It so fell out that the Vagabond had visitors over last weekend. They had read in the CRIMSON of his golden days in the mountains, and they had also read in Emerson of the man in the wilderness who built a better mouse trap than his fellows. So they trooped to the haunts of the Vagabond and lay "upon the hills like Gods together careless of mankind." They were Harvard men; one of the Old Guard of '95, one of '28, a youth who was learning to stroke his lip thatch and was cutting his first History One lecture, and the Vagabond.

Around the fire they gathered in the cool of a May evening to talk, as Harvard men will, "of ships and sealing wax and things." '28 asked the Vagabond about Class Day down in the Houses with a note of stale regret in his voice and the Vagabond answered in the words of, as the newspapers have it, our Dr. Lowell that--"that institution is dead which does not change." "I know," said '28, "but the fountains, what about the fountains, will they play in the quadrangles?" Alas, no one knew, though the lip thatch lifted to impart the sad news that in the Yard he found no fountains. "Ah, the old order . . ." said '28, who felt he had a flair for words--he had been in Bio-Chemistry.

'95 reached down slowly beside his chair to feel for a bit of pottery and coughed. "When I graduated there were no fountains. There were pretty girls, and beer, and nervous youths, and expansive fathers, and happy mothers, and honorary degrees--but," and the voice trailed off--"there were no fountains."

"I thought," said '28, "there had always been fountains."

"Wrong," said '95, "it all began in 1907 or thereabouts. The fountains had just been set up when two seniors returned from Boston after examinations. They returned much as boys do now after Divisionals, for man does not change though the institutions of man do. In the moonlight they saw the sparkling water, heard the long drawn chuckle, felt the oppressive Cambridge heat. They smiled with heavy assurance each upon the other. Here was a method more amusing and quicker than a cold bath. And in the waiting silence a profounder laugh was added to the long drawn chuckle of the fountains. Up went the windows, out went heads, down went the windows, out came boys. And in the next half hour six hundred Harvard seniors made an aged tradition. It was as simple as that," said '95.

'28 sat back a little saddened and shocked, the Vagabond put away his note book; it was not his business to be either saddened or shocked. The lip thatch rose and fell with a slightly audible regularity.

This is the story of the fountains. Here is the superior detachment of '95, the sweet, sad memories of '28, the slumbrous indifference of '35. And with whom does the Vagabond range his forces? There can be but one choice, but one loyalty--with '28. '95 is too old and '35 is too young, but we, in our time, we have known. Give back the Cambridge heat, the long drawn chuckle, and the water sparkling in the moonlight. The Bourbons have gone, but the Lily remains. Guy Fawkes is dead, but they hunt him out each year in quivering candle light. In 1797 Venice was only a beautiful town when the last Doge Lodovico threw his golden ring into the sea. And the Yard is taken from us.