Class of 1914
Last month's issue of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE was sent to all names on the class list. Herb Austin, our treasurer, has meanwhile written you concerning the matter of class dues ($3), which, by the way, includes the magazine.
Even though the dollars are so scarce these days you should really consider the value of keeping in touch with Dartmouth affairs, which means for most of you, the ALUMNI MAGAZINE. In fact, although Herb may shoot us on sight, we urge your subscription even if you feel you can't afford the extra dollar for the class.
Herb Austin's address, by the way, is 11 Leighton Road, Wellesley, Mass., and—DO IT NOW!
The Secretary regretfully records this month the passing of another man of 1914 —"Pat" Willard, who died April 18 at Randolph, Mass. Losing two men in such a short interval is indeed a heavy blow. George Briggs and Pat Willard both possessed to a large degree many of the fundamental traits of character which we like to consider as part of the stamp of Dartmouth men—open, friendly, square, playing the game, and taking life in stride. It is surely a pity to lose them, but a recollection of their friendship sharpens the remembrance of our undergraduate days in which the association with these sterling boys played so large a part. They will indeed be missed!
(Note—See Necrology for further account of Willard.)
If Lay Little hadn't chosen Pawtucket in the tight little state of Rhode Island, he might today be president of China or something. While most of us have been grubbing along peddling this or that, Lay has been doing things in far-off Shanghai and doing them so well (as we all know Lay would) he has now been promoted to a full commissioner of customs, which under the circumstances is said to be the top.
This China business has for us always been a fascination as well as a mystery. Last winter coming back from England we met a chap who worked with Lay, and we seem to recall about as follows: Some years ago the Boxers, saying it with knives and guns instead of gloves, were finally subdued, and a commission was appointed to administer the Chinese customs, with England reserving the top job to one of its nationals. We were stuck, because why should anyone but a Chinaman mess up their own customs, but Ted Marriner can probably explain. Anyway, Lay became a member of said commission, and except for the fortune of birthplace might be the big shot himself. We will wager a bit or two that Lay still prefers his U. S. origin.
We read furthermore in the New York Times, which we get free for certain reasons, that Les is now on his way to Geneva to become advisor to the Chinese delegation. This may bring him home on leave, unless his promotion requires his stay at Shanghai.
Best wishes and continued good fortune, Lay! Let's hear from you!
Our thin line of bachelors has been reduced by one when Doctor Colby—Fletch to you—departed single-blessedness recently and became just a husband like most of us. We don't know the lady's maiden name, but when we get the story we shall tell you. Being in the business of having for salewe almost said selling—certain articles of baked and decorated clay, the specific naming of which might be construed by some as personal advertising, we happened, one day, to spy Fletch browsing around our emporium making a preliminary study of the situation. Cautious inquiry revealed the impending event. With a possible sale in sight we worked so diligently to consummate same that we plumb forgot to inquire as to whom, when, and where.
Best of luck to you, Mr. and Mrs. Fletch. See you in Hanover in 1934 and sooner we hope.
The other Saturday evening we were gently but firmly informed that if we wanted eggs for breakfast next morning we had better do something about it. So visited our favorite butter and egg store and noticed a sign to the effect that here were eggs guaranteed not over twenty-four hours old and only 35 cents per dozen. All of which, especially the price, somehow dug up from our subconscious the recollection of our last egg-buying expedition over a year ago, the same being in the company of the Paul Witmer Loudons in Minneapolis. Again it was Saturday, and there were no eggs in the Loudon larder. So, getting out one of their cars, we headed for the egg belt. Near to town the signs read 20 cents, and we frowned at the advance we had to pay in Boston. A mile or two further they were 15 cents, and our marvel grew. Five miles more one could buy twelve eggs for 14 cents, but when we met the price of two dozen for a quarter we could hold in no longer, and besides by this time the gas consumption had passed what we figured for Red must be the limits of good clean fun. Lest he pass such a bargain we pointed—"Look, Red. Two for a quarter!" Our only answer was his stamp on the pedal. . . . "Nothing doing. That guy is a gyp artist. He gives small eggs, and anyway a couple of miles more and we'll get them for a dime a dozen."
The moral, if any, only goes to prove that the Scotch laugh at geography.
Before leaving Minneapolis we should not forget Sam Sheldon and his cold cure. It appears that Mrs. Sheldon, somewhat without the complete acquiescence of Sam, had just subjected the family, less Sam but including the Scandinavian—the last being the current maid—to a serum treatment for colds, with the result that the whole family, including the Scandinavian but again less Sam, were violently afflicted with colds, and had been so for a week.
