CLASS OF 1930

Your secretary has a feeling that this installment will not amount to much, partly because people have been cracking off about our garrulity and filling up the MAGAZINE with '3O fluff, partly because we are, as usual, late, and partly because we have at the time of writing a touch of what the New Yorker describes as an electric ice-box in one's head— a plain case of sinuses raising the devil.

There is certainly no scarcity of material for '3O notes. Our folder is full of letters— good ones—and scribbled notes about engagements and other information passed on orally during the month, during the spring house parties, during our thirty-minute stay at a dinner of the Thirtyteers in New York, and during sundry lunches and suppers at the Wigwam.

First of all, we regret that it falls upon us to record the death of two of our men, Andy Boyce and Bobo Blake. More complete accounts will be found in the necrology section of this issue.

Now we shall proceed in a disorganized fashion through the folder. On top is another merry epistle from Haffenreffer, which we feel impelled to quote again in full. Ahoy, there, Skippy: (Paramount)

Well, here she blows again, but you drove up in a rubber-tired buggy and asked for it, and anyway, Skip, if Calvin C. can away with his daily SAYS, and rope-twisting Rogers with his recurrent witticisms, can' a sea-faring gent—sitting up top-sides here with foam and night caps—I mean, white caps—on all sides, the silver spray (who said fiss) beating my brawny face, and beakers— I mean beacons flashing in the not-too-far distance—be wet with some licence like a plastered ship upon a plastered ocean? Can he or can he not? He can, but let's forget cans for the moment.

All hands are busy down these parts these days getting the racing and cruising yacht deluxe (by Herreshoff) (adv.) refurbished (there's a two dollar word in any league) for the coming season. Since the Royal Rex of Spain has lost his job probably due to the overproduction of Kings—the prolific Dagos —the Ocena (is there an eraser in the audience) Race to Spain has lost some of its glamour for me. Maybe that's as it should be.

People are running around like mad things at the yard wanting to know where everything from a turnbuckle to a tender can be found. Ofttimes I know—Ofttimes I don't, he said shyly.

Bob Booth with young gov. Ely (Mass.) came down to look over our plant and products, but withal I rang up a "no sale" when they left. I was glad to see them and will be equally pleased to see any other nautical "Dreiziger" who's in the port.

Mr. Marsters—you remember him— has repeatedly warned me of an intended visit but he hasn't yet shewed (olde Englishe) up. I fear it's a plain case of "searchy the fem."

I understand that Tickle Tiedke, Bob Bottome, and forty or fifty of their intimate friends (intimate after if not before) "Bermuda-d" during the recent holidays. Ah, these idle rich. All play and no work takes jack ... or something like that.

Well, son, the dog watch is about over and so I'll go below. I expect to be cruising in your parts around the Bth of May and will plan to lay-over in Port-Pilver-By-the Sea.

Don't let Little Herm Schneebeli go barefoot before the frost is out of the ground.

Godspeed,

BARNACLE BILL

Well, Haffie arrived as scheduled. We held a brief reunion as he went to a tea dance at the Alpha Delt house, planned a more extended conference for the next morning, and saw one another no more. Ships passing in the night.

We were glad to have Pudge Hartmann step up and account for himself. Pudge says that he has been "reading" law in the oldfashioned manner with the firm of Sherburne, Powers & Needham of Boston and hopes to crash the bar next year. He reports that he sees Ellie Gilbert, Bob Jordan, Joe Ryan, Roily Booma, Bill Stearns, Rip Ripley, Bob Lee, Nels Flanders, Herb Chase, Dick Hood, Ray Olsen, Art Brown, Lee Chilcote, Jack Hedges from time to time. He records the marriage of Red Draper last fall to a charming Smithsonian Tennessee girl. Could a man hope for anything pleasanter than that? Another ex-roommate of Pudge's is not only married, but has a son and a steel company! This is Tom Shartle, who has organized his own Texas Electric Steel Casting Company of Houston, Texas.

