CLASS OF 1930

What do you think of Thirtyteers? This suggestion came from the fertile cranium of no 1930 man, but it is the best that has been suggested to date. Of course, it looks a little squirrelly in print, but it vocalizes well. Try it on your new recording radiola, and let us know what you think.

We acknowledge receipt of several—not too many—Christmas cards, which we appreciated a great deal.

It is encouraging to follow the organization of 1980 groups here and there. Before this issue of the MAGAZINE gets printed, the second 1930 dinner will have taken place at the Dartmouth College Club of New York. Chief credit for these arrangements goes, we believe, to Kip Chase and Bill Jessup. Several mentions of the first dinner have come in, but we should very much like to have fuller accounts of activities among Thirtyteers in those parts.

The Boston Alumni Association has written about plans for a dinner which they plan to tender to the Boston Thirtyteers (we are trying out this word for your benefit) this month.

We Hanoverians are toying with the idea of getting together for a little mild wassail one of these days. There must be about thirty of us here, counting Schneebeli as one, to avoid fractions.

It was only the other day that Marsters hove in town with the Crimson Independents to take on the Dartmouth basketball team in what Dolly Stark press-agented as a "colorful contest." Al, who convincingly maintains that he has been laboring prodigiously on his law, got a bit pooped during his stay in the game, which was a good close contest until the Harvard Law School boys succumbed to the superior conditioning of Dolly's flashy basketeers.

Al has been signed up again by B. U. for coaching football.

Perk Perkins has recently appeared in town, with a very weak excuse for being here, which we take it means Fun.

Nels Rockefeller has sent in another blithe card, this time from Java, which is, he says, quite hot, although he didn't say it that way.

Here is news!—"Mr. and Mrs. Richard Huson Hart request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter, Margaret Arms, to Mr. Edwin Hendrie Grant on Saturday, the third of January, at four o'clock in the afternoon, Saint John's Cathedral, Denver, Colorado."—Countless felicitations, Ned, and our greetings to Margaret.

And here is morennew"Mr.s—"Mr. and Mrs. James Dickson announce the marriage of their daughter Mabelle Marshall to Mr. Jack William Dobson on Monday, the twentyfourth of November, One thousand nine hundred and thirty, Hanover, New Hampshire."—So let's give a hand to Jack, too.

Bob, alias Bill, Geisinger, writes from Cincinnati, where he is an accountant with the Kroger Grocery and Baking Company, to say that he enjoys his work with "figures," which word is fraught with double meaning, since he is working in a department of forty girls. He says that Bob Dunlap is a big bond man working in the stock market; that Bob Blanchard is pushing pennies for the Bank of America in New York; that Wade Safford is up in Ontario digging dandelions for a spring supply; that he hears rumors now and then of Bill Wiley; and that Cincinnati is on its way to a real Dartmouth Club if the last dinner during the holidays is any indication.

Phil Troy writes on the stationery of Lehman Brothers, 1 William St., New York city, to give us his new address, to say that he is still working on the first million, and to send luff mit kisses to everybody.

Stu Seidl has dropped us another sociable line, with greetings of the season, and the information that Doc Miller is in New York working for the Central Hanover Bank. "He," says Stu, "is quietly biding his time like most of the rest of the boys, until he can accumulate that amount to support two as cheaply as one. Covell is doing the same."

Here is a splendid letter from George Parkhurst, conveniently typed, telling about life to, from, and in the Argentine: Dear Al:

Upon returning this morning from a most glorious gunning trip, your card of questions greeted me, and I do not wonder at the confusion my card brought up. It was one of those things done in a hurry—the card wasand, as most things done in that fashion, needs re-doing. This time I shall try to be a wee bit more precise.

One o'clock on Thursday, June 26, found a Hopkins '31 man and myself upon the M. V. Rigel of Bergen, Norge, lying at the docks which bound the West Side of Baltimore's harbor. Clearing whistles blew, lines fell away, and two 1,000 horse-power Diesel engines were brought in for a run of some 6,200 miles of full speed ahead. Twenty-five days later we passed Flores Island at the mouth of the Rio de la Plate and the entrance to the harbor of Montevideo. Land was a most welcome sight after so much sea and Norwegian food—even if Tom Pierce does like the latter (he can have my share). A full day ashore for most everything that one could imagine. Then on to Buenos Aires for a week. Now that is really a marvelous city a place where anyone could be more than happy. Rosario was the next call, two hundred and twenty-four miles from B. A. Another week there and back to B. A. About this time I was much in favor of staying over for a while and taking in a few operas. . . . And so it was—I left the ship and stayed at the address in question; the other chap thought more of Norge food than I—so he came back to the States, post haste.

