1911*

This month's notes should be given under the caption, "My Heart Belongs to Chubby"! Good old Chub Sterling, whose back is turned on you in the picture above, gives the following under the title:

NOTES BY A TRAVELLING SALESMAN

One often dreams of a place where one hasn't been; but twice I have had the good fortune to send a son to one of my dream spots—to Palmer Gulch Lodge, Black Hills, Hill City, South Dakota. That is Troy Parker's place. Each of my boys had a great kick out of the place and out of Troy. The Lodge is right on the edge of the Bad Lands. It is less than a quarter of a gallon of gas from Mt. Rushmore, where Gutzon Borglum is carving those great heads of Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln high up on a stone mountain.

But this is not a travelogue by substitution, so where have I been and whom have I seen?

Gazing out from the hotel balcony over San Francisco Bay, several times I've had the luck to hold a glass high with Art Gray and Ray Taylor. Art is Manager of the coast division of the William Carter Company, pany. Ray has something to do with hosiery and lives down the peninsula at Palo Alto. Oh boy, it's love and kisses to meet them in America's number one city of interest.

One day in Seattle I called up Joe McGlynn. He was in Hanover for only a short time. He was leaving Seattle in five minutes on a trip, when I reached him on the phone. I said, "Joe, I'll bet you are still handsome as hell." He said, "It's lucky perhaps that we can't get together because if you are handsome too, neither of us would know each other." So I didn't see Joe. He is northwest or Washington Manager for Goodyear.

Way down south in Los Angeles is Walter Gibson. I walked in on him in a private office slightly larger than the State of Rhode Island. He is the grand umpsis or something of Lybrand, Ross & Montgomery, certified public accountants. It was fun. I had always hated people who could add—but somehow Walter has borne his cross exceedingly well.

Freddie Long, bless his heart, went to Colorado for his health. He became a minister. Eventually he located in St. Louis. One day I called him but he was away for some sort of convention of good people.

Way up in northern Minnesota they have a lot of ducks. At a duck-shooting place I looked over the names of the guests of the preceding week. And what did I find? Duke Dunning, the Duke of Duluth. The Arthur person is a Minnesota G. E. refrigerator distributor and, as you would expect, the comedy of the shooting parties. I've just missed him three times, but I'll catch up to him yet.

And speaking of refrigerator distributors, not long ago that great man, the Frigidaire distributor of Clarksburg, West Virginia, came to New York and Greenwich, Connecticut. It was none other than E. (for Edger) Swede Needham. Boy, what a waht! He hasn't lost an ounce of genialness. We looked over all the old Dartmouth pictures —we bent an elbow or two—we talked about lots of youse guys.

While mentioning Greenwich we might as well acclaim it as the home of BroadAcres Mathes and Sell-em-a-Carload Rollins as well as your correspondent. Up on the hill high above us Sterlings lives Jim and the dog-gondest Dartmouth family you ever saw. Jim's son graduated from Hanover last year. He has already married the sister of a Dartmouth guy. Jim's oldest daughter has married a Dartmouthian. His next daughter is engaged to another Dartmouth gent. His still-too-young daughter knows at least several Dartmouth people and I assure you that she shall have her choice.

I might add that the Sterlings themselves have just a touch of Dartmouth. One son graduated last year, and another is a freshman this year.

Mac Rollins, the other Greenwich citizen, writes promotion for CosmopolitanMagazine—and darn well, I may add.

Of course practically in Greenwich, Connecticut is Rye, New York, and there lives Warren C. Agry—often known as the late Mr. Agry. Warren is a great man! The other day he told me that he realized that all of a sudden we were knee deep in 1938 and that within a year Hitler would make trouble. He has a son going to Hanover next year. He is Business Manager of GoodHousekeeping Magazine.

Not so long since, I have seen two distinguished aces—Gabe Farrell and Bob Barstow. Gabe is the head of the Perkins Institute for the Blind, at Watertown, Massachusetts. Bob is the head of the Hartford Seminary, a theological and missionary college at Hartford, Connecticut. Their institutions bring honor to them, and they bring honor to their institutions.

Then down in Washington there is George Morris. His house is a great show place. It was a famed colonial home in Dedham, Massachusetts. George and wife Miriam picked it up, board by board and nail by nail, and set it down again on the edge of Rock Creek Park. The home now is worth going miles to see. Inside, it is furnished with taste and grace—fine old furniture and furbelows. Why, say! The front hall wallpaper is so interesting that people have spent their entire visit there without enough time to see the rest of the house. And then, by gosh, they have come back and done the same thing over again.

In Cincinnati Lew Sisson, the eminent saw fiddler, is in the paper business. Carl Groat is editor of the Cincinnati Post. And Max Eaton is in the real estate business.

In Cleveland there is Bob Keeler, returned now from his temporary exile at Lima, Ohio. Also in that fair city is Jim Irwin, the indefatigable pineapple purveyor. And there is Stouder (Biff) Thompson with his eye on real estate. And Jack Ingersoll who works in an iron foundry.

Harold Card lives over in Elizabeth, New Jersey and, believe it or not, he is interested in welding.

Once in a while one gets to Pittsburgh and there, for a long time, was Dutch Uline; and that was a pleasure. One now has to write him on the cuff for Buffalo.

And believe it, Buffalo is never a hardship while there is old John Foster Bartlett, the eminent Niagara Falls realtor. He will come over to Buffalo at the drop of a hat to greet a friend. He will also take you to play golf. But he will be damned if he will show you the Falls.

While you're up in New York State you might as well go to the fair city of Rochester, where two 1911 gents would be most happy to have lunch with you. Sid Backus practices law, and Ken Knapp practices engineering.

Once in a while I travel to Bridgeport. Once I went to Phil Marden's house—a very neat affair. And many times I have seen Sarge Eaton who is the head of the Howland Dry Goods Company—a large and prosperous dry goods store.

This silly little travelogue has nothing to do with the gents in New York or Chicago or Boston. There are too many of them to be included in this short piece. But my travels wouldn't be travels unless they eventually got back to the North Countree!

Going up by way of Winnepesaukee you come to Wolfeboro and there is Chuck Bush running an Inn. Over on the east side of the White Mountains there is the town of Intervale, where Chuck Emerson owns and runs an Inn. And then around to Whitefield where there is, of course, Frank Dodge and his Inn (the 'Leven Inn, I calls it.)

And finally there is Hanover where the three most common sights have been Bill Gooding, Howard Dunham, and Nat Burleigh. And now there is a new sight; and that is Johnny Pearson who has moved there to become some sort of Manager of the Dartmouth Eye Clinic.

THIS MONTH'S CORRESPONDENT AND TWOOF HIS SUBJECTS

Secretary, Hanover, N. H.