The Vagabond has not stirred much abroad of late, but sits in close-striving study over Kant's "Ethics," and for relaxation counts the number of students taking History 1 in the New Lecture Hall. In the evenings he watches the first of the terrific little moths fling themselves with pings of desperation against the tin shade of his study lamp. And in the mornings, supine upon his pallet of horrid languor, he gazes with admiration at the accurate spider stretching her slow web across a corner in anticipation of the few flies which wander solemnly through the unremembered rafters of Memorial Hall.

On one memorable occasion he did ramble forth into the byways of Cambridge in search of the fresh inspiration of spring, and betook himself to the banks of the Charles river. For were not the Yard pigeons puffing themselves out in proud glory, and were not the board walks taken up? And did not the spring zephyrs ruffle delightfully the surface of the Charles and the dresses of the doxies along its banks? But no more could these aphrodisiacs of spring enliven him, for now they aroused within him a palling cloud of defensive inactivity, which made the light breeze seem vicious, the caressing sunlight tropical, and even the grass like brittle spicules of rock.

Seeking wild escape the Vagabond turned up into the net of quiet which stretches between the river and Massachusetts avenue. Until sundown he paced their pleasant and unchanging lengths, and absorbed in reflection forgot the pricking of spring.