CLASS of 1930
Greetings, Thirtymen. Here is the world closing in on us again. Freshmen wandering around the streets wearing grey sailor hats with a green "1935" on them, looking just as bewildered and ashamed to be alive as we did in our pea-green monkey hats. The thud of footballs on Memorial Field, and martyred looking lads walking around already with arms in slings and faces smeared with mercurochrome. Clusters of greeters scattered along the sidewalks. Lights popping out here and there in dormitories for three months quietly dark. A few leaves falling. And a buzz and undertone of excitement in this village which a week ago was so quiet and sleepily sedate. It is the Saturday night before the opening of College, and Dartmouth is on the threshold of its 163d year.
Main Street has a new sidewalk on the east side, a shining classic colonial post office looking very splendid and at home across the street from the bank, fancy new Fifth Avenue show windows on Campion's and the Co-op. East Wheelock St. has a new sidewalk on the south side, matching last summer's new one on the north side. The squash building is finished externally, looking like a new sprout from the back of the gymnasium, beside the Field House. A gravel driveway goes up over the site of Culver Hall (God rest its soul!) behind Fayerweather Row, over the side of Observatory Hill, and down by the Medical School. New Hampshire Hall has lost its brick porch and now has a grass terrace instead. Rich turf grows so lustily in front of Sanborn House that one would never know that a White Church ever stood there. Tuck School has ceased to look nouveau. Reed Hall is surrounded by scaffolding and hasn't any insides.
Add to these innovations those that your Secretary in his picturesque way enumerated last fall. Otherwise, all is as before. And as we walk down in front of Massachusetts Row this evening behind palpitating huddles of freshmen, it would not seem strange to kneel on the first step and pray for rain from the second story hose.
All of the Thirtymen have been lazy this summer, including ourself. The Class of 1930 folder on our desk has not grown fat. There are some letters in it, but not many. That is your fault. Practically none of them have been answered or entered on the records. That is our fault. But summer is summer. June was much too pleasant for pecking at typewriters, and July was pleasanter than June, and August was pleasanter than July and here, heaven help us, is September.
However, in the course of considerable flitting about tjie eastern seaboard we have seen no few Thirtymen personally and in the flesh, and at this point we shall proceed haphazardly to enumerate as many as we can, in this disorganised fashion. To begin with, there are Charlie Rauch and Ben Finch and Kip Chase, who played host to us for several days in their de luxe apartment on West Sixty-Eighth St., in New York. Charlie is with that dignified and respected house of investment counselors, Wood, Struthers and Company, spends some of his spare hours with that military-social organization of horsemen, Squadron A; and has a pleasant friend who took us sailing on the Sound one sunny Sunday. Ben is with the foreign credits department of the National City Bank, and has been doing everything he could to keep Germany from collapsing—has even gotten a little thin over it. (Which reminds us that Jerry Pearre is with the same organization, and that we had breakfast with him in the Wigwam one morning just after he had got off the train from New York and just before we left town on one of the summer junkets). Kip Chase is with the Chase National (which organization has either absorbed Harris, Forbes or vice versa, as we remember) and not only has boating friends but owns a sail boat, and comes in regularly from week-ends red as the devil—literally—from sunburn and yacht club parties.—All this by way of bread-and-butter letter.
Nelson Rockefeller may be found looking very executive in an office high up on lower Broadway overlooking the bay. He is the man who can tell you all about Radio City and the restoration of Williamsburg.
And there is Phil Peck, who keeps all the people cheery at the Glens Falls Insurance Company.
John French, recently returned with the missus (n£e Rhoda Walker) from the honeymoon to Honolulu and God knows where else, will—according to the latest unofficial report —enter the Harvard Law School this fall.
Blithe pilgrims returning from the Odyssey report Tragle left behind cruising the Mediterranean in a sailboat. Jack Warwick, our secretarial colleague in '3l, reports seeing Bottome, dat ole Odyssey debbil, on the Cape recently. Bob had better hurry up and write us the name of the advertising company he signed up with before we take a wild fling at it and get it wrong.
