? Laughter, like summer thunder beneath distant horizons, shook the clapboards. Sacro-illiac was a part of anatomy. From that opening salvo it was as impossible to turn the conversation into familiar channels as to stem the full tide. Those boys so normal in college days, who had hung on the Vagabond's every word with awe and rapture, now forgot him. Their talk was medical talk. Their tragedies were medical tragedies. Their jokes were medical jokes. My and what poor jokes medical pleasantries are. If a quip is to have any point at all someone has to die.

The Vagabond did notice one thing that rose distinctly out of all the chaos. Vanderbilt Hall was the house plan. All were interested in the same thing, all talked with each other. The scapel had severed the bonds of society, of money, of nationality. Every valley was exalted; every hill made low. The hills and the jokes had much in common.

After the repast the little gathering went upstairs. They must show the Vagabond a dormitory room. On the way one of the number knocked at a door. "Get the hell out, I'm studying," was the shocking answer. A think grimace was pasted on the lips of the knocker. They would have revenge. Two Victrolas were commandeered and set to playing on the door stoop--"Something To Remember Me By." Then a few fire crackers were shot off to give the thing a tinge of reality. The scoundrels slunk off to their rooms to study.

Thinking it over on the way home, the Vagabond was not sorry. He has never been what the middle west vulgarly calls "collegiate," but he is a sentimentalist--which is a refined collegiatism. He was glad to see that men who have left the gates of Harvard two and three years behind can still maintain that joy of youth which is the graduate's greatest heritage. It was reassuring to know that adolescense is immortal.