Of all seasons, this is the most baffling and uncertain. For a day, spring comes. And the snows melt. And the world is wet with winter's waning blood. Another morrow, and the wind shrieks again, and the cold rains descend, pelting back the vernal equinox to a more remote calendar page. Hour examinations, like so many scalping Comanches, are taking their bi-yearly toll. Concluding winter athletics are vieing desperately with commencing spring activities. Class elections are pitting friend against friend, while honor, influence, and politics set a dizzy pace. Seniors are searching wearily for a life-long job, and many others grope for a summer's employment--which only causes a variety of muddy footsteps in the basement of University Hall. House dances are flitting momentarily across the weekend horizon, glowing like meteors for a brief instant before expiring with a dull thud. Employer and employee, like two antlered moose, have clashed their horns and now stand panting. Countless thousands of multi-syllabled words are gouged out of textbooks and, still squirming, are grafted into theses. Scholarship applications are sorted into neat piles, and a termbill, soon to flutter into every mailbox, is being reckoned in Lehman Hall.

Everything is in a queer state of flux--not quite due, not quite ready, not quite finished,

Sure, vacation is near, but not yet excitingly near. Welles has gone; Hepburn has come; the opera sells itself out. The first paragraph of a news story reads: "Czechoslovakia was." Just Czechoslovakia was, period. A character in Shaw's "Pygmalion" snaps: "Yes, I said 'God' and I meant every word of it!" Daylight lengthens, but supper is still its deadline. Students eat goldfish, and dog food, and the ice cream record falls.

It is the interim--Harvard in limbo. But soon the interlude will vanish. Some people will be glad. They like action, things quite due, quite finished, quite ready. But the Vagabond will be sad. He is strictly an interlude lad. A lecture is now only a page of scrawled notes at the end of an hour. Soon, however, it will be a vital cog in the machinery of some course. Vag prefers them as they are now--as meaningless scratchings which have been joyfully interrupted in mid-sentence by the bonging of a bell.

Soon enough lawnmowers will fly, and streets will be dry, and people will again start giving a damn whether they live or die.