It is at this season of the year that the Vagabond first feels cramped and unhappy, feels a nostalgia which will completely overcome him late in February when there is no Yale game, no Christmas recess to break an unending monotony. When he thinks of snow covered firs, lakes bound in dark green shimmering ice, among the low rolling hills, and a certain Louis Seize drawing room where a joyful terrier momentarily basks before a crackling hickory fire, he wonders dimly how he will endure humdrum Cambridge till June. At this point in his cogitation he wanders absently to the punch bowl, and helps himself to a bit more, with a generous spike.

Perhaps Cambridge has its attractions. Sophomoric rhapsodists can find much amusement in professors who tread hats and coats and the self respect of students with equal lack of fooling. The moronic intelligentsia works off the escape complex in a celluloid dosage of Will Rogers. H. T. P., whom the Vagabond admires, can wax lyric over the spire of Memorial Church, can weight the Church and Widener in the balance and find them not wanting, and can borrow the better puns of his admirers. There are those who listen to the radio, even unto the weather report. But at present the air of Massachusetts is filled with a dark brown taste, and the sky is overcast. A Princeton catalogue makes good reading.