Musing on the greensward was the Vagabond's contribution to world-thought yesterday. He was reclining on the grass in the Yard...oh, yes, he knows the yard cops and is a privileged character. In fact, the essence of his stream of consciousness was concerned with other privileged characters. To follow out the thought-associations it was like this:

June weather. Soon his proteges would be leaving the Cantabrigian shores for Home. A wave of sadness engulfed the Vagabond. He could see the shining faces of his school children on vacation. The tender charm of the parental hearth. And he was saddened by the reflection that he had no home other than Harvard. True it was a fine place but there was no denying a lack of homely atmosphere resplendent in the surroundings. No milk-bottles on the back-porch, for instance.

He meandered to his feet and sauntered along with his stream, Anxiously musing on the dearth of the great American family touches in the Yard he walked out toward the Union building, a favorite rendezvous of his...he made it a point to watch billiard-shots carom about the Lincoln green. And then he stopped with great amaze.

For there in the sacrosanct, holy of holies the Harvard Yard he espied that sight so common to Mondays the world over. A day late to be sure, but there it was lines and lines of clothes hung out to dry. Wooden clothespins. Laundry by bales. And at last his heart was content. His home was some thing more than a state of mind at last.

He passed on to the billiard balls. Of course, there are only two homes in the Yard...and the Vagabond has always made it a cardinal principle to lash the vice and space the name.