There are probably a lot of good lectures going on here and there in this vast university, and the Vagabond probably ought to do something about it. You see, the only real official reason for and business of the Vagabond is to spy out the several academic gems which sparkle through the dull lode of thousands of ordinary lectures each year and pass the good word along to the student public--generally enhancing the picture with a few precious baubles of his own opinion on the subject. Yes, the Vag knows he ought to get down to business. But he also knows he can't dictate subjects to himself. And today just seems to be not his day to rave of scholastic oratory. It's Saturday--the first one of the New Year--and the Vag will probably spout about more vital matters. Such as football.

Like every other honest young man, the Vag has oftentimes admitted to himself, and, occasionally to others, that he would make a wonderful tailback. Provided, of course, that he could ever muster time enough to get into good condition again and buck up nerve enough to report for practice. It is no secret to the Vag that he probably could tuck that pigskin under his wing and run like hell for a touchdown against most any opposition. And he's a pretty keen fellow when it comes to calling plays, too, for that matter. Mix them up--run, pass, kick, fight for that extra yard--keep the old legs pumping all the time. He has a very distinct idea of how it feels to get out into the clear and watch the safety man dive at him desperately--and miss. It feels grand. And he can take it when the going gets tough, too--uphill all the way. Frankly, at times Vag thinks Mr. Harlow ought to know more about Vag. Just because he sometimes writes pretty sentimental stuff about the things he likes or about things which floor him doesn't mean that Vag can't get down closely enough to earth to throw a good block.

In his time Vag has known lots of Harvard footballers. They are pretty human and they have fun and some of them like symphony, too. Maybe some of them write, or would like to write, sentimental stuff like Vag does. The other fellow's pasture may seem greener to them, too, and so maybe they can understand why the Vag feels like playing football these days. Especially on Saturdays.

But Vag knows deep down inside that he'll stay in his own pasture. Gridiron glory is not for the lackadaisical type such as he. Instead this afternoon he'll provide himself with a Wellesley Miss, fortify himself with all his stadium impedimenta, and be off to Soldiers Field to watch the season's premiere against the Browns. As far as the game is concerned the Vag promises to confine himself to yelling. He figures that some of the other boys can probably take care of the ball-toting and signal calling well enough.