Dear Santa:

The Vagabond hasn't written to you for a long time. Say, 12 OR 13 Years. Of this he is acutely aware right now. Once there was a day when Vag wrote a letter to you each Christmas. This letter was inevitably the only nit of writing he did outside of school. Somehow, it never seemed a hardship--as was all other writing. It was scribbled rather carefully in pencil--on the dining room table just after the supper dishes had been cleared away. About this time of year, it was, too. Annually, it must have caused Mr. Farley's postal predecessor some trouble. The address was a little vague. Just North Pole. But it got through, You always knew what to bring. All in all, it was a remarkable performance.

But then, one winter, Vag made a disturbing discovery. Be found that it didn't matter whether he wrote to you at all. Incredible as it seemed just a few suggestions to Father seemed to do the trick. The presents came through fine just as ordered. And so faith in Santa went into serious decline. In fact, speaking seriously, Santa, nothing ever went into Vag's ashean quite so completely before or since. Except the stork. For a while, Father, like an old silly, kept dressing up like you every Christmas. But it was a pretty dismal flop--and he gave it up.

Why does Vag write now? Well, frankly, Santa, things aren't so good. For the past several years, the presents haven't been coming through at all well. Father has become inclined to say bluntly: "Go to hell" when Vag makes his Yuletide suggestions. More and more, Vag is finding he has to play Santa himself and for himself. And the only word for this situation is stinko.

Vag has been sitting here tonight, brooding over this matter while pawing the typewriter keys. Christmas is upon him--and only ties, handkerchiefs, gloves, and such stuff in prospect. Where are the days when Vag could tingle with the expectation of an electric train? Erector sets--where are they? What has become of the Lightning Glider that used to nestle under the living room tree? They were thing worth getting up at six o'clock in the morning to go down and see! But now--well, Christmas is losing all its glamor. A tour of the toy departments of the department stores shows that you've not been standing still. Yours toys have been making great progress. Today's youngsters have it swell. Vag felt very lonesome the other day as the peered with amazement at some of the toys ticketed for lucky kids on the 25th.

Santa, how about a new deal for the college generation? A lot of those toys are too damn good to be wasted on infants who don't know how to enjoy them properly. Frankly, Vag could use an electric train this Christmas. His roommates wouldn't laugh. They're a bit sheepish on the subject--but Vag bets they'd play too. So, could you spare one train--just a little one? Into the ashcan with false sophistication! Vag is going to hang a hopeful stocking.