Vag has had a hard time at the John Mason Brown lectures. He has been to five out of six so far and he hasn't yet had a chance to sit down and enjoy one thoroughly. Brown has talked on every one of Vag's favorites among the modern dramatists, but poor Vag has been uncomfortable through them all. Brown has waxed witty on Shaw and on Shirley Temple; he has coined (or quoted) sparkling epigrams--the kind that Vag, himself coins (or quotes) in his day-dreams--on Chekhov and on Mrs. Roosevelt. But through it all Vag has sat disconsolate. A smile now and then has crossed his face, but he hasn't laughed outright more than twice.

Certainly he would like to laugh. He realizes that the Evening Post's dramatic critic is very amusing, but, in his Victorian way, he is not amused. How can he be happy spiritually when his physical needs are so great? How can he laugh when his back aches or his feet complain?

The jinx began to follow him six weeks ago on the night of the first lecture of the series. As was his wont he arrived at 8:30, a half hour late for the lecture. His sense of the fitness of things was shocked to find such a crowd assembled at the door of Emerson D that he couldn't get in. He heard only snatches of comment about "The Doll's House" and "Ghosts" and he vowed to break Vagian tradition and arrive on time the next week.

He did get there on the dot of 8 and actually got inside the door, but that was all; he heard about "George Behr-nard Shaw" from the midst of the s. r. o. crowd, and Providence had placed a six-foot Radcliffe girl in front of him as an added feature.

Five minutes early for the Chekhov lecture, Vag got a choice seat on the floor with his knees doubled up under him. He thought more about Buddha than "The Cherry Orchard" that night. Then he pulled in at a quarter before the hour to hear the one-man debate on Barrie vs. Galsworthy and sat in great discomfort on a window ledge.

Discouraged a bit, Vag cut the next lecture and went to listen to LaGuardia, but he came back to Emerson D last Thursday. It was the worst experience of all. The only seat he could find was one on the stage right beside Brown. Vag, who is no Elizabethan, felt as though all the eyes in the audience were on him. Poor even at after-dinner speaking, he was so embarrassed that he didn't hear a word about Eugene O'Neill.

Tonight Vag has a plan. Box lunch in hand, at six o'clock. . . .