Harvard, the Vagabond reflected belligerently, as he gambolled down the steps of Widener, had no soul. Vag was in one of those devil-may-care moods which always scize him, to the detriment of his marks and the anguish of his tutor, just before examinations.

Harvard, he mumbled to himself, side-stepping Radcliffe cross-traffic, gathered living art from the world over and than went out of its way to keep anyone from seeing it. If Vag had been in a rational frame of mind he would have remembered that the Spirit of Sun Vat Sen outside Boylston rather exploded this theory, but he was, as the careful reader has already noted, in an irrational frame of mind.

And it was in this frame that Vag set out for the Glass Flowers. Well did he remember the first time he had seen them. It had been one of those beautiful Spring days("cloudy with light showers in Boston and vicinity") and he, along with two-score noisy Crimson editors, half the Cambridge police force and a little man with a flashlight camera, had shown Their Royal Highnesses the Zog Sisters, Harvard's high spots.

As he gazed at the flowers he could see them still (the Zogs) as though it had been yesterday. There they were, all three of them. All dressed in identical black dresses, with identical gold shoes and identical orchid orchids, all chattering merrily away to one another in sign talk. (This is getting pretty close to lose majeste; perhaps we'd better go on to something else.)

And as he gazed at the flowers, Vag began to attach tremendous importance to them, perhaps undue importance. Those tender petals had been the life work of Blaschka pere et fils. They had been publicized by Harvard and sanctified by royalty. And where were they? In a fire-trap if Vag had ever seen one.

Suddenly a terrible vision swept across the Vagabond's imaginative mind. Sirens screamed. Great tongues of flame lapped at Peabody. Squads of firemen, regardless of personal risk or private property, ran in with axes. There were sickening sounds, and then the smoke-eaters appeared at the windows and threw out the cases. (Firemen can't be expected to understand about these things: lost of them are Democrats.)

And right on the spot, Vag made a noble resolution. If ever he made a lot of money--the absurdity of the idea rather appealed to him--he would come back to Harvard and give them a brand new, fire-proof, fireman--proof museum with "I wandered lonely as a could" written across the front in Albanian. And now Vag's only worry is that someone may do this before he gets around to it. . .