We had letters from both Fred Scribner and Bill Doran about the death of Andy Boyce, who was an ex-roommate of both of them.

Without any explanation whatever, Jim Dalglish changes his address from Schenectady to Camp Monewkan, Ballston Lake, N. Y.

According to widespread rumor, John French is coming home to get himself married June 24. We print this in its inconfirmed state because there will be no more issues until October X, and such an important event should be chronicled before then.

Ed Hartwell reports from Denver as follows: Dear Al: I haven't written because I had nothing to write. Until February first I was a shavetail in the Army of the Unemployed. And as I didn't like to mention that at the time, and as there are very few of our classmates in Denver, I have been silent.

The only Thirtyteer about here to my knowledge, is Ned Grant. I ran into him this morning, and with him was Bud French, en route from the Yakima apple country to Montclair. I was in an AAA place, when these two walked in to investigate road conditions. Then Bud drove off to Chicago. It was good to see a Green Key key, and a red, peeling nose (it was snowing here, apologies to the Denver Chamber of Commerce). I see Ned once in a while, but he is married now. The now Mrs. Grant used to live across the street from me—a lovely girl. I attended the wedding. I couldn't see anything from behind a pillar's massy proof, whatever that is, but the procession was pretty, the bride was lovely, and Ned looked happy.

I am a traffic man in air transportation— the apostle of air-mindedness. The Western Air Express, and Mid Continent Air Express. I meet the ships, collect tickets, etc., and promote air travel.

I have spent several months' thought on the problem of naming the class. I don't care much for "Thirtyteers." But I haven't anything better. My only approach is a variation on the Roman numerals of the number thirty, XXX. Although XXX may look like the marks by which a beer keg may be distinguished, there are possibilities. It does sound far-fetched to call us the Exy-exyexies, but how about Tri-X? This might be shortened to Trixies. Let's see how that sounds. In your column for example, "Cambridge is still lousy with Trixies," or, "A bunch of the Trixies was whooping it up in the Tuckalute saloon." On the other hand, we might make a Greek letter fraternity out of us, and call XXX the Greek way, Chi Chi Chi. You could say Tri-Chi's. Or yet, Kikies, in a sort of shortened version. Frankly, I would be very proud if one these suggestions met with general approval.

ED HAHTWELL

Denver, Colorado.

We have received a clipping announcing the engagement and the approaching June marriage of our William Robert Geisinger to Verna Evelyn Cragg, daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Harry C. Cragg, of Cincinnati.

A note from the betrothed Robert himself informs us that he has changed jobs to join the trust department of the Central Trust Bank in Cincinnati; that Jack Herrick has been ill with pneumonia but recovered rapidly, and that Bob Chittim is locating in Cleveland with General Electric. Well, Bob, we welcome Evelyn among the Thirtyteers.

We are reminded at this point of a feeling of neglect when we read in other secretaries' columns about letters received from Thirty- teer wives. We have finally received one from Dot Low, caretaker of our Ev in Jersey City, about a revised address. Thanks, Dot,— Ev is stepping right along as a young executive in Lord & Taylor's.

Here is another candidate for the altar— Hank Birge is going to marry Sylvia Dunham of Hartford, Connecticut, June 15, according to announcement by Mr. and Mrs. D. A. Dunham of Hartford. Confirmation by Hank in the Wigwam. Miss Dunham learned to read and write at Westover. She later went to Madame Rey's school in Paris to pick up a few more tit-bits of learning.— Greetings to you, Sylvia!

At the Birge-Dunham wedding the matron of honor will be Mrs. Helen Holt Clark, recent bride of Thirtyman Wis Clark of Hartford.—So we send a tardy welcome to the fold to Helen. Our Phil Bassett will be best man

Roily Booma told us during the house parties that there were or would be two other marriages to record as follows: Nels Flanders to Frances Gilmore of Melrose, Massachusetts, on June 1. Frances learned her multiplication tables at Bradford Academy.

