The. Undergraduate Chair

WHEN I was offered the job of writing this column last year, one of the main reasons I took it was because I knew, if I kept at it long enough, I would get a chance to write about spring. And being basically a columnist and interested in columnist-sort of things, I thought a spring column would be right down my alley. Enthusiastic readers would finish reading my column with a hearty "By Jove, he's right," and dash out into the balmy air of the vernal equinox, replacing all that nasty old Men's Locker Room smog in their lungs with good, clean breath-of-budding-flowers.

There's something about spring that makes hammy writers want to write. It gives tired businessmen the urge to close the office and steel wool the rust spots off the old four-iron or take a quick run through the seed catalogue. Wives wish that the winter-colored sedan were a convertible—or, if it is a convertible, that they had the nerve to turn the latch and push the button to change the inside of the car to the proverbial bathtub of sunshine. And it makes Dartmouth men dream of the soft grass on Balch Hill, the white lines on the tennis court, and the warm sun behind the dormitories.

The trouble with Dartmouth men is that they start thinking all these nice, warm, spring thoughts a month too soon. They remember how things were at home in Philadelphia or Saint Louis—when one day winter was suddenly over and it was shirt-sleeve weather outside and the only thing to do was go on a picnic. These men are usually held pretty much under control by the Hanover weather itself, which is high-lighted by that peculiar in-between phase of the seasons which has no name. Personally, I call it Schlump. It's that time when winter is over but spring hasn't started yet, and the world doesn't seem to be able to quite make up its mind. For a day and a half the temperature will climb to a quite respectable 70 or so, almost inveigling men into getting out the old glove and rubbing some oil into the palm.

Then, the next day, it will begin to snow —or sleet—or rain, and thoughts of the old glove will be laid aside and the boots will be dragged out again for slogging-through-slush purposes—and a new weather report will come in every time someone comes back from class.

The purpose of all this buildup is to state that although I've always wanted to write a column about spring, this is not it. This is a column about Schlump. I don't like it. Schlump made a sucker of me.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm just as weather-wise as the next Dartmouth man. I've been around here for almost four Schlumps and I can spot it just as well as anybody. But I'm from Philadelphia, and every year I almost forget myself and mistake Schlump for spring. This year I did it.

For a week the weather had been its usual lousy self. My roommate spent most of the time at the window, looking out. From time to time he would rouse himself, turn around, and say, "Hey, fellas, it's snowing again," or "Hey, fellas, it's raining again." Along about Friday we were just about ready to stuff a sock in his mouth and confine his interest to his books, when he turned around (on Friday morning) and said, "Hey, fellas, the sun's shining." This was great. I had a ride south to Bradford, and a bit of sun and relaxation under the planned supervision of a very attractive brunette I knew down there would be just the thing to get rid of those mid-winter kinks. Of course, I had my doubts about this sunshine stuff, but as the car pulled out of town, the sun was still doing fine—and kept it up all the way to Bradford.

Bradford is a Junior College. It is located farther south than Dartmouth, but not far enough south to eliminate it from the Schlump belt. But, being at a Junior College, the girls get to experience this phenomenon of nature only twice during their collegiate career. The first year many girls can get clear through the Schlump season and only regard it as an unusually messy spring. They start to get an inkling of what Schlump really means during their second year, but then it is too late. They move away from college, forget about Schlump, and never really get to use this seasonal knowledge to the best advantage.

My friend is a second-year girl. Last year we were blessed with an unusually light Schlump and she skipped blithely through it without batting an eyelash or getting an ankle (very nice ones, too) wet. So when we arrived down there that fateful Friday afternoon, she came dancing down the front steps of Academy Hall (built 1319, remodeled 1472) singing, "It's spring, it's spring, it's finally spring"—or words to that effect. Whatever she sang, the meaning of it was clear—"get out of that stuffy overcoat and let's go romp in the woods." This was all very inviting and I almost weakened-but then some primeval warning stirred deep in the recesses of my mind, and I remembered that it was still Schlump. "Be sensible, girl," I said. "It will probably snow tomorrow." This wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear and she let me know that I wasn't starting the weekend off in the right spirit—she'd even planned a picnic. But I just burrowed deeper into my nice, warm overcoat and said "Wait and see."

Did I look silly the next morning. The sun was shining even brighter than before, and there wasn't a spot of soggy, gray snow on the ground. When I went to pick up the a.b. (attractive brunette) she was waiting with comparatively no clothes on at all, a picnic basket in her hand. The look she gave me left no doubt in my mind as to her opinion of my weather forecasting powers, and then I guess I must have lost my head.

We picnicked all that afternoon. It was fun at first. The ground was soft and the air was balmy and I began to turn my "spring" column over in my head. Then I began to notice signs of Schlump. The spot where I was sitting on the blanket began to feel suspiciously damp, and it was noticeably chilly when the sun ducked behind a cloud—which the sun began to do with more and more regularity. After 15 minutes of this sort of thing, I couldn't get up anyway, for decency's sake—and I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for someone to suggest that it was time to go home. The salami curled up on the plate, the bread got hard, the blanket sank deeper into the mire—and still nobody wanted to admit the foolhardiness of the whole thing by mentioning home and something hot to drink.

We finally did get home—and I spent the rest of the evening giving out with some of the finest sneezes ever heard at Bradford Junior College. Sunday was pretty depressing—it snowed, and my cold got worse.

For the past week I've been staying pretty close to bed. I've drunk four and one-half gallons of frozen orange juice concentrate, used up four boxes of Kleenex (and two pocket-packs), and missed every single class. When the sun came out today, it reminded me that my Undergraduate Chair deadline was at hand, and it was time to get to work on the "spring" column. But let's face it: I've been Schlumped.