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AS OUR FAVORITE PUBLICATION after this one, and the most likely to succeed, we nominate The Bulletin whose limited mailing list (Trustees, Alumni Council, class secretaries, agents and treasurers, alumni club secretaries) cannot be jimmied into by purchase or bribe. Several hundred key Dartmouth workers strain their eyesight whenever a mimeographed issue of TheBulletin appears to catch the wit, wisdom, and newsy items emanating from A. I. D. (Albert I. Dickerson '30, executive assistant to President Hopkins).
Our colleague gathers inspiration almost every week from the "The Bulletin Elm" located outside his watch-tower window in Parkhurst Hall. Recently observing Desire strolling under its arched branches he wrote in The Bulletin, under the title "Sex Raises Its Head":
"House parties seem to have slipped up on us this year. We suddenly looked out of the window and there were couples wandering up and down the sidewalks in obviously close affinity—i.e. intra-couple affinity, but in general oblivious of other couples and indeed of their entire environment; sometimes self-conscious, and keyed up with a tense and uncertain expectancy, but by this time tomorrow the self-consciousness will be subsided. Of course, there have been advance signs of house parties, the cots stacked up on the porch of the Deke House, definitely not of the Beautyrest category (there is no charge for this, Jack Hubbell, and the editor's regards to that other Beautyrest devotee, Garantua) but the week-end occupancy of these cots will not add up to very many hours. There have been press notices in The Dartmouth of the Players' performance of 'Mr. & Mrs. North,' starring Nancy Carroll, the erstwhile cinema star, and of the Glee Club's first Hanover performance tonight in Robinson Hall. But somehow we haven't been properly attuned to catch the pitch of expectancy which must be prevailing this Friday morning in twenty-one fraternity houses. Your editor is definitely aging. We tried to cover a Carnival for The Bulletin a half dozen years ago, from a swain's eye view, but now when sex raises its beguiling head over Hanover Plain we seem to be stuffily out of touch. An occasional reluctant experience in chaperonage hasn't helped recapture the fine, free zest of these affairs either—a painful experience of either occupying a stuffy, solitary and alien corner, while the elan of oblivious youth sweeps by to the din of swing, or else of witnessing the pathetic spectacle of the chapter's social chairman, or of a browbeaten sophomore, in the tortured role of the brother-who-has-to-be-nice-to-the-chaperones. These affairs seem definitely tamer than those of the hectic twenties, but indubitably the perspective is awry. On the other hand, it is undoubtedly true that drinking is more restrained or else its effect is less perceptible. Which reminds us that the Harvard peerade special train on which we returned from Cambridge, in order to get to bed earlier but with certain misgivings, was very much like any other train, which is certainly not our recollection of undergraduate days. Maybe we will manage to get back into the spirit of the occasion one of these days and tell you about it."
