"We have reached the point as a nation where we must take action to save the Constitution from the court and the court from itself."

"We must take action," the Vagabond reflected, as he sank deep in his comfortable armchair and watched the blazing logs kindled in his fireplace. "We must take action." How often he had sat in that chair, watching the fire and hearing a soothing voice that urged him thus! Always the fire seemed to catch the spirit of the voice, and respond to its glowing tones with ever more brilliance. Like the voice, it would subside and become quiet for a time; and then, once again, it would burst forth, ever agitated, glowing, ardent.

Tonight there was no voice. But the flames, with their rhythmic rise and fall, seemed to be hearing one,--to be responding to every variation of its golden cadence. And the Vagabond, as he studied the rhythm of the flames, seemed to hear it with them, seemed to hear it crying, "We must take action to save the Constitution . . ."

"To save the Constitution." As he projected himself back into the days when first he heard those words, the Vagabond remembered the noisy campaign, with the bandying of "liberty," "democracy," and the "American form of government." He remembered the crowds, the noise, and the national frenzy that rose to a fever pitch one warm November day, and then subsided. He remembered hearing that golden voice as it swore to "preserve, protect, and defend" the Constitution. He remembered all these things--and then, as if in echo, he heard again, "We must take action to save the Constitution from the court...."

Others had heard those words. Another voice, not so golden, not so sonorous, not so fluid, came back to the Vagabond. "These are serious times. Liberty is crumbling over two-thirds of the world. . . . The ultimate safeguard of liberty is the independence of the judiciary. . . . I give you a motto: 'Hands off the Supreme Court!'"

Not so golden, this voice? Ah, no! But now the truly golden voice seemed less reassuring. On it went, delightfully smooth, wonderfully resonant; but the flames, still fluttering, still dancing, slowly died out. Thus rudely brought back to April, 1938, the Vagabond let them die. Time enough to rekindle them later, he reflected; and, in imagination, he will watch the dancing fire and hear the golden voice as he listens to Professor Frankfurter tonight in the New Lecture Hall, speaking on "The Court and Mr. Justice Holmes: Civil Liberties and the Individual."