Those two weeks I was lucky enough to stay over are worthy of much time and talk but I dare not start here, for if I do you will not get out your next letter, but will take the first Munson line ship for the Argentine—if you don't get picked off in Trinidad.

The 23d of August was sailing day again for me, and out of digs I went, bag and baggage—along with two huge jars full of pickled partridges, called perdics en escabeches. If you ever happen to go there have them as an entree. At the moment of sailing all the officers were in a small panic. We were listing some 15°, and after pumping oil for six hours were still the same. Then came a measuring of the water in the docks, and we found out that the ship was sitting in the mud. Sunday, with more water, we did manage to pull out and had a beautiful sail over to Monte, where we dropped anchor towards dusk. There we had a privilege which few foreigners saw. It was the centennial anniversary of the independence of Uruguay. All the port was lighted—fireworks, searchlights, etc. Rather impressive. A day here, then to Santos, Brazil, the coffee port of the world.

Here I sneaked off to Sao Paulo for a day, up over the gold plate railway. Three thousand feet upwards via cables in an hour, in coaches of very good size. A lucky break for me there, for a strike among the stevedores allowed me to catch my boat. Otherwise I should have missed it by some two hours. I evidenced a very poor calculating brain.

On to Port of Spain, Trinidad, in this Britisher, the S. S. Cortona—with one of the finest captains who has ever put his foot upon a ship. Imagine it, all the way up the coast from Santos we had a swimming tub of some thirty-two tons of water rigged on the foredeck—there to swim for hours every day under an extremely hot tropical sun. That was almost perfection for a freighter. You have read of Trinidad, of course, and know the things for which it is famous—the pitch lake, Angostura bitters, and Dom. Benedictine, which is used throughout the world, is made up in the old Benedictine monastery in the mountains—and the secret of the liqueur is still locked within the wall of the order. Of course this is not the only production center of Dom.

Home on the 19th of September, and I wasn't any too sorry that I was back again, although it was a marvelous summer.

It was this past September that I entered law school at the University of Maryland. For news of some other '3O men—Gordon Shattuck and Ed Benoist are in Chicago with the Automatic Electric Company, making dial phones. Elton Palmer is in the experimental lab of Northrup Leeds at Mt. Airy, Philadelphia, Fred Scribner, Bob Ryan, Ray Olsen—Harvard Law.

Have looked long and hard at the last number of the letter and can't seem to find the crack you made about the chap who sent the card without a name from Baltimore. You know what I mean, I suppose, and it seems to me that the writer must be Jim Irwin, at Hopkins Medical School. If you should find him, or his address again, please give him this message: "The Dartmouth Club of Baltimore invites him to come to luncheon every Tuesday at 12:30 at the Engineers Club, 12 E. Fayette St." Al though it may sound' like a Rotary, it is not!

Before I drown you in this sea of poor typing—the best of luck for the new year. George Y. Parkhurst

Baltimore, Md.

Jim Dalglish writes that he is tying wires over in Schenectady for the Telephone Company, trying to keep everybody happy in the commercial department. He bumps into the laconic Kohn, he says, from time to time while Henry is scrummaging around for news for the Knickerbocker Press.

Ewie Burns writes from the barren wilderness of Wichita, regretting the paucity of Thirtyteers in his area. He is in the grain brotherhood with Stu Seidl, keeping himself fairly hard at work in the milling business and even signing letters as an assistant manager of the sales department, which we assume is quite an advance from his summer spent in a small Kansas town more or less "sweeping out," as he phrased it.

