The Vagabond was recently reminded that Professors, as a group, are not of the human race. They move, like a James Branch Cabel Wotan, in a Valhalla of their own making. Not that they are much given to Walkuere-Quite the reverse. But they are absolute in their own spheres, they have the prerogative, a sort of vail as compensation for the numerous inconveniences which they suffer in their office, of doing much as they please. They may flick cigarettes from the mouths of undergraduates who violate the no-smoking rules, or bash in the felt crown of impolite sophomores, with equal impunity. Of course, they run a risk of embarrassment in case they abuse their privileges. There is still extant a Professor who walked into the New Lecture Hall to see how his assistant was supervising an examination in his popular survey course. To his immense irritation he found a young man standing in the middle of the centre aisle bluebook in one hand, examination paper and pen in the other, gazing unconcernedly about at the papers of other young men, making no move to answer the questions for himself in his own bluebook. "Sit down!" the professor thundered. The young man sat down. The professor turned his back, the young man arose, the professor caught sight of him and returned him violently to his seat. The young man was rising in his seat again when the Professor, wrath awful upon his brow wheeled and cried, "Don't you know that you're supposed to he at work? Get out of my course, Get out of here!" The young man reddened, spoke meekly: "But Sir, I am a Proctor.

The Vagabond enjoys the sound and fury, the pomp and circumstances. It would be a poor thing to worship a god who never caused an earthquake, who never created a monkey.