The Vagabond and his confreres have just learned. The Vagabond's old admirer, the Radcliffe Daily, is no more. She exists still in spirit, as the Radcliffe News-Daily, but the spark which made her is gone, for she appears only thrice a week, and has lost her trim slimness. She has time before each issue to wipe her spectacles, arrange the knot on the back of her head a bit more neatly, and write a reflective editorial full of concise, trenchant phrases about poetry and politics, or war debts. It is thus that she has lost caste. There was a day, in the years gone by, when she hurriedly threw aside her books, dashed off a splendid bit about riots or the Vagabond himself, and sent it to the printer without rereading in the royal manner.

Perhaps it is only that Radcliffe has changed, though there are doubts on that score. Of course, the Vagabond wandered a bit confusedly through Gothic Yale Saturday, of course he drank cocktails with very smooth Elis, but, unexpectedly, he met Radcliffe after the game in a Harkness study. She was drying her shoes before the fire, and as she wriggled silken toes all was confessed. Not ships and sealing-wax were the topics of conversation, not the game, for Radcliffe felt very bad on that point (she had been there with a Yale man) but Harvard men themselves were dissected and improved. What she said will best be left unrepeated. Harvard men were the subject of Radcliffe's conversation, and the Vagabond believes that Radcliffe is unchanged.