1942

Last weekend was the Great Migration. The Horned-Headed Secretary Birds, along with the Pileated Class Agents and the Tutted Class Treasurers descended on Hanover for their annual visit, like the swallows at Capistrano. Their plumage was bright and their cars long and shiny.

Among them was another and rarer species, the Itinerant Club Secretary. One of these was John Bullard, representing the Glens Falls Club. Had a good chat with him one Saturday evening and learned that, in addition to his club duties, he is also serving on an interviewing committee on admissions in that part of New York State and on several community clubs and organizations.

Ad Winship was a more elusive species, or perhaps I was. At any rate although he did make the meetings, I only caught him for a short chat in the lobby of the Inn. My reporters tell me that the group of officers in the '4o's spent a good bit of time in serious wine tasting and allied pursuits in one of the Inn's bunk rooms. At any rate, a letter from Ad, exactly one month old (which means it will be two months old when you read this) informs me that the Alumni Fund for this fair class is organized "one hundred per cent ahead of last year's," and says that the erstwhile Marblehead man has hopes of leading us past the 400 mark in participation.

I hate to keep telling you this, but a great part of the success in leading us past this mark, despite Mr. Winship's admittedly winning ways, will depend on you johnnies. The deadline will only be a short week or so after you get this, so if you haven't already done so, well, pony up, for goodness sake.

A note from Dick Levy says that he and Barbie are off for Europe—this late in April. Business should be so bad!

Couple of weeks ago while I was moodily pecking out a weekly column for the Claremont Eagle—SL chore not unlike hitting yourself on the head—silent, gweep-like footsteps became just barely noticeable outside my door.

After I had sternly bid the interloper enter, I discovered to my intense satisfaction that it was none other than Pete Geisler, a shady character who said he was in the advertising racket or game. He politely waited while my typing picked up speed if not lucidity and off we went to mail it.

Now it just so happens that I like the action on the mail box slots in White River better than those in Hanover, so we went there to mail my copy. Oddly enough, there's a place there called the Hotel Coolidge where they serve beer right out in front of everybody (you ought to look in next time you're around). So we had one or two and I learned a great deal about advertising, a reasonably large portion of the sociological mores of this day. Also that Pete will be up this way now and again soothing the fevered brow of the Granite Producers Association, one of his clients. (I suppose you just lay a cold chisel against the brow of a granite producer to soothe him.)

Only other Hanover visitors I'm sure of were Mr. and Mrs. Ira Berman and their charming daughter Ellen. Had a good chat at their parked car on Main Street, and Ira told me he was consulting with the Tuck School people about job transfer possibilities. Right in the middle of our chat Ellen did a neat nip-up out of her riding chair in the back seat, landing on her back, shaken but unhurt.

As I was flashing by the Inn one day hot on the trail o£ a three-day-old scoop, it seemed to me that the sun reflected brightly off some polished surface on the porch. The resultant glare makes it impossible for me to say definitely but it looked to me like Harry Jacobs was standing there. Couldn't stop, so I can't be sure.

My much-maligned filing system just broke down with a resounding crash. I know that Chick Camp sent me a note enclosing an account of a dinner at the New York Dartmouth Club last month, which he attended. I know the enclosure was the work of maestro DickLippman, who engineered the affair. But I can't find it. Simply can't.

After sending myself to the corner for ten minutes for that one, I'll now wind up these meager and dog-eared scribbles. The ALUMNIMAG. sent around a post card saying that DaveSills and Miss Yole Granata were married in Tokyo on February 18, 1948. Both of the Sillses are members of the occupation forces, Dave in the sociological division making a survey of 21 rural communities in Japan and Yole writing a history of the occupation. Dave's been over there since August, 1947, and expects to stay until at least August, 1950.

Now the clippings. Jim Thompson has been appointed an instructor in geology at ( I hate to say it) Harvard effective September 1. He will earn his doctorate from M.I.T. in June, presumably in the same subject. And a further confirmation of that snoopy Joe Palamountain's news that Miss Jo Anne Evelyn Millard, daughter of Col. and Mrs. Wallace W. Millard, was married to Henri Bohle, son of Mr. and Mrs. Henri C. Bohle of New York at the Little Church Around The Corner. (As a matter of fact had a beer or so with Henri at Alex Fanelli's t'other week.)

That does it—and me, too.

Secretary, Howe Library, Hanover, N. H.

Treasurer, 710 Linden Ave., Los Altos, Calif.

Class Agent, 53 Orient Ave., Melrose 76, Mass.