The first snow yesterday just past noon and the flakes melting before they touched the sidewalks. The Vagabond busy as the squirrels in the Yard, leafing through his Chaucer, reading J. Q. Adams: "Chief Pre-Shakespearian Dramas," (Shakespearian always looks wrong after a year of Kitty's Shakespere), listening to Crane Brinton in History 34a, taking a brisk walk along the Charles, breathing October air.

"Those brown October days,

The Saddest of the year!

When it's still too warm for whisky,

But a little too cold for beer!"

At the Crimson the Vagabond notices through a sheaf of printed letters. Dear Sir: Will you fill out enclosed postcard . . . . your lectures . . . . most interesting to undergraduates outside your course . . . . thrice-weekly Vagabond column . . . .

An editor's scribbled epigram on the bulletin board:

Landon is making a dogged race For Presnent of the United Stace."

Pudding pledges "running for Dickey" in the Yard. Brinton says they are "conforming to the aggregates of the community." Sort of thing all Individuals have to do or perish. Compensate for economic abnormalities with discipline in other things . . . .

The Vagabond and his love to the Army game tomorrow . . . . brass buttons and brass music, smoky-blue greatcoats, lean American faces, gloved hands in a row as straight as a die; black jerseys with horizontal stripes, red jerseys with huge white numerals, golden pants. The Vagabond and his Love on cold stone seats, bruised by the carnival mob. And afterwards sweet dry applewood on the fire and lights coming on in windows across the Quadrangle and a long godbye and bed.