Lazily the Vagabond rolled out of bed and peered out his window into the sunlight and the courtyard of the almost deserted House. "By gosh, he yawned, "It's a good day. The three hundred and sixty-fifty, or something like it, and I see by the Crimson they've got another Commencement coming round. I guess I'll shave."

Later he was looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. "You know, Vaggy, you're not a bad looking guy. Right now all spruced up like that you remind me of the Yard. Funny, they spend all Spring getting that Yard fixed up for the graduates to see when they come back. Why are the alumni so important at Commencement" Perhaps, it's because they're going to give us some money."

The Vagabond gasped and nearly swallowed his toothbrush. He was on the trial of something big. Why do they give us money? To help the University as an institution or to help the students? Both I guess, but I'll bet there are a lot of men who would rather help the students directly than create national scholarships or roving professorships, but they can't give any money because they don't know what the University needs from the Undergraduate point of view.

Vaggy was buttoning his shirt but in his excitement putting the wrong holes round the wrong buttons. "I'll make a list. By Jupiter, I'll make a list."

And some time later he had produced the following: many thousands of dollars for 1) improvements in the health plant which is at present inadequate to care for us properly, especially in epidemic time; 2) fireproofiing and fire escapes for Harvard and Sever Halls. Of course, there never will be a fire there, but when it comes some few of us may be messed up; 3) making more of the precious and at present uncatalogued books in the Library available to us and creating a unified and separate music library; 4) endowing athletics so that our full program may be really open to all, really amateur, independent of press ballyhoo; 5) leveling off a needed new athletic field just beyond the Stadium.

The Vagabond was biting the eraser on his pencil thinking, thinking, "What else does Mr. Average Undergraduate need?"

FAREWELL OF THE CRIMSON EDITORS

Come, turn over the pages--

One, two, three, four, and once in so often six

"Someone resigns, someone appoints to, somebody speaks.

Someone wins, someone loses, someone predicts.

Someone plans, someone plays host to, somebody stages.

Someone is glad, somebody rages."

Is it this year, or next year, or last year?

We alone care? Say,

Send down the issue ten years old today,

And hurry on where

We may weep copious tear over a pitcher of beer.