The Vagabond was sitting quietly last evening staring into the crackling hickory fire which drove the fall chill from his chimney corner, and thinking how the barbarian shriek of fire-engines would soon dispel the peace of his chambers under Memorial's clock. Suddenly there came a knocking from the depths, rap, rap, rap, thrice it came, and the distant corner of the room, illuminated only by the firelight, glowed with a greenish phosphorescence. Startled, the Vagabond discerned a figure standing there, limned in the faint, emerald light. Its coat was of gabardine, its trousers of flannel, from its eyes came the pinkish reflection of the midnight oil, on its checks were shadowed the black pouches of overwork. Before the figure stood a woman: "Why, then, 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky. What need we fear, who knows it?" With these words she vanished. The gabardined figure shrank. In her place there crouched an old man, dragging one of his withered limbs: "It is not resentment for the past that stings me," he shrieked in the falsetto of age, "I seem to foresee what I am doomed to suffer from these men in the future." He was, gone. The figure quaked and clung closer into its corner, and a multitude of locusts appeared, and their heads were like crowns of gold, their faces as the faces of men, their hair as the hair of women, their teeth as the teeth of lions; and they had breastplates, as it were breastplates of iron, and tails like unto scorpions; and their power was to hurt men. "I know you," the figure shrieked hysterically, "you're the Bible and Shakespeare examinations!" There came a mighty flash, and all was emptiness.

The Vagabond settled back and addressed a volume of the Catalogue, open to the list of officers, which he had been using; "'Quo Chium pretio cadum mercemur, tacos,'" he said. The leaf fluttered in the breeze, as if in assent.

TODAY

10 O'Clock

"Periods of European Philosophy," Professor Perry, Emerson D.