The Vagabond has read the first editorial this morning and does not agree. To him life is not affected much by the kind of day. Whether the sun is out or not in Cambridge makes little difference in the quantity of nine-o'clock or hour exams. When mud puddles swoosh in the streets and everybody is nasty and wet, Vag sometimes fails to preserve his charming manner; but that's no reason to slap five courses onto the University's enormous curriculum.

Vag, however, cannot think about such matters for a long time; he loves to contemplate more pleasant aspects of the problem. Gliding, for instance, is pleasant to think about and it depends on wind currents of all sorts. He has always wanted to glide, he has heard and read so much about the sport, and yet he has never actually seen anything bigger than a two-foot model. He knows somebody, however, who knows somebody who has done the most wonderful soaring at Elmira, staying up through his own skill and knowledge of air currents.

It is not long before Vag climbs (mentally)into the cockpit of his sailplane--one of those white gull-winged ones that soar so silently over the countryside, miraculously holding itself off from the sordid earth beneath. Vag shoots into the air, makes use of several tricky thermals, then skillfully maneuvers the ship in a tight spiral under a great heavy cumulus cloud.

Up and up he flies till he reaches the flat base; there he hesitates a moment wondering whether to take a chance and fly right in. Other people have done it, why shouldn't I, thinks Vag. So he plunges his plane into the darkness, and is suddenly surrounded by hail, sleet, and rain, coming from all directions. In a second the fabric on the wings is torn off. He and his ship hurtle towards the earth.

No, thinks Vag; this started out to be a pleasant day-dream, but now... well, either I will have to take a course in Meteorology or stop soaring, and that's final.