The Vagabond

Buds on the trees. Girls on the Charles. Spring in the air. Within the Vag's innermost soul, an Urge, long hibernating, began to stir, yawn, stretch itself. Vag thought of all the girls he didn't know,--then tried to think of one or two he did. There was that red-head at Smith. He had written her a couple of weeks ago. Maybe it was Spring at Smith, too; maybe she had answered. Vag dashed down to the mail box, but no letter from her. Only a very large and very official letter from Milwaukee.

Coming back to his room, he opened the envelope cautiously. Out fell a two-page typewritten letter and a lot of enclosures from the Jane Fuller Club announcing that it could "secure just the kind of wife you want in a very short time." The letter ended with the command that Vag "act today! Why besitate? Satisfaction guaranteed."

Mopping the cold sweat off his brow, he thumbed through the enclosures. One began "Would you marry rich?", another "U.S. filled with girls who are wealthy and single," still another gave descriptions and photographs of prospective spouses. "A vivacious blue-eyed blonde of 22 in search of her ideal. 5 ft., 4 in., 118 lba., sunny nature. Has property worth $10,000.00." "A lovable 54 year old widow of means. Owns a farm and a town house, and would like to find a capable mate to help her manage her affairs."

"In the space below describe the kind of a lady you desire for a life companion and we will attend to the matter at once." Just like that! But who was this Jane Fuller, this dictator of the laws of nature? Should Vag, the cream of something or other, entrust his marital happiness to some unknown goddess in Milwaukee? No! And as he strode about the room in blustering defiance, a Great Idea came to him. The Government, that great paternal being, that impartial regulator of everything it can get its hands on, the Government should decide whom he should marry!

The idea grew. No more would he have to worry about the red-head from Smith. They'd take care of her down at Washington. Perhaps red-heads weren't anthropologically compatible with brunettes like Vag. Washington would know! No more worry about that little Radcliffe wench he'd met in Fine Arts class, either. A Senate Investigation Committee would probably submit a report showing how many Radcliffe-married Harvard men had thrown their wives out of windows in the last sixteen and a half years.

Nope, no more brooding on the Sex Question! When the time came, when Washington considered the Vag was prepared, he would receive, all cellophane-wrapped, his financially, psychologically, anthropologically, and philosophically compatible mate, and would settle down to a life of blissful contentment. With the fiery gusto of one who is consumed with a Burning Cause, Vag sat down at his typewriter and began a letter, "Dear President Roosevelt. . ."