New York
TODAY THE ROVER BOYS—labelled at the christening font as Randall Burns and Martin Remsen—are substantial agriculturists, the one spending his spare time in White Plains on a vegetable garden, the other a full fledged citizen of New Hampshire, and a voter in the town of Etna.
In the course of a Hanoverian expedition which included chats with such redoubtable members and former members as Sunny Sanborn, John Pians, Dick Southgate, John Pearson, and numerous delegates from the faculty, your inquiring reporter interviewed Mr. Remsen in the cow barn of his estate. Beside us were the two Jersey cows, one slightly enceinte, and named Dolores and Dorothy. Near by was Mr. Remsen's Christmas present to his wife, a Jersey heifer, yclept Ysobel, whose limpid orbs poured out a wealth of love and affection for her patron. In an adjacent room 100—count them—loo beautiful hens were busying themselves with the day's production of the necessary eggs for the Inn's omelettes, chocolate cakes, and ice cream.
Owlishly gazing at Archie, the pointer, were Demmy and Remmy, the Scotties, while Punch and Judy, the cats, pondered the potential milk supply as it related to their own domestic economy.
Mr. Remsen, in sheepskin coat, felt boots, cap and mittens, epitomized the welldressed farmer as seen in the shops of SearsRoebuck. Twirling his manure fork in a manner which suggested a natural flair for such things (though possibly engendered by his previous legal work), he labored as he talked.
Briefly, there is nothing, in Mr. Remsen's opinion, so beneficial to man or beast as the often exaggerated rigors of a New England winter. Considering the twenty tons of coal we had just seen, the amply supplied larder, and a few other creature comforts, we thought "rigors" was hardly the word.
Tossing a load off the pitchfork in the general direction of Hanover Mr. Remsen called our attention to the proximity of the Gymnasium, the Hockey Rink, Memorial Field and other appurtenances of a college education which demand his close supervision.
At this juncture our conversation was summarily ended when Mr. Remsen's professional farmer casually mentioned the fact that the last fork load had landed in the tractor's gas tank—and suggested that its specifications called for gasoline as fuel; that it was, indeed, not a hay burner.
We retired to the living room and concluded our visit over a hot buttered rum (Ed. Note—excellent, but could be slightly improved with a very moderately increased dosage of Jamaica). P.S. Mrs. Remsen likes it just as well as Mart. (The farm of course, not the beverage.)
By the way, if you're still with us, the Club has had an exceedingly busy winter, with room business to capacity and the dining room going strong. Now's a swell time to join, if you aren't a member.
