A last plunge in the surf from the long beach where the tide comes in like a racing current . . . . a last glance from the bluffs where the lighthouse blinks across the sea toward Portugal . . . . a last look at the rose-covered cottages, the winding streets, the open moors where the red deer browse . . . . a warning whistle from the boat . . . . assorted farewells . . . . the little yachts with the bright-colored sails fade away in the twilight . . . . back to Boston, back to Cambridge, back to politics, depression, newspapers, prohibition, bad weather, books and autumn . . . . And then cometh Atropos.

The Vagabond has always been a sensitive soul, disliking abrupt contrasts. The annual transition from vacation to college jars his equilibrium, and the divine aflatus is wanting. Besides, when one has to come a week in advance, and dwell in the midst of the desert that is Harvard before registration . . . . The rising splendor of Memorial Chapel, and Eliot House blossoming forth with its new shrubbery, are not enough. The great days are still vivid, and what is to come is yet unsure. The Vagabond greets his clan, and asks their indulgence for another day. Perhaps the spectacle of the incoming Freshmen will brighten his spirits.