We kept hearing rumors of the phenomenal record of the Poehler-coached football team of the Scotch Plains High School so that we had to get the numbers and details. Snub had sent us a casual note or two without mentioning. In reply to a request for figures and a confession, we got the following letter and a football schedule showing that the Scotch Plains High School had played Roselle, Chatham, Cranford, Union, Bound Brook, Millburn, Washington, and Metuchen; that Poehler's palookas had won six, lost one, and tied one; and that they had amassed 149 points to their opponents' 32. Snub wrote: Dear Al:

Enclosed find the results of my football team. I am coaching and teaching in a small high school, and really like it. My school is quite small and the boys are few, but we had a most successful season. We played all our games against teams which outweighed us from seven to fifteen pounds. My line averaged only 151 and my backs 142. What a come-down from college! We didn't even have a dummy to use for tackling and blocking, but we got our practice on Saturdays. You might send this information on to Cannell that in one game we completed 14 out of 18 passes. That ought to be some kind of a record.

Besides football, I coach basketball and baseball. In other words, I am the athletic director of this here place.

Joe Golan is working for Eastman Kodak and he has a fine girl. By the way, Skip, I have, too. I just came back from good old New England and had a merry old visit. Galbraith is still working for the Metropolitan Life. He and another fellow have charge of 125 girls—621/2 each.

I like your write-up in the ALUMNI MAGAZINE, and I anxiously await it each month. By the way, Skip, what is "Dick's House" Phil Troy doing? Remember the semester we all roomed in Eayerweather? What a gang! Best of luck, Al, and thanks for your letter. My best to all the '30 boys around Hanover. As ever,

SNUB POEHLER

Scotch Plains, N. J.

Bud French is still learning how they grow, pick, pack, and ship peaches, pears, and prunes, not to mention pineapples and pomegranates. He expects some day to a be real fruiter. He writes: Dear Al:

Andy the Tapeworm had nothing on me when it comes to typewriting, except he used it more often than I do. Sorry I have not written you before this, but I'm a poor letter writer and have been pretty busy out here.

Guess Ping and all the rest of the fellows on the team have told you all about the Stanford game, but perhaps there are a few things I could tell you that they didn't. The team won a victory far greater in value than the score of the game by winning the respect and admiration of the people on the Coast. Everybody spoke of the fine game they played, and what a fine bunch of fellows they were. The papers said they were by far the best Eastern team that has ever come out here. I spent several weeks in and around San Jose, in which there are about seven hundred Stanford alumni, and got to know quite a few of them very well. After the game they were full of praise for the Dartmouth team, and said that the game was one of the best they had ever seen. The people out here are extremely rabid over football, much more than we are back East, and over their Western teams. I got pretty sick hearing about the superiority of Western football, and for that reason was particularly glad to see Notre Dame swamp the Trojans yesterday. However, our boys gave a good account of themselves, and Stanford had to play its best game of the season to win the ball game. I think the heat bothered us in the first half, but wait until next year in Boston; some of the bunch down in California are planning now to be there for next year's game.

I have enjoyed reading your class notes in the MAGAZINE, especially because I'm so far away from the centers of activity back East. There are not many '30 men out here on the Coast, so far as I know, and I've seen more '29ers than any other class. Chuck Adams and his bride are living here in Seattle, however, and I've seen them quite often. While in California I saw Chuck Faye several times, particularly while the team was out here. We both belong to the Dartmouth Association of Northern California, and so does C. G. Zey, who, I understand, is a graduate student at U. of California. Chuck Faye is working in San Francisco with the Western Terminal Cos., said company having something or other to do with loading steamships.

It sure was great to see Hal Booma and Herm Schneebeli come out with the team, and I learned from Herm all about the doings of you roustabouts in Hanover. Don't know just now when I'll be returning to the East, probably in the spring sometime, but I hope to arrange the return so as to include Hanover as one of the stops en route, and check up on the clan gathered there. You might change my address on your records, Al, as I'll be up in this part of the country for three or four months, and at the same time scratch out the middle name of the firm name, which was done, mainly for convenience, last summer. My work for the most part in California consisted of observing and learning how they grow, pick, pack, and ship peaches, pears, prunes, grapes and apples, the idea being that such knowledge, and an idea of the many problems and difficulties confronting the growers will be very useful later on in the selling and marketing end of the deal. Up here in Seattle I'll be watching the loading operations connected with exporting apples to Europe, with occasional trips to Wenatchee and Yakima to learn more about apples. It is all very interesting and fascinating work, and perhaps some day I'll be a real fruiter.

I forgot to tell you that I saw Jack Beckham and Ev Fox down at the game. Both are living down in Los Angeles, but I did not find out what they are doing. Ev Fox was recently married, I understand, and has just recovered from a serious illness.