Lancaster, Pa., is the home of the Dunlaps, and there we observed Jim in the native state, and looking very well. He is a cattle magnate. He should get together with that pillar of the leather business, Trostel, who maintains a dignified aloofness and hasn't written us a word since we got him a ticket for the Harvard game last year.
Lancaster is also the home of the Schneebelis, but Herm eluded us on two separate occasions. He is reported to be about to begin work any day now with the Gulf Refining Company in Pittsburgh, after an idle and luxurious summer on the Jersey coast.
Pete Callaway and Mort Collins breezed into town in the middle of the summer, emissaries of the Real Silk Company, and carrying the most colorful collection of pink lingerie that you ever saw—if you ever saw any. They sank deep into soft upholstered chairs at 48 South Main St. and decided that they were very, very tired. After several days in which they scarcely moved beyond a gentle flexing of the right elbow, Mort telephoned to Springfield, and in a short time was, according to report, called for by a limousine. Pete, so far as we know, may be in the upholstered chair yet. We have seen him there from time to time during the latter part of the summer. When there is a lady in the audience he will sometimes open his black suitcase, run his hands caressingly through the sheerest of sheer hosiery, affectionately take up some shimmering pink thing, and launch into the most intriguing line of intimate chatter that you ever heard, —if you ever heard any.
Bill Hirschy has been about town during the summer. Dick Butterfield also continues here in Larson's architectural workshop. And Professor Wiggin of the Clark School has appeared from time to time.
A postcard from Wade Safford from "the world's smallest country," Andorra. Any of you stamp collectors may have it on request. In addition to the stamps (one pink, one green) there are three horses, a man, a barn, and some hay on it, to say nothing of two or three languages. There is also another postcard from Wade to add to our postcard collection—this one from Portugal—and both of them, we must say, improvements on the one Spen Foster sent us from Egypt.
It is pretty old news now, but 1930-in- Hanover had a swell barbecue late in May, as a sort of farewell party of the second-year Tucks, Medics, and Thayers. You had better get somebody who was there to tell you about it.
Also late in May was a showing of the class movies before as many Thirtymen as got together. The movies had lately come from the skillful hands of Bob Keene. They are great. Best shot: Schneebeli at the senior barbecue. Other good shots: a lot of other people at the senior barbecue. This whole barbecue sequence has touching resemblances to an old-time slapstick movie comedy of the worst kind. It's a scream. And there are Bob Keene's movies of the Mt. Washington senior trip, which are some of the best skiing movies ever taken by anybody. And also there are the fraternity movies, and other shots. We have the original and one duplicate here. Thirtyteer dinners and luncheons may borrow them for showings.
On the Alumni Fund, we might as well tell the truth and say we made a deplorable showing. Our record: $843.75, 36% of our quota, 41 % of contributors. The whole fund reached 81% of the quota and 61% of contributors. That makes our showing 45 % be- low average, on quota, and 20% below average in contributors. Which all in all is pretty inferior. 1929, however, was 47% below average in quota and 20% below average in contributors.
Dick Parker, on a three weeks' vacation from Chicago and the Illinois Bell Telephone Company, came through Hanover while we were away in July, expressly—according to a letter subsequently received from him enclosing a check—to present in person his contribution to the Alumni Fund.
Galbraith, the insurance man, who lords it over scores of stenographers in the office of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, sailed in from New York one rainy morning just as we were about to set canvas for the same port.
Dick Bacon is also with the Metropolitan in the actuarial department. He lives in Flushing. We got this information from Dick when he was here in a large automobile to collect all the toothbrushes he had left behind early in the summer.
Out of academic retirement came Win Hatch, beaming. He was in the Wigwam and he looked very healthy. It was late in June. He had with him Dr. Pattenfoos (that is his real name), and he had just come in from Moosilauke. There was vast talk about the Mississippi River and South America, field trips and botanical exploration, ornithology and a pleasant subsidy from Johns Hopkins for study just about whithersoever he wouldst. It is all very soft and lovely, and if we are not mistaken our Win will be a famed researcher and explorer almost any day now. All this in spite of the fact that Win is the monster mind who sent in a form postcard with address and occupation neatly written on it, and not a sign of a name. Win is as myster- ious as Starr Faithfull.
