Class of 1918
After a news moratorium of many months, during which time not as much as a whisper was relayed to the Secretary for publication in the 1918 Alumni Notes column by any of the class, we are finally backed by sufficient copy to reopen for business. To one of the embattled farmers of Nebraska, A 1 Sibbernsen, goes the honor of registering the first protest against empty spaces in the ALUMNI MAGAZINE, and he furnishes us with a letter to overcome this chronic condition. We introduce Mr. Sibbernsen:
"The comfortable security of the interiorof a home surrounded on the exterior bywide-open spaces and 150 below wafted ona 40 m.p.h. wind turns one literary, onlyto the degree of attempting to lift fromthe depths of the depression the 1918 newsitems so conspicuous in the ALUMNI MAGAZINE by their continued absence. Havingbeen confined to the close proximity of aNebraska farm (date of incarceration, sometime in '29) and not being obliged to sellanything to unsuspecting friends, and having nothing to sell for that something longsince forgotten but formerly called money,I have not contacted with any 'lB-ers. Consequently I cannot even resort to the customary type of news letter, but willcontinue in farmer style and ask forbearance that it may stimulate activity in thecolumn.
"During the days of big money thefarmers' lot was small change, and it continues along the same line. In this section(Washington, Neb.) foreclosures have beennegligible, closeouts none. There's not evena Farmers' Holiday Movement to add zest.So all we can do is to sit back in the safetyof our vocation and await the ultimaterecovery.
"The seat of my operations is 20 mileswest of Omaha. My two boys having learnedthe art of milking a kicking cow (didn'tsay I taught them) in preparation fortheir matriculation at Dartmouth, together with their certificate from SchoolDist. No. 41, Washington (A. H. Sibbernsen, moderator); and with an array ofhorseshow ribbons and cups, the result ofable coaching from their mother, I feelthat their athletic and scholastic careersare assured.
"The produce turned out from the farmattempts at diversification from rabbitsto game chickens with 400 hogs, 1000 sheep,and 300 cattle sandwiched into balancethe budget—l mean to make it pay taxes.Now! Let's have a column next month." It's O.K. with us, A1.
We note that Tom Campbell and Zack Jordan are still gracing the rock-dotted regions of Colorado, suffering from the doldrums of middle life and the common misery. Tom, at least, expects to be able to hitch-hike his way East this spring, presumably for the big Hanover round-up in June.
Turning to the eastern sector of this ailing land of ours, we find Paul Miner still firmly planted in the sticks of Jersey at Glen Rock, and as much concerned as ever about saving the last vestige of vegetation on that nearly polished dome of his. Paul says that he gets occasional glimpses of Hugh Whipple, whom he took on as a brother-in-law, when the latter's business trips take him to the city. Medina, N. Y„ news emanating from Hugh has it that Tom Robbins had a daughter born some weeks ago and that Bob Munson has returned to the old home town to resume medical practice after a year's study in New York City.
Stump Barr has recently thumbed his nose at Old Man Depression by announcing his engagement. Give the little guy a great big hand, fellas! This leaves Wart McElwain, the Barney Oldfield of Hempstead, as 'lB's smallest living bachelor. Give him a great big hand, too.
Blimp Morey, the big two-barrel man of Sinclair Oil, returns from a trip to Chicago with a fantastic tale. He reports that during the recent blizzard he stepped out of the Field Museum into the teeth of a howling gale. He was about to enter the cab which he had left (meter clicking) when he was blown head-on into a woman also bound for his cab. No, there were two women,—that was it. He was remarking with the Old World chivalry so characteristic of the Moreys, "G'wan, beat it, before I lay a bunch of fives along yer jaw!" when one of the two looked up with tearblurred eyes and whimpered, "Please sir, you wouldn't refuse America's Sweetheart and her mother, would you, sir?"
And there, avers Blimp, was Mary Pickford!
P.S. She got the cab,—with Morey. P.P.S. Her mother got the cold Chicago air.
F. H. Earley ("The Widow's Home Companion") is flat on his back at current writing,—sometime in February. Victim of a new and malignant ailment which Dr. Lorenz of Vienna terms "Insurance Arches." Earley, it seems, was writing his annual message of cheer and reassurance to the five men who have not let their policies lapse (in collaboration with President Hibben of Princeton), when he suddenly keeled over and fell to the floor of the Gents' Room in the Grand Central Station.
Before President Hibben could summon an attendant (they were both in there on the one nickel, anyway) Earley's eyes filled with tears and he sobbed, "I can't stand it —it's just too moving."
He was carried home on a litter, where examination revealed both feet to be as flat as an old bedroom slipper. "Too much walking," said Dr. Lorenz, "has unsettled his arches. This has, in turn, unsettled his mind, which renders him an easy victim to earnest rhetoric—especially his own. Keep him off his feet, and away from pen and paper, for two months, and then we shall see."
Seen recently at the Bankers' Club in New York on the occasion of the Dartmouth luncheon to President Hopkins were '18ers Lew Pounds, Bill Christgau, Phil Everett, Steve Mahoney, Bill Montgomery, and the silent secretary. All were intent on learning how the College managed so admirably minus banks and cash.
Secretary, 953 Madison Ave New York