Please give my regards to all the boys you see, as well as Bob Strong and Sid. Tell Bob we all enjoy his weekly Bulletins out here very much, although I get mine late, as they are sent to me from San Francisco.

The Round-Up in San Francisco was a huge success, and it was a pleasure to see and hear Dean Laycock again. The day the team arrived on the Coast I got up at 4:00 A.M. and boarded their special train at Sacramento, going oil down to San Mateo with them, and spending several days around there, watching them practice, etc. It sure was great to see them all again, and we were all sorry that they had to leave right after the game.

BUD FRENCH

Seattle, Wash.

We were inclined to be incredulous when it was being noised about one afternoon just before the Christmas vacation that John French was in town. But so it was. He had dashed over from Cambridge for the holidays.

Frank Gulden has written up for reservation of Holt's Cabin for a week-end in February. He is coming up with J. L. Morris '29 for a great big breath of the great out-doors.

Ted Wolf writes: Dear Al: I got a job—"not selling apples, either. But sometimes I buy "unemployed apples" at the B. M. T. entrance on the way to Brooklyn, where I am employed with the Standard Oil Company of New York. They thought I should start at the bottom, and not content with that they dug a hole for me to start in. In other words, if you want your car lubricated, I know how it should be done.

I have been following your write-ups in the ALUMNI MAGAZINE. NO, I am not married yet (on $27.50 a week?), and I haven't run into many '30 men. Bud Bry I did run into in the subway. He is in charge of some department or other in an airplane agency; in fact he threatened to get me a job, but Socony intervened. There were two other '30 men who greeted me so intimately that after 20 minutes with one and half an hour with the other I left both still not knowing their names.

A strange coincidence occurred while I was glancing through the first number of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE. I came across my name. "... Ted Wolf has joined the Standard Oil Company of New York," or something like that. I went back to the beginning of the sentence to find that "Cape Farmer, after going to Columbia summer school with Jack Garrison and Ted Wolf, has joined . . ."

etc. (I just looked this up in the MAGAZINE, and find it is not quite accurately quoted, but the sense of it is the same. I had just joined Standard Oil, and therein lies the coincidence, in case you haven't been able to follow this remarkable discourse.)

The season's football fortunes have left little to be desired. I managed to take in the Yale game (encountering Paul Tracy, Charlie Hammerston, McAllister, "Del" Delehanty, Milt Wheeler, Joe Huckins—and dozens of others whose names I have forgotten or didn't know at the time).

Incidentally, there is a kid (17 years old) who hangs around the service station. The other day I asked him if he knew what a college was. "Sure, that's where they play football, ain't it?"—I asked if he had ever heard of Harvard. He hadn't. Dartmouth? No. Princeton? "That's a town." "Did you ever hear of Yale?"—"Who?"—I said, "Do you know what Yale is?"—"Yeah, it's a lock." Not bad for seventeen in Brooklyn. No wonder Shep Wolff carves wood in his spare time. And the quality of his work speaks still worse for Brooklyn's charms. But I may be unjust—there doubtless are more attractive regions in Brooklyn than those I have run across. I hope so, anyway.

The coveted sheepskin has arrived. "Collegii Dartmuthensis" and a few proper names are all I can make out of it. But I love it just the same. I don't know whether you communicate with fellow-Dartmouthenses other than as Skip the Shoveler and class secretary or not, but if you do I can read mail on the way to and from Brooklyn (among other times)—and would enjoy doing so.

TED WOLF

New York City

Jerry Jeremiah, after neglecting us consistently for some time, has finally come across with the following letter, which speaks for itself:

Dear Al: Please pardon the Hotel Biltmore stationery, but I haven't gotten over my "prep" school habits of stealing hotel stationery, and besides I couldn't afford to go to a more ritzy hotel where they had better stationery.

To make a short story long—pardon me, Al, I'm nervous—to make a long story longer, I'm bumping and being bumped, mostly the latter, around in the CanadianAmerican Hockey League. For no good reason at all, they are trying to make a defence man out of me, and for every check I hand out I receive from two to three in return. However these are body-checks, and they are not so welcome. Sometimes I stop and think that perhaps the enemy doesn't like my appearance. You know I'm not as goodlooking now as I used to be when I was in college.

