It is a baleful season. No longer the dull throb of an orchestra, like drums in far off mountains, sounds in the gilded ballroom. Dresses black and gold and red and ochre, have been folded away in the cedar chest against the coming of a new campaign. Great grandmother's ear rings have gone back into mother's jewelry box. In one short month the sound and fury have dropped below a far horizon. And the girls have drifted off to Bermuda in new tweed suits, or to Florida in picture hats. Now this, to the Vagabond, is altogether fitting. Not the vanishing of the pomp of little circumstance, but the drifting off of the girls. They have gone up into the collar like good Clydesdales and true and they should have rest from labor. But the Hegira, gentlemen, leaves Harvard strangely quiet and sorrowful and alone.

There lies before only the prospect of weary days in Sever and weary nights in Widener. And what a bad time to study it is. Berkeley appears even more esoteric and fanciful than in January. Surely it must have been in March that Johnson bade him go kick a stone. The gilt shimmer of Imperial Napoleon tarnishes under the leaden light of a March sky and there is soil upon the green breeches. Rousseau weeping for his brain children beneath the trees seems only rather maudlin where before his cries ran down the avenues of revolution. The Vagabond, being no mathematician, can only wonder what an equilateral triangle can seem like in March.

But it is not only the subjects. Each professor seems suddenly to have only one very shabby suit of clothes. Each enters the classroom with the same irritating shamble and toils through the day's matter in much the same monotonous drone. There is roast beef in all the Houses for breakfast and for lunch and for dinner, and for a demitasse. There is a very poor movie in all the theatres in town; there is very poor rhum in every bottle in Cambridge; there is a most strident and complaining voice through every fire door in the college. There is the same bland look of innocence on every Freshman's face and the same suave cynicism on every Sophomore's. The bell in Sever rings louder and more frequently. There is no discharge in the war. It is the baleful season. It is Harvard. It is life. It is April Hours. It is the departure of the debutantes--although this is doubtful. It is a mental attitude. It is a fact. It is March.

TODAY

9 O'Clock

"Explanations of the Terror--Circumstances," Professor Brinton, Harvard 5.

10 O'Clock

"Anthropology Demonstrations," Professor Hooton, Semitic Museum 1.

11 O'Clock

"Samson Agonistes; Structure," Professor Matthiessen, Emerson A.

"Rebirth of Democratic Party (1877-1887)," Professor Schlesinger, New Lecture Hall.

12 O'Clock

"Lizst; Illustration," Professor Hill, Music Building.

2 O'Clock

"Gilbert, White, Arthur Young, Scholars and Divines," Professor Greenough, Sever 11.