CONSTRUCTION

Construction is going on in Hanover this fall just as it must have gone every fall since 1770. Some of it is impressive, some just arouses undergraduate curiosity. For several weeks men have been busily throwing dirt out of a large hole at the corner of Main and Allen Streets. At night it becomes partly filled with toothpicks picked up at the Streamliner Diner and "Hopalong Cassidy Bar" wrappers which have practically supplanted Choco Pops at Allen's.

But the next day the men are back at work, busily shoveling and saying the little things to each other that men say when they are digging together in a large hole. The curiosity about this hole finally reached the offices of The Dartmouth, and some astute managing editor dispatched a reporter south on Main Street to see just what was going on. The results were interesting:

"Oh, shucks, we're just digging a little hole," said the grizzled workman. He swung his shovel high into the air, arching a dirt clod towards the sunlight above Main Street. "Tain't much."

"Want to take a look at the sewers. Campion's toilet won't flush," added his fellow. "Not much of a hole. We'll have her covered up by tomorrow noon." He swung his pick into the ground. It snapped.

"Little bedrock, I guess," he smiled.

They labored on. A loud screech sounded above, and dirt showered down from Main Street. Something crashed at their feet.

"Buick," one said.

"Folks oughta be more careful," added the other, poking the wreckage with the point of his shovel.

The dam seems to be getting along very nicely. To these untutored eyes it looks as if there is no reason for any further delay. The structure stretches all the way across the river, and the spillways have been installed.

Driving is still hazardous along that particular stretch of road. Trucks still dash out of hidden driveways with loads of rock and scare unwary drivers off into the New Hampshire underbrush. A small quarry has been started down the road a piece from the dam itself, and happy little avalanches fill the road with rather large pieces of rock at times.

I can remember driving through the Adirondack mountains and seeing signs posted at regular intervals stating tersely, "Watch for Falling Rock." With a little feeling of adventure I would clutch the wheel more tightly and pop on the high beams, waiting in breathless anticipation for the landslide around the next curve. But in all that time I never saw one fallen rock.

On the White River Road they don t even have a sign, but there is always a good chance for a fallen rock or two. It sort of takes the fun out of it. No signs, I mean.

And so, with the deadline fading in the west and my roommate swilling down the last of the Nescafe, that's enough. You get the-idea; we're off on another year.