Speaking about looks, that reminds me of Ted Baehr, class of '£9. As you probably know, he's under a five-year contract to Warner Brothers, and is to appear under the pseudonym of Robert Allen. To get back to the subject of looks, pardon me for wandering in my discourse—I thought I was writing Eccy.

Evidently I bear a close resemblance to more than one movie actor, because I received a mysterious letter from an anonymous writer who evidently seemed interested in me and my future but who wishes to remain unknown, possibly for his own protection and good.

Pardon me, Skip, if my modesty prevents me from using more than five pages in telling you of the opportunities I had to turn down. These opportunities arose just through my chance resemblance to a few movie actors. In this mysterious letter, the writer asked me if I'd like to double for the famous movies hero, Rin-Tin-Tin. But after a half-hour's concentration I immediately recognized that as a joke and laughed it off.

In the second paragraph, the writer feeling guilty and rather ashamed for trying to fool me, a college "grad," and last but not least a city slicker from Somerville, said he was sorry for the wise-crack. I said, "That's 0.K., pal, the laugh's on me—I'm a sport." And so we matched to see who would buy the Cremo. After we tried to "bucket shop" each other into buying the cigar, he said he was fooling about that Rin-Tin-Tin proposition, but he did want me to double for Louis Wolheim. I told him I didn't think it fair to Louis because in my opinion Louis was a little better looking than I. However, the writer assured me that the modern scientific machines would fix me up to look as handsome as Louis. I was all set to sign my John Hancock when a "philalulu" bird flew in the window backwards, and whispered that Louis Wolheim was a Cornell man. Down went the pen, my pride prevented the "Green" from being an understudy for the "Red."

For weeks I didn't hear any more from Hollywood, until one day a wire came from Hollywood asking me if I'd double for Joe Martin. After being assured that Joe wasn't a rival college graduate I prepared to leave for Hollywood. The home town was all excited that one of its native-born sons was about to make good in the movies, and the Somerville newspapers, "The Blah-Blah," "The Belly-Ache," and the "Town Crier," were filled with my life story, pictures, etc.

I was all packed and ready to leave for the Golden West when one of my friends, who doesn't believe in the old saying that "even your best friends won't tell you," came up to me and told me that Joe Martin was not a new foreign celebrity, but was an ape.

That jar brought me to my senses. I forgot my pipe-dreams and looks and decided to play "pro" hockey, where looks don't mean a damn, and what good looks one may have are soon remodeled to resemble a tough piece of hamburg steak. The bumps I get in hockey are plenty hard, but when compared to the bumps and obstacles encountered in that good old arena of Economics, the hockey road is much more smoother.

Believe it or not, by Kipling I'm the rube of this hockey outfit. The squad is made up of three Frenchmen, ten Canucks, and a blooming Yankee; the latter is supposed to be me. Some of my words sound different to them, and what a galloping I take from them. I can always get a rise out of them by telling them that Harvard, Yale, and Dartmouth take Toronto regularly in hockey, but my ace in the sleeve that'll always start a miniature war in the dressing room is when I claim that theTf. S. won the war for the Allies.

Although at times the gang makes me feel rather "hickish" by laughing at my U. S. English that differs somewhat from Canadian English, I feel compensated somewhat when they ask me to explain something to them, such as "buying on the margin," etc. So far I've been lucky, and the wrong persons haven't heard any of my definitions and consequently I haven't encountered any rebuttals.

Speaking about degrees, an A.B. reminds most of these fellows of baseball. I rate as a professor emeritus or something like that in th i dressing room, but on the ice I'm the dunce and they are the Ph.D.'s of hockey.

I like this hockey life a great deal, Skip, and you can easily tell by this lengthy, nonsensical letter that I have plenty of time on my hands.

So far in New Haven, I have seen Ellie Armstrong and his wife, and am looking forward to seeing his baby girl; I have seen Sherburne, the elongated scribe who gave longnecker such a "swell" write-up after a certain Yale game; I taxied by Scadron, Red Alcorn and Jack Keating, but haven't seen them to talk to.

I guess I'll sign off, Skip. Lots of luck. Remember me to any of the gang, and drop me a line if you ever get the time.

JERRY

New Haven, Conn.

Secretary, Administration Building, Hanover, N. H.

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