Gentlemen, our time is come. The mists of four years have passed away and we stand in the clear sunlight of the last hour. Soon Harvard will be but the tavern where once a pleasant night was spent in a long journey. The world that lies before us is big with ruin for it has been the drill ground of feet of clay. On our horizon there is thunder as well as dawn. But the past day has been fair to see.

Let us not therefore consider what is to be, for that must come, but what has been. This is the last week and how should it be spent. There are the Divisionals to remember, but surely that is a dull thought. If four years will not prepare you adequately, what will one week avail? And anyway, there are the long afternoons and the longer evenings in which to bind together the slender sheaves of thought and memory. The Vagabond has devised another way to pass the mornings for his seniors. In his good years here he has formed many friendships with the Professors. They have not known him, nor have they seen him, for therein lies his excellent wisdom. But he has heard them. Certainly the seniors have done likewise. Let them follow his example, for they will never have another chance. Let them go of a morning to hear their favorite professors.

There is Professor Fay walking in the garden with the Kaiser talking in gentle epigram under the moon. There is Professor Langer who starts all Revolutions on a hot night when there were festoons in the windows and sees all Europe marching while Bismarck in the corner beats the time on a massive drum. There are the shuffling feet and hunching shoulders of Professor Webster when Victoria hearkens to the voice of "her angel" as he climbs out on the golden bar of heaven. There is Professor Baxter addressing his class, even as though they were the Senate, in a voice of heavy fury to emphasize the lightning brain. There is the eraser, the pointer, the gentleman wearing the hat, the other nine hundred and ninety nine, and all arrive at unity through the ability of Professor Merriman. There is the calm precision of Professor Tucker as he unravels the skein of English literature. There is Mr. De Vote reducing the sophomore to a sentimental pot pourri with his tolerant cynicism. There is the deep thunder of Professor Holcombe, inevitable and inviolate as the Monroe Doctrine, settling down over the Carribean. There is the deep rapture and breath taking enthusiasm of Professor McIlwain which sweeps the stupidity of Stephen and of the class into brighter realms. There is Edgell playing like the eternal fountains of D'Este. There is the tranquil sentiment of Mr. Hersey as he sits like a corner of London, and a truly delightful corner, in Sever 11. There are all these and many more. They have given their time, their energy, and their devotion to the high cause of Harvard and they can not be forgotten or dismissed. They have taught us what we know; they are our education. Hear them again.