And secondly, Fred Jasperson to Jean Zarr of Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania '30. We have no date for this celebration.

Frances and Jean, we welcome you into our growing club of Thirtyteer wives.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have Bill Blanchard engaged to Dorothy Dew Wright of West Orange, N. J. This, if we remember accurately, is a one-time Carnival queen. We can't resist that low urge which impels us to say that we trust Dorothy will Do Right by our Bill.

It seems that there were more engagements, but there seem to be no more memorandums and it is pretty depressing stuff anyway.

From the dean of the Cornell graduate schools comes the announcement of the award of the Susan Linn Sage graduate scholarship in philosophy to Merrill Eugene Bush.

Among our new address memorandums we have new addresses for Bob Pratt in White Plains, N. Y.; Bud Fisher at 333 East 53rd St., New York; Paul Maguire in Brooklyn; Shelley Stark in Brooklyn; and Nels Blake in Providence. The activities of all of these gentlemen have been recently reported upon.

A note on our desk one Monday morning said that Bob Kimball called Saturday afternoon.—That is too bad, because we were going to let Bob put his number elevens on our polished oak desk.

When it comes to the Thirtyteers in Hanover for the spring house parties there is quite a roster. Les Godwin took part of his New York Telephone vacation and spent about a week with us. Lee Chilcote appeared with the usual gorgeous creature. Bill Fletcher, Jack Wooster, Bob Winter and Jim Dunlap were here. We have already mentioned Haffenreffer and Booma. There are others whom I heard about but didn't see, and still others whom I saw but whose names, what with this electric ice-box in our upper story, elude us for the moment. There is Dunning, too, who passed hurriedly into the Phi Delt house.

Bud French came up, dropped into the room and sat down to give an account of himself and Thirtyteers from coast to coast. Bud found out about fruit from huckleberries to alligator pears on the West Coast and has now come east in his trusty motor to join the eastern organization of his firm. He is dated to be the grapefruit king of our generation.

Reading from west to east in the French report, there is Chuck Adams still in Seattle looking for a job that really suits him, cherished by his lovely wife already reported in the '3O fold. In Denver Bud visited another merrily married couple, the Ned Grants. In Chicago he saw Mickey Emrich, the bulwark of the Alumni Fund, and Freddy Schmidt, one of the assistant bulwarks. Then in Cleveland there was Dr. Cliffie Vogt pursuing his medical education and claiming like all these medics to be working beyond belief, which if true is an excuse for not writing to us. And somewhere along the line, Bud picked up a story about Al Trostel who in the interests of the Trostel Leather Company is touring such points as Pinehurst, Miami Hot Springs and other great industrial centers, and after his usual gentlemanly game of golf with his customary magnificient success at the 19th hole, has had stupendous leather orders thrust down his reticent throat.

There is a story from Bottome about Gomer Waterman in Vienna going to a costume ball and getting arrested and incarcerated as a communist.

In between trains we got in on a dinner of the New York Thirtyteers in the Dartmouth Club, April 20. It was hardly getting under way when we had to trot off to catch the Montrealer, but it had all the earmarks and essentials of a very superior party. We should list the goodly Thirtyteers there present were it not that some of our boys in the outlying districts claim to be suffering from an over-emphasis of New York and Boston.

Bob Booth with his usual impeccable taste selected for Class Baby Chase a graceful silver cup, which was engraved to the Class Baby from the Class of 1930. One pleasant afternoon we walked up to Occom Ridge to present it. Mother and son received it with pleasure and a great deal of appreciation which I am to convey to you all. Little Fred manifested his delight by screwing up his face and making a prodigious noise. Here's one from Bebe Zey:

Dear Al I have read and enjoyed your—compilation—all winter. Now that spring is here, the sap rises, and, well, you get a letter.

