The Vagabond has noticed an alarming symptom cropping out every now and again amongst the students. It is particularly bad at this time of year. He knows the old gag of Tennyson's about "In the Spring" and all the awful things that happen then, but did not the same old rhymster say that there was no joy but calm. He did. And the two are not compatible. The Vagabond has always been a batchelor for woman would restrict the carefree, wandering life such as his. He has patiently borne with the feministic foibles of his followings for he understands that debutantes are occasionally attractive. But he has always thought that they restricted themselves to casual theatres, the dansants, or football games. Marriage was beyond the bounds of even his palsied imagination. Yet they seem to be marrying.

The Vagabond can not frown upon this, but he can not wholly and openly condone it. The receptions are always bad. Everyone tells lies about the groom and trys furtively to take two pieces of wedding cake. And if one begins to kiss the bridesmaids, along about the third one he runs into an absolute dud whose smile would make a horse shy. This dud accounts for the endless conversations that one sees going on. The poor fool is trying to decide just what to do. And if one doesn't kiss the bridesmaids its no fun at all. And the Vagabond has never been able to decide whether "For better, for worse," referred to the groom's riding breeches or his tennis game.