CLASS OF 1919
Since our last tidings went forth to greet you, we have pulled up what stakes were left and come back home to Boston. We will now startle the advertising world from the offices of Doremus and Company, at 20 Kilby St., the which are under the capable (will someone please tell Louis this was in here) management of Louis Munro. At least we will until he finds us out.
This change has led to any amount of confusion and one class extravagance. We hope the class as a reward for great pains of our accurate reporting to date will forgive us if we be a bit sketchy this month. We are undergoing the ordeal of moving, and, stating it conservatively, things are a bit scattered.
One confusion is perhaps worth reporting. Jim Wilson, the Salem Smoke merchant, suffering writers' cramp while in the midst of his Christmas card list, forwarded the rest to us with that old stall about not having the addresses. We went to Boston for Christmas before they arrived, found them when we returned, but the list was somewhere else by that time, and here we are with them still on our hands. If some of you get a card from Jim about Easter you will know at once that it is for last Christmas and not next. Or maybe we will just throw them away and tell you a Merry Christmas here—for Jim. In case any of you are curious as to what they looked like, there was the fconventional greeting and a picture of a lot of fools dressed in red and green, walking around in the snow singing—probably drunk, is our guess.
The class extravagance is a gray horse of another color. It is rather tough to make the admission in our first report as treasurer, but we shall probably blame it all on Martin. Our President, thinking he might write a letter any time now, decided to have some class letterheads printed, which he did—and very natty they are too. Unfortunately, as they came hot from the press, we were busily moving off to Boston, which makes the address listed neatly at the top under your Secretary's name look very silly indeed. Now we will have to have a rubber stamp made to change this error, which we are told will run into an additional fifteen or twenty cents. All right, sue us.
Rowland Pollard writes in from Burma, where he is manager of the Standard Oil Company, as follows, "I have been manager of Burma for some time, and find it very interesting, as the country reaches for 1200 miles north and south, and marches with Tibet, Yunnan, Indo-China, and Siam, and has about a million islands, one of which I am going to buy if I ever get ahead."
Phil Watson, vice-president of the Detroit Guardian Company, writes in with a liberal pledge providing we will make the stock market go right up again. We had thought of that anyway, but we're glad he mentioned it, otherwise we might never have got around to it.
Mose Forrest must have gone deaf and blind. He went to Philadelphia for the Navy game, but reports that he could find no Nineteener anywhere about. If previous reports concerning the noise the Sullivans and Balch were making are true, poor old Mose must be losing his faculties.
The Proud Poppers Club takes extreme pleasure in listing K. D. Smith, Jr., on October 14. Ray Adams, treasurer of the John T. Slack Corporation in Springfield, Vt., announces a husky boy. Stub Stoughton, just because he has moved from Seattle to Richmond, thinks he can send in his daughter Barbara's name again. We will tolerate no such foolishness as this, and any further attempts to . gain fame through repeating in such manner will be punished by suspension from the club.
It is finally out why Shorty Gray was not at our Tenth in June. It seems he had a date just then to get married and kept it. Our Eastern Pennsylvania spy reports that anyone in Reading even for a minute who does not get in touch with Shorty and Lillian is considerable of a fool.
Some time ago we had lunch with John Chipman, who in an effort to impress us said he had to rush off at once to keep a date with Lindbergh. He was armed with one of his latest Tachometer catalogs and was going to tell him something about speed. We bought a paper leisurely about four o'clock, and read that Lindbergh was hunting a lost aviator in Western Pennsylvania. We suggest that John tell Marsters how to play football, or something easier like that.
We just got a letter from Senator Heflin and Bernard Shaw. In fact, a lot of people like that all in a list. Henry Ford and Colonel Lindbergh appear, and then further down the list Lady Hay and John Barrymore. After that we don't seem to know many until we get way down to the bottom, and there we find Bill Carto. It is a chain letter, and must go around the world three times. The letter implies that to break the chain is to invite immediate death, or at least a good sound stomach-ache. This is rather terrifying to anyone as lazy and yet as superstitious as we. We hasten, therefore, to send you all this message, which you must send on and on and on. If the mailing department will mail Carlie Biddle's copy east and Pollard's west that will make once around in one fell swoop. You'll be amazed at the message:-—"Cross Crossings Cautiously." Well, it's good advice anyway.
Bill (if Allen has it it's wrong) Allen, dog fancier and financier, has departed for the Argentine for the First National Bank of Boston.
New Year's morning about eleven o'clock we were driving down Long Island in hopes a stray breeze would blow the fog away. Suddenly we found ourselves near Paisley's house and decided to stop in. He had roused himself long enough to conquer a cup of coffee, but was just crawling back for another go at the coma when we came in. We swapped New Year's resolutions for a few moments, and spoke with little enthusiasm of the evening before. Then we pushed the kids back into the corner and played with the electric train for an hour or two—and all felt much better.
Secretary, 20 Kilby St., Boston
