The Vagabond looked dully at the flatulent page of the Post; the legs of La Gatta's women are getting too fleshy, he thought, and when will the gods that be realize that America wants Beer? The magazine reminded him vaguely of a mail-order catalogue, and he tossed it aside. He wandered idly over to the table where they were strewn about, thumbed them over, looking for one to fit the melancholy morning. Adams House, he reflected, has the gold where-with; he was glad that his sense for the bizarre had led him to adopt Adams as the refuge in which to claim sanctuary while Adolph the Ambitious removed the last vestiges of revelry from Number 14 Plympton Street.

Brightly clothed in canary an intellectual review caught his eye. He toyed with it for a moment, turned it over, and was chilled by its complacent pseudosity. There was a weekly in a cover framed with the scarlet which advertised its contents; the Vagabond contemplated this seriously, but he remembered that it would be filled with cynical bad taste and journalisic perversions of the English language; this was no day to make allowances for a Yale education; Time was passed in judgment. Then there was that magazine in dull green; the Vagabond could taste bad gin, and the contents of the monthly revolted him.

He had nearly given up when another of those depressing waves reminded him. Punch, the hair of the dog! He leafed it through, enjoying the comfortable, gouty advertisements, all of health bread or tyres, or Haig, all with the chorus, the eternal chorus, Made in England. The Vagabond settled more evenly in the luxuries which They Won't Be Able to Have When They Graduate and ran through the Charivaria. English wit, English witl He glanced once again at the little man on the ass, just beneath Mr. Punch on the cover, and buried himself in Lalage's letter. England, he was reassured, would muddle through.

TODAY

9 O'Clock

"The Oxford Movement," Professor Brinton, Harvard 5.