The Undergraduate Chair
After the harsh going-over administered to this column by the omniscient and everaustere Dartmouth, it seems only right that a deeply contrite mood (or something) ought to be induced before attempting to go into this month's stint. Accordingly, we trudged to White River Junction (is there anyone in the house who can recall the name?) to watch the incoming trains spew forth smoke and starry-eyed freshman (excuse, pliz, Mr. Dartmouth). From our vantage point on a grimy fence, we thought of the billowing hopes and the surging ambitions represented in these shiny faces, and recalled ourselves back four years or so. Then a great wave of self-pity swept over us. To what avail have we spent these four years if we have but come to the end of them to lay ourselves open to a charge of plagiarism by the College's official student mouthpiece? Then we drove moodily home, cynically regarding the fourbitsto yourroomboys taxis careening up the road ahead of us, and we knew that this cloud of righteous indignation would surround us forevermore. Henceforth we shall feel it our duty to report only those things which might have happened in Hanover the last fortnight; the actual events the trusty Dartmouth will put down for posterity. Of course, we shall all miss the old homey cliches and policies. Oh, Mr. Dartmouth, we know you'll excuse us if we use just a wee mite of your fateladen paragraphs now and again.
At any rate, freshmen teeter precariously and bravely on the Senior Fence in the exuberant knowledge that they are getting away with something, crowds gather to watch sweaty eager footballers, and erstwhile luxuriantly green trees turn down their limbs and begin to pale with the knowledge that autumn has once again come. Dartmouth Hall glistens and smiles in the hot September sun; Reed Hall, in the throes of inner reconstruction, looks quite woebegone beside it; and one observes the neatly terraced lawn where the Old White Church stood with a slight twinge. Fraternities polish up brass knockers, and the smug tension of early season rushing is full upon them. Tuck School, haughty in its isolation, retains its groomed appearance, and the well-manicured surroundings resolve many a Dartmouth bud into a business life. Main Street has undergone a complete regeneration: storefronts sally forth in brilliant brass, new curbings and walks make Hanover that much more precise, the new Post office gives us an almost metropolitan touch, and a new Ford Firefighter can be seen gleaming resplendently in the doorway of the Fire Hall, Hanover's other political hotbox. Doughty John Piane is to guide its destiny as before—a truly great event will our next fire be, what with Hanover's first and bravest going forth in new trucks, new chapeaux de guerre, etc. . . . we suppose that The Dartmouth would hold incendiarism justifiable with such a pretext.
To have September here again with us is joyous—but a few months back . . . with lightsome tread May marched by, the month of Smith-treks and sentimental reminiscences in the local gloamings. It seems to us now that May is easily the most fatal of the months —the annual "Beware yon fickle mistress!" episode in our lives. After the June pogrom has cast its blight on all our young ambitions, morbid malignings fill the air, and the airy nothings which have filled May are passed in sullen review. We suppose that from time immemorial the same futile castles have filled all the available atmosphere, and that the same treacherous youthful rejuvenation has taken place at this time. However, in June, with its chairfilled gymnasium and somber mutterings on the streets, one realizes the all too naughty naught to which the iridiscent bubble "Houseparty" has come and the vanity of our maunderings during the previous month. Well, we suppose that the facts of the month would be far more interesting than all these vain recriminations.
HORSE AND RIDER Taken by Bud Carter '32 in Mexico and entered in the contest begun with this issue of the MAGAZINE