I have spent a very enjoyable year at the University of California. As its corridors of learning are rather crowded ones, and as I have had no "pushing" experience, I have had lots of doors slammed in my face, and have had to take what courses were left after the first ten thousand had been taken care of. But, as it has worked out, there is indeed a destiny that shapes our ends, and the courses I have taken in last-minute desperation have generally proved more valuable than anything I could have chosen for myself. So it goes. In one of the above mentioned "last resorts" the other two desperadoes dropped out during the term, leaving me alone with the professor, and we became so very intimate, under those circumstances, that I have contracted with him to stay in California this summer, and help him write a book. My "help" will be of very modest proportions but I will get my name in an introduction, and have the gratification of doing research for some higher end than department files, or the waste basket.

In the meantime I have seen more of the state of California than the majority of life residents—have looked for old whiskey bottles in the deserted mining camps of Death Valley, shaken hands with Death Valley Scotty on his own hearth-rug, been "taken in" on a ripe olive, and looked out over the Pacific from Point Lobos in Monterey Bay. The "rainy season" has been the shortest and least disagreeable this year in twenty years—so they say—and I must admit that I haven't pined away for want of ice, snow, slush, and nor'westers.

GORDON ZEY

Berkeley, California.

Nelse Rockefeller has returned from his toot all around this here world and settled down to work without wasting a minute. He is doing something at 26 Broadway that entails a stenographer to whom probably we owe our letter. Nelse pooh-poohed our request for a colorful sketch of the high spots of the Rockefeller expedition.

Eb Blake's account of himself includes tutoring at the Rumson School, New Jersey; selling at Jordan-Marsh's; and as at present dispersing insurance for the Equitable Life Insurance Company in the Boston office. He reports Bart McDonough teaching and coaching at the Franklin, Massachusetts, high school, which is an item we have been wondering about for a long time.

Jack Herrick, whose pneumonia has already been spoken of, wrote us a good letter during his convalescence. It seems that Jack's sporting goods manufacturing racket was put upon a five-day week. Jack, good economist that he is, figured out that it was up to him to reciprocate by increasing sporting goods consumption, so he went out one insidiously balmy March day for 18 holes of golf and brought in along with his score a very superior case of pneumonia. So he was taken for a ride in one of these hospital wagons, but pulled through, which altogether we should guess is one of those rare cases of commodity consumption developing into pneumonia.

George Porter writes from Washington, D. C., where he is working with Cushman, Bryant and Darby, patent attorneys, and liking it. He has seen Ted Wolf and George Parkhurst among others.

Tom Donovan has signed up for another year at Mount Hermon, and writes wondering whether the first table on the west side of the D. O. C. dining room is still as rocky as ever. We don't want to stick our neck out on this, but we have an impression that the sides of the dining room are north and south. Anyway, doubtless the table still rocks.

Arch Clark has taken the Outing Club of Boston under his wing and writes for some addresses which in the course of time he may get.

Ellie Armstrong writes from New Haven saying that he is making people want insurance as his second venture in pursuit of a livelihood. He said not a thing about Peggy and the baby that rumor credits the Armstrongs with.

A press release dated April 27 tells us that Melvin Crowe King of Somerville has been appointed a member of the faculty at the Westminster School in Simsbury, Connecticut.

With a few minor omissions, Dick Zeigler writes informingly as follows: Dear Al: Deciding, AL, that the current issue of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE was sadly lacking in news concerning the midwestern Thirtymen (my vote) I am hereby making somewhat of an effort to rectify what I call a bad case of neglect.

Needless to say, located as I am only thirty miles from the "evil" of Chicago, on the shore of Lake Michigan, surrounded by bevies and bevies of beautiful girls and a few former Thirtymen the news I have to offer will at best be "yellow" and in many cases bordering on scandal.

First the case of Bill Rich: Bill came out from New York city and its night life about two months ago, and decided to live in Evanston. He dropped in at the hotel where I work, the most exclusive one in Evanston, and inquired about rates. I talked the manager down to $6O per from $75 and then Bill and his brother "bond-salesman" walked out and rented a room at $80 per in another hotel, Evanston's most exclusive. (Depends on which hotel ad you read first.,) Second, the sad case of Paul Duback: Paul from all reports is at Northwestern getting his Master's. However, I am not so certain of the fact and will let the reader decide for himself. As far as I can gather he spends three days here and four days either in Milwaukee or at the Kappa house in Wisconsin. All that he does here is rest and prepare himself for the heavy part of the week.

