THE VAGABOND

"Traditions of 300 years and more were swept away..." Vag put down the Monday issue of the Crimson disconsolately. "This mid-winter graduation business just tops it off," he mused. "And it isn't only the war, either. Harvard is losing all its legends, all its color."

"What's worse, 1946 knows nothing of the University's traditions." The day might even dawn, he thought with sorrow, when a Harvard man might not know who a Yardling was, or what to do when he heard the cry of "Rheinhardt!" echoing through the Yard on a warm spring evening. "I don't suppose," he said, half-aloud, "that this year's Freshmen even know who Join the Orange Man and Bob Lampoon were."

By way of confirming his fear that 1946 was completely unfamiliar with the ivy-covered folklore of the 300-years-old institution, he swung on his Freshman room-mate accusingly. "Did you ever liear of the old letter-carrier who used to climb across the roof from one entry of Matthews to the other as a short-cut to save steps?" he demanded. Upon the expected "no" Vag settled back and sighed unhappily.

Finally rousing himself resolutely, he decided that this lost soul must be educated, and brought into the fold. He strode to the book-case and pulled down his copy of Jack Frost's "Harvard and Cambridge Sketch Book." After a few moments spent thumbing through the pages, he located the one he sought.

"There," he said, covering the caption with one hand. "Do you know who that is?" One glance at the drawing, and the Freshman looked scornfully up at Vag. "Why, of course," he said, "That's Copey."