The Vagabond, it has been observed with depressing frequency, is a sentimentalist. He likes Strauss in music, Dickens in literature, Munchenbrau in drinks. From the sickly thought of divisionals and finals he turns to dream of the budding green things which on days like this defy the name of the Blue Hills; of dripping paddles moving on a quiet river: of everything which fortunate people have always done in May. He is even that worst of sentimentalists, one who loves a tradition for its own sake, and regrets its passing. New things may be best, but the old are consecrated.

He likes especially the traditions, now fast fading, which cling around the College Yard. For him each one as it passes is a laurel plucked by ruthless hands from John Harvard's pate. The Houses in their crass contemporaneity he is reconciled to not by the vulgar convenience of dining-room and private shower, but purely as breeding-grounds of the traditions of the future. In the meantime he feeds his soul on what remains of times done: the charming fatuity of a raucous voice calling for "Rinehart!" and especially the Yard Concerts, which are always with us in May.

In these, with the hundred-odd voices of the Glee Club sounding from the steps of Widener, with the professors and the professors' wives, the students and girls from Radcliffe listening under the shadow of the elms, with the sun going down in subdued splendor, and the pigeons fluttering about the columns, the Vagabond detects a freshness and spontaneity which break through the veneer of Harvard indifference. Last night only a slightly chilly wind checked his enthusiasm, and even that did not prevent him from joining the group of carollers on the steps, at the invitation of the impressario. Enthusiasm and a large crowd can cover a multitude of vocal sins, as they did the Vagabond's. One cracked voice is a minor point in the general effect, and the Vagabond is everlastingly grateful to Professor Davison and his choristers for their part in upholding a brave tradition. He will go again next Tuesday; perhaps he will even sing again.