Joe Epstein was in Hanover. What for? He was "resting." What from? Columbia. And yes, he is going back there again this fall.
On June 5, anybody who was walking down Main St. at an appropriate time would have seen Ed Carroll, able seaman. He was just back from a three-month cruise in the Pacific, and was thinking of hoisting anchor and off to the Mediterranean with shipmate Tom Peirce just any minute.
A P. S. on a letter from Freddy Bowes, the mailing meter magnate, says: "Had lunch the other day with Jack Fitzpatrick, who is making a swell go of it with the Boston office of Mutual Life of New York."
Movieman Keene writes (June 5) apropos of Movieman Richards: "Last week Kelly Richards left for Hollywood to cast his lotin the lots, so to speak."
Says Boyd Wolff: "From September 8 til further notice my address wil be Sutton, Mass., where I shal be teaching skool. I shal try to rite you a letter ful of gab, and also send someone some dough for my next year's magazine soon."
Harold the great Booma looked pretty fine yesterday when met walking into the Inn with the rest of the coaches. No time for chatter. Probably more gossip about Hal next time.
George McClellan was in on his way to Armington Cabin and other primitive spots with A 1 Hayes, early this month. George is teaching education and taking a Ph.D. in English and education at Ohio State University in Columbus. Pretty erudite, we calls it.
Win Stone was batting about the country, and came to Hanover in August to pay what he threatened would be his last call in this port for several years. He didn't give us much time on this trip.
Dent Carman writes with some brevity that he is getting married (when? to whom?) and living at 638 Center St., Newton, Mass.
A comic postcard from Fran Horn from Cairo with more colorful stamps (what are we bid?) and fine promises (we'll throw these in) about great long letters some day to be written to us. Fran hoped to run into some Thirtymen in Europe during the summer. Spen Foster had spent a week with him.
Gene Scadron protests that he never attended Columbia graduate school; that he went to Yale, which was just as bad; and that this fall he is going to Duke University to study his medicine.
Bert Gross writes from New York: "What am I doing? I have an office at the above address (1482 Broadway) and am acting as a literary agent, play broker, and publicity counselor. Item: When you can't find a job, make one for yourself."
Everybody must know by this time of the death of Tommy Longnecker. There is an obituary notice in the Necrology section of this issue.
Gene Siegel writes in from the Columbia School of Journalism, subscribes for the MAGAZINE, and writes himself down as faithfully '3O.
Married: Henry Leonard Birge, to Miss Sylvia Dunham, of Hartford, Conn., on June 15.
Married: Frederic Charles Tobey, Jr., to Miss Grace Miller Powell, on June 3, in Millerton, N. Y.
Married: Hugh Albert Johnson to Miss Alyce Elizabeth Murther, on July 8, in Ithaca, N. Y.
Married: Adolf William Bry, to Miss Helen Broderson, formerly of Glen Ridge, now of Shrewsbury, on July 18, at the Little Church Around the Corner. (Blonde, blue eyes.)
Engaged: Robert Worthington Relyea, to Miss Ruth Phyllis Avery, of West Hartford, Conn., announced June 27. Phyllis had just graduated from Beaver College, Jenkintown, Pa.
Well, folks, that ought to hold us for this month. There is some more fluff that we could write, but we have to save something for a class letter that should have been got out some time ago, and may get out almost any time now.
Remember, the class lump subscription to the MAGAZINE has now expired, and these priceless columns will not come to you unless you send in two dollars to keep the presses running for another year. We are saving the juiciest gossip until next month just to rook you into the racket. We should hate to sit up nights like this writing fine cheery gossip if all the boys weren't getting it. Better send in your two dollars now and climb on the wagon with the boys.
This is a sample copy. Return $2 and receive the next eight issues.
Secretary, . Administration Bldg., Hanover, N. H
