Widener reading room was quiet except for the labored scratching of pens. Vag looked around and yawned. He surveyed the room, which, in contrast with the blue sky and sunlight outside, looked gloomier than ever. Across the table someone was busily taking notes on a big, red book called "The Origin and Evolution of Life." He wondered whether the student would know anything more about Life after reading the book than before. "Probably not," Vag reflected, sadly. He yawned again and looked outside. "Wonder what the Red Sox are doing," he thought, gazing dully at his book.

Then, suddenly, Vag acted. He knew what he would do--he would go down and study on the river bank under the trees near Newell. Not even the most exacting taskmaster could expect him to stay in Widener on a day like this, but Vag would satisfy both himself and the hypothetical taskmaster by studying on the river bank. He closed his book and strode out of the library and through the Yard, breathing in the invigorating spring air. Poetry filled his soul. He thought of a stanza from Wordsworth that went something like.

"One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can."

Vag had never liked Wordsworth in prep school, but today he had to admit that the old duck wasn't half bad. He was drawing near Larz Anderson Bridge now, and he felt wonderful as he idly watched single sculls whisk by far below. Then, he was over on the other side of the river. He turned towards Newell and suddenly espied two pug-nosed Cambridge waifs sitting on the bank fishing. Vag looked at them grandiloquently. "Salve, piscatores," he said. "Same to you, fish-face," came the reply.

Vag trudged on.