Third, Johnny Hahn, or "Almost a Mayor's Son:" Johnny and his father recently ran for Mayor. His father doing the running, and Johnny the campaigning, which included much handshaking, radio broadcasting, etcetera. Down to defeat, but by such a small vote that it was almost a moral victory. They were bucking a strong and old regime. Fourth, News Flash: "Stew" Seidl in Chicago, attends collegiate night at the Edgewater Beach Hotel. . . .

Fifth, Society: "Dud" Faust rushing up with bouquets and calling on beautiful ladies. She lives in the same apartment house as do I, and on that particular Sunday afternoon he could not avoid me.

"Mickey" Emrich used to come calling 011 another girl in my apartment house, but she is at Wellesley and Mickey out scaring up the Alumni Fund.

"Freddie" Schmidt also used to come calling on still another girl in the same apartment building, but as he told me, "she probably knew less about what's what than any girl he ever knew." She is now engaged to a smart young fellow who owns a Rolls Royce and who has his own chauffeur. Guess Freddie must have been wrong.

"Kenny" Kull living just beyond the line in Chicago is calling on some young thing in Wilmette, also a suburb of Chicago.

Having been thoroughly balled out and called a woman-chasing-fool by Ziegler, who is in New Hampshire, and who used to get all of my mail, I have a right to defend myself. I have up to now had less dates than I had while at Dartmouth. (Dates out here counting only about l/lO of a Dartmouth date.) Dates out here are particularly peculiar, for the more one has the less he wants and the less he has the more he wants. (Figure it out for yourself, I can't.) Anyway, graduation June 16th, B.S. Commerce, send no flowers and a forwarding address will be forthcoming sometime in the latter part of June. Prospects at present: hotel auditing, or, making cigarettes.

Chicago.

R. B. ZEIGLER

One morning several weeks ago in Chattanooga, we picked up the worthy Chattanooga Times and saw on the front page- no less— an account of the engagement of our Ted Wolf to a Miss Bull. We later received the following clipping from the NewYork Times:

BULL—WOLF

Announcement has been made to friends here by Lieut. Col. and Mrs. Henry Tilghman Bull of Washington, D. C., of the engagement of their daughter, Miss Elisabeth Wainwright Bull, to Theodore R. Wolf, son of Mr. and Mrs. Robert B. Wolf of 5 Gramercy Park.

Miss Bull is a granddaughter of Commodore and Mrs. James H. Bull of San Francisco and of Captain and Mrs. Dallas Bache Wainwright of Washington. She was graduated from Smith College in 1930. Mr. Wolf went to Choate and was graduated from Dartmouth in 1930. He is with the Standard Oil Company of New York.

No date has been set for the wedding. Ted himself writes as follows:

Dear Al: Two events occurred last month that are worth writing about. Whether or not they are worth reading about is quite another matter, however.

On Easter Sunday my girl announced that she was engaged. (Yes, to me . . .) Betty Bull is the name, and so the announcement appeared in the N. Y. Times under the title "Bull-Wolf." The wedding will take place in the all-too-dim-and-distant future.

The other event has to do with a change of occupation. I found out what the bottom of a car looks like with the Standard Oil Company, and now I am finding out what the top looks like with General Motors. The top is not only cleaner, pleasanter, and more civilized, but much more interesting. My specific function is that of selling Chevrolets at the service branch of the N. Y. Retail Store, the latter being on Broadway and 62nd Street, the former on 11th Avenue and 56th Street. If any Dartmouth boys lack the means of locomotion, I'll sell them anything from $50.00 up (and if this amateur ad brings results, we'll split the commissions, Al . . .).

