Last night, as the Vagabond slowly climbed to his dusty sanctum beneath the moldy crags of Memorial Hall, the world was good, and his heart was warm. The crash of heavy trunks reverberates slowly through sacred elms, and the last empty truck rattles futile chains as it whisks into the night; the faint whispering echos of listless leather on cold marble pass into infinity, and friendly beacons twinkle from the yard. Freshmen are a strange race characterized by anxiety, pennants, mothers, and rubbers; but they are dear to the Vagabond. The old fellow envies their careless confusion, he,--ah, there it is! Was that a first timid querulous Reinhard from gaunt Matthews? Yes, the world is good, and warm, and friendly.
Today, however, is too much for the Vagabond. There will be large manila envelopes, there will be schedules and term bills, and tomorrow there will be upperclassmen. For refuge, the Vagabond, will betake, himself to the hills, to the quiet disorder of nature.
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