CLASS OF 1919
A trifle stupid with figures, we are somewhat confused by the steady flow of totals and percentages which we have been getting from Spider. We gather, however, that he is asking people for money and with some success. A careful scrutiny of some lists from him seems to indicate that the same crowd that has stuck with the class since graduation is coming through again without delay. But what pleases us most is the considerable number of others who are joining in. Spider is still a long way from a touchdown though, and needs the help of every man who ever jumped out the dorm window to the cry of "Nineteen up." Let's all come through.
A short time ago we made some remarks about Ken Huntington's having a brother who was an ail-American tackle at Colgate. Ken rushes to his own defense as follows:—- "Having read your column of 1919 news in the ALUMNI MAGAZINE, I find I am about to lose caste in the eyes of any of the class who may also read your column. As a matter of fact, I think you had better put me on the proselyting committee.
"It was no fault of this humble servant of Dartmouth that my kid brother did not enter its stately portals. I had him signed up when 'Wa-00-wa' and 'Da-da-da' were the only sounds he could utter. In fact I think that Dartmouth still holds the registration fee.
"However, the truth must be told, and unlike his brilliant (?) brother, he failed in scholastic entrance credits, after which he flipped a coin and didn't go to Brown. And now, to the surprise of all, he has reached a Phi Beta Kappa batting average. I have another brother who plays a mean game of football for Middlebury for the same reasons.
"I think some credit comes to me for having at school the present W. H. Morton of New Rochelle. Bill under my guidance looked Dartmouth over in 1923 and decided that that was the place to go. He may have decided before that, but I have always felt that that decided the issue then and there."
All right Ken, all is forgiven—come home at once.
We are generally fairly well overcome when we get a letter from a Nineteener. Imagine our amazement when, a few weeks ago, we got a long letter from Walter Lundegren '2l, with all the hot dope about the Bill Higgins of whom there has been hardly a trace these many years. He tells how Bill came out of college and set right to work trying to get the West to shave—and the Gillette way. He then did a bit of studying on foreign trade, tore through the Central American countries, and then started looping the loop around the world. He has just been back to Boston for the world convention of the bum blade makers, and is now headed for Paris to be European manager.
While here he wrote to Spider, who sent on his letter, which says in part: "It is true, Spider, that I have lost practically all contact with the gang, and at times it had bothered me a great deal. However, I felt the past two or three years were rather vital in my existence, and consequently gave up all regular or outside interests and devoted myself entirely to foreign travel.
"They have made me European sales manager, which will keep me in Europe with an address at 3 Rue Scribe, Paris, the greater part of 1930. If, during your remarkable devotion to things Dartmouth, you hear of anybody going to Europe, I wish you would drop them the above address. Strange as it may seem, in the 67 countries I have covered in the last two years, I have not met a Dartmouth man."
Let's all drop in on Bill this summer and teach him "The Fireman's Band."
Only a single application for membership in the Proud Poppers Club has come to us in the past month. Things will have to pick up, or we will do something about this personally. The new member is Jim Pelletier, who reports Chloe Meredith, born February 13, 1928. Jim intimates that he may have, at some future date, further entries to make, but that he should not be considered in competition with the chairman of our board, Bill McMahon.
Fred Alden is minister of the First Congregational church at East Orleans, Mass.
Clarence (Butts) Buttenwieser has left the silk business to struggle for itself, and is toasting himself in the tropic suns of Jamaica, Panama, Havana, and Nassau. To which we can only remark, "Pretty soft."
We were just getting through a long mess of movers and such, and were looking forward to a nice quiet evening by the fire, when who should descend upon us but one Fred McCrea, all full of California vitamins and raring to go. He reported Ted Townsend in fine health, and just to show himself broadminded took grapefruit juice for breakfast.
We listened pop-eyed to his tale of the Stecher home in Cleveland. Bob, it seems, struggles along in a little love nest of only forty rooms, which is crowded into a measly thousand acre lot. The servants are lined up each morning in company front, and count off to be sure none have died in the night. Fred says he has two swell youngsters and is doing a great job in a Cleveland hospital. Bob took him with him while he made the rounds of his patients, and McCrea was still a trifle pale from the experience.
Hawker Hawks dropped in with his young son while Fred was here. He has just recovered from a disease that kills them all. I wouldn't attempt to name it, but Hawks finds it a great help in selling securities, which he is doing on part time while recuperating. The game is this. He calls on a rich doctor, tells him what he has just had, and tells the doctor he can examine him if he buys $50,000 worth of bonds. He is so unique that they can't resist.
Young Hawks is a bright lad, too. He took one look at McCrea and said, "Who cut all your hair out?"
Secretary, Brush Hill Road, Framingham, Mass.
