B-z-z-z-z. Drat that alarm clock! The Vagabond, lying in bed in a somewhat comatose state of vacuity, vaguely wondered where his left arm might be. He wanted to use that arm, too, as the alarm clock bothered him, and he felt that for humane reasons he ought to be kind to his poor aching head, and shut that infernal buzzer off. But he certainly wasn't going to be able to cope with any alarm clock if he couldn't find his arm. Yes, he remembered, he had missed his left arm last night in the taxi; was it a taxi?--well anyhow it made no difference, when he was escorting one of the young ladies home whom he had met on a "most delightful party, yes, indeed, a most delightful party.

B-z-z-z-z; "well," bitterly reflected the Vag, "at this rate I might just as well let the malignant machine have its own way. It can't keep it up indefinitely and I suppose that I can stand it for a second or so longer." Finding such trains of thought too wearisome for a mere ten o'clock on a Holiday Morning, the Vag, too lazy to get worried about his missing left arm, turned over, pulled the warm quilt over his head, and went back to sleep as quickly as possible.

But sleep was not so easy; green, red, lavender, ochre, and buff little creatures began to dance through his ebbing and flowing consciousness. Everything was swaying as though motivated by a giant dish-washing machine. Oh! that dull throbbing around the temples! that clammy, sticky, dry, clogged feeling in his throat and upper tonsils. Would those mittens on his teeth ever wear off? Little pricks and barbed darts of conscience began to torment him as he thought of that ten page paper for Slavic Oology due tomorrow, and on which he had put absolutely no work whatsoever. The professor had been noticing his absences of late, so that would make it doubly hard to get an extension. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he must get up. Screwing up his courage, and valiantly summoning what little strength he had left, the Vag threw off his bed covers, and then fell back onto the mattress overcome by the exertion.

But not for long could he remain in naught but pyjamas, as the damp, cutting winds of Cambridge's marshes blew icy little gusts through the half open window, and set his teeth achattering, and the gooseflesh arising. Oozing out of bed, the Vag pried open both eyelids, put his left foot into his right slipper, and his right foot into his left slipper, and stumbled off to the shower.

Ah! but the hot water felt deliciously soothing to his jangled nerves and tired head, as it cascaded in merry little rivulets off his tousled locks. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad life after all. Dreamily musing and mulling these ideas over in his mind, the Vag reached for a piece of soap, and then began to lather himself. Ah, but maybe he hadn't recovered from last night's revelry as much as he had thought! The soap refused to glide smoothly over his skin, and his epidermic sensory nerves did not react properly to the massaging motion of the palmolive cake. Abandoning his dreamy thoughts, and becoming truly alarmed, the Vag looked; groaned; and then looked again. Oh fudge! Why hadn't he taken his pyjamas off?

The Vagabond wishes to say that he hopes that the members of Harvard University had as pleasant a Thanksgiving Day as he did.

(Editor's note:

A letter from the editors of the Monthly received too late, after revision to bring it within the required 400 word limit for publication this morning, will be printed tomorrow.)