I envy your spending the month of May and most of June in Hanover—with nothing to do but read and write letters? Somehow Manhattan asphalt doesn't seem to enjoy sunshine and blue skies. (The ice is probably still on Occom Pond.)

I demonstrated a car for a Japanese bootlegger the other day. We haven't seen him since. . . . Which brings me pretty well up-to-date.

TED WOLF

New York City.

Here's a late-arrival from Tom Longnecker. Dear Skip: While reading the ALUMNI MAGAZINE the other evening I happened to come across that wise remark of yours which pertained to me. I have a sneaking suspicion that it was put in there to elicit a response—I have noticed that trait of yours before. If it was, you have achieved your objective, and if it wasn't, you are getting something for nothing.

However, I must correct a few errors, and also I can't have the noble name of Longnecker bandied about in your columns like that.

Since leaving the cloistered Halls of Learning (?) I have led a very enjoyable, if somewhat precarious, existence—first in Europe with the old dipsomaniac, R. R. Bottome, and then at home looking for work. About three months ago my luck failed me and I located a job. However, it hasn't been so bad, and in fact, much as I hate to admit it, I have even enjoyed it at times. But—and here is a correction—Bottome's "Source of Information" is a little behind the parade. My "beat" at present is not "colorful," and I say "damn" quite frequently, among other things. I am now putting out the market pages for this noble sheet, and I have the high-sounding title of Financial Editor (don't laugh, the poor fellow is starving to death). Almost any day now I hope to be promoted to copy-boy, but probably by the time you read this, I shall have been fired, and justly so. That is all about myself, save that I am consumed by one ambition and three worries. The ambition is to be a retired capitalist, and the worries listed on the order of their intensity are: I shall some day have to go to work; the present state of my golf game; a certain blonde—and what a blonde—exclamation points, and quotation marks.

I have seen very few of the former residents of Hanover. Before Johnny Kountz left for New York to make his fortune I saw quite a bit of him, but he quit making beer, and what would you have a fellow do? This last fall I was East for the Yale game, and after spent three or four days with Al (Whata-man) Marsters, stealing away in the dead of night just in time to save myself the expense of taking the Keeley Cure. Of course, I have seen "Poop" Johnson a couple of times, but he doesn't count.

I also had a letter from Billy Moore, but no answer to the one I wrote in return, the big stiff. Likewise, on the delinquent list is Casanova Bottome. I suppose he is still running around with the Park avenue Belle.

I am, therefore, going to put my address at the end of this letter, and if you don't print the letter, at least print the address. I should like to hear from some of those fortunates who used to inhabit the Annex down at 5 West South street, and anyone else who feels the urge.

I almost forgot to mention that I wrote once to Rosenberry, but I happened to mention something about what he did in Montreal one time, and I suspect his wife got hold of it. That, I suppose, ends that.

One other thing I should like to mention is all this fuss about choosing a name for those who graduated in 1930. It looks very much to me like one of those promotion schemes of yours, and it doesn't mean a thing. If you can't figure out when you graduated the good old Selective Process would never have let you in. I repeat, it looks to me like your doing, and is a direct outgrowth of that attitude you used to display in English Honors' tutorial meetings, and which led to me being deprived of the doubtful distinction of having graduated with honors, which in turn almost broke the Presbyterian minister's heart back home, to say nothing of a couple of maiden aunts.

In conclusion, may I offer the hospitality of my hovel to any Dartmouth men who happen to be sentenced to come to Toledo.

.. . Argonne Hotel, 14th St., Toledo, Ohio, Apt. 418 (knock before you enter).

Sincerely yours,

TOMMY LONGNECKER

As we write this in Oriental luxury here at Dick's House with our cranial ice-box buzzing merrily away, we have only one more observation to make: What about "Thirtyteer" vs. "Thirtymen"?

This month we have garnered one vote and that is Dick Zeigler's for "Thirtymen."

How about it?

Well so long until October!

Secretary, Parkhurst Hall, Hanover, N. H.