Last night the Vagabond went for a stroll. He went for a stroll under the elms in the Yard. It was not, as you might think, the Freshmen, listening to inspired oratory in Phillips Brooks House, nor the splendor of the chapel, nor even the hope of hearing a first, tentative 'Rinehard' which prompted him. The Vagabond was possessed by a deeper nostalgia as he walked by the walls of Hollis, and thought of the things that are passed.

For at length the inconceivable has happened: "Copey" has deserted the Yard; "Copey," whose presence, though unseen, was as real and essential as the Yard itself to generations of Harvard men. Freshmen will come and go, but Hollis 15, with its flickering lights in the evening, with the lampblack on the ceiling and the trophies of a great career on the walls, these have been written into the final page, and the book is closed. And writers will return, in the future as in the past, to do homage to the man who set them on the road, but they will not find him in Hollis.

Why should the Vagabond, to whom, as to most Harvard men today, Professor Copeland is the most elusive of Harvard's sages, heard and seen once perhaps in the college year, take this exodus to heart? He might answer lightly that with "Copey" goes also the last hope of walking into the Yard to find the famous Boylston cow placidly cropping the lawn in front of Hollis: always a favorite, though remote, dream of the Vagabond's. For although any Boylston professor has the traditional right to pasture his hypothetical cow in the Yard, what person less venerable than "Copey" might have dared? But he never did, and now . . . Or the Vagabond might reply that he regrets something more desirable even than this: an atmosphere too rare to be reduplicated, an hermitage which was at the same time a focal point for youth and its enthusiasms, something which the Vagabond, though he has known of it too much by hearsay, nevertheless thinks that he understands.