It was the endless hour between Fine Arts and Anglo-Saxon class. The Vagabond has always found it difficult to brook the transition from an hour of Italian art to the toothy language of his primitive ancestors. Even the free hour between the two, spent wandering about the Yard clucking at pigeons (if that is what one does at pigeons), never seems to set him in the proper frame of mind.

As both the Yard and the pigeons were equally unexciting the other morning, Vag felt unpleasantly nomadic; therefore he climbed the steps of Appleton, leaned his head against one of the massive pillars, and fell into deep thought. Somehow Vag began to think about Shakespeare. Probably this was because of a remark made by one of his instructors which seemed to stick in his mind. The instructor had said with great fervor and obvious fondness for the great poet that Shakespeare is as much alive today as he was in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Exciting--Vag thought--if the immortal bard were really to come to life again for a day, just to see what he would think of us.

Suddenly a mysterious little man who looked like an anachronism appeared from nowhere. He was tremendously interesting from the point of view of both the Egyptologist and the psychoanalyst and even to Vag. It seemed almost certain that he was scurrying off to some clandestine meeting, deep in the entrails of Boylston Street, so Vag took pursuit. Of course it was bitterly disappointing to Vag's visions of international intrigue when he saw the little man turn off and head for Harvard Hall, but still hopeful, Vag followed him into the lecture room and procured a seat directly behind him. Instantly the little man produced a decrepit volume of Shakespeare's works and began to fondle the pages with fanatic tenderness. In his infrequent moments of coherence, Vag could distinguish such things as "Take you me for a sponge, my lord?" and "O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay." All during the lecture he nodded and frowned and bowed and articulated to himself. When the instructor read a particularly stirring passage, the little man would shut his book, lean back in his chair, and with eyes closed, would sway from side to side like a cobra, hypnotized by the music of the verse.

At the end of the hour, the little man darted out of the room, and with surprising agility succeeded in getting through the milling mob. For a minute, the Vagabond was afraid that he had lost him, but he soon regained the musty scent. Vag, following hot on the trail, just caught a glimpse of him, dashing into the protective spaciousness of Claverly. Vag broke into a mad run and flung himself into the hall just in time to see a tiny door at the end of the hall being quickly shut.

Vag approached the door stealthily, stalking his prey. Coming nearer, he distinctly heard the great cadences and denouements of the speech of a great Shakespearean actor. The little man was doing great things with the famous soliloquy from "Hamlet." Vag has no idea why he did it, but he found himself knocking on the door. As he recalls it, he was going to ask if this were where someone named Smith lived. Now there was not a sound. The voice had halted abruptly with "...When he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin?". Vag tapped again--still no sound. Vag tried the door and to his amazement it was unlocked. Warily he pushed it open, and there was an eerie creak of rusty hinges. The room was almost empty except for a case of ancient folios thick with dust. In the middle of the floor lay a strangely familiar volume--a decrepit volume. It lay open, and to Vag it said:

"'Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die--to sleep."