Being a bit wheezy, Sam insisted we come over that evening and be cured. We did and we were. It was a great prescription and a swell evening, and best of all we never had another cold until we got to where it was all free and we forgot to use it.
With the approach of winter you may care to try it with Sam's guaranty that he has used it for nigh onto twenty years, always with the best of results. Here it is: Sp. Frum. 3 oz. Aqua CO to taste, dose: ad. lib.
Jim Gregg has been laid up some this summer with ear trouble, from which we are glad to say he has now recovered.
While so afflicted, brother-in-law Cliff Chandler was doctoring sore feet. We do not know whether it was gout, fallen arches, corns, bunions, or athlete's foot, although Jim claims he is sure it wasn't the last.
Signs posted in the offices of Young and Rubicam, Madison Ave., New York, in which Sig Larmon is a partner, read from left to right: "Lay off coffee. Drink Postum and sleep." . . . "Maxwell House Coffee- good to the last drop—won't keep you awake."
This we believe is what the psychiatrists call rationalizing the paradox.
P.S.—Sig, weren't we nice not to ask what is the matter with the last drop?
If when in Rome you want to do what the Romans do your visit may be more pleasant if you take the trouble to learn what the Romans do and how they do it. That is to say that whereas we are brought up to turn to the right both as a principle of moral rectitude as well as of vehicular operation, other peoples, to wit: the natives of Bermuda, when riding or driving in conformity to their British origin and custom turn to the left.
Thus it was when Ted Lavin on a long-merited vacation in that fair isle came a cropper. He and a friend rented a tandem bicycle and pedaled over to a remote golf course. Came evening, and the friend offered to steer on the return trip. For the unenlightened in riding a tandem, one steers, brakes, and pedals; the other just pedals. The sunset was wonderful, soft lights on coral, the boom of distant surf and all that, a steep hill, a sharp corner, and an ox-cart dead ahead. The steerer turned to the right even as you and we, but the ox-cart veered to the left. The result was as expected. The tandem was wrecked, shins were barked, golf kit smashed, and a general shake-up all around. When the cops arrived their first concern was for the ox—oxen it seems in Bermuda have the right of way. It is almost a major crime to injure a beast of burden. If maimed it might mean a year at hard labor plus the charges of driving recklessly, operating on the wrong side of the road, and so forth.
Happily Ted's think-box still functioned, and much blarney, a pound note, and the long arm of hotel advertising kept him out of hock, even though he did spend the rest of the vacation nursing his dozen bruises.
Advertising men representing big metropolitan magazines have the gayest, carefree lives. Just one flit from hither to yon picking up a color page here, a twelve-run there, without a care in the world.
Take Bob Hopkins, for example. Making the New Yorker bigger and better is just a bowl of cherries so far as he is concerned. But too many cherries give stomach-aches. It happened like this. Being in Boston one morning Bob was confronted with a page in Fitchburg and another in Boston at 3:30 the same day, with a round of golf hitched to the latter.
The jaunt to Fitchburg was simple. The contract even simpler. Then, of course, one must inspect the plant; one really must see the processes and products one is to describe. The client had a garden. Bob saw that. The client had a club and a new recipe. He saw and sampled. The client had a house and a wife and a cellar. Bob saw them—a little hazier in the cool depth, but he saw them, and, likewise, his watch, which now read 12:55 Eastern Daylight Saving Time. And now for lunch. One eats leisurely in Fitchburg, and guest and hosts rose at 1:40. The golf, the ad, and the second client had specified 2:30 sharp in Boston. It couldn't be done.
Oh, but it could. The host pooh-poohed Bob's concern. Didn't Bob know that he was a pilot and would fly him down? Jumping in a high-powered motor purring at the door the run to the airport was made in less than nothing flat. Bob couldn't remember whether his insurance policies covered flying, but it was too late anyway.
The prop was revolving merrily when they arrived. They pushed Bob in. He sank back. Blinking, he beheld the tops of trees. The air was bumpy. He felt sick. Perhaps it was the fish. Perhaps it was the . . . hie . . . hie. His host recounted crackups, pointed out the passing towns. Bob looked out, he looked back. He slept.
Bump—"Here we are!" sang the client. "East Boston Airport. Fifteen minutes to make the Ritz."
"And would you believe it," recounted Bob, "we pulled up at the hotel at exactly 2:28 and I broke ninety at Brae Burn." Life is just a bowl of cherries. . . .
Secretary, 16 Grove St., West Medford, Mass.
