1945

The only good thing about February where I live is that it brings spring just that much closer. Winter tends to be a lazy time of the year with most activity reserved for the inside and that at a physical minimum. To paraphrase outrageously: When Winter comes, I've got a sprung behind. But while my body may feel an overcoming lethargy, my mind is ever so active. And you must pay the price. For instance, poems, and all entitled February:

1. Washington's birthday, Lincoln's too I like this month. How about you?

2. A narrow arrow from Danny Cupid Can make a face look mighty stupid.

3. You're my valentine, my dear, So please shut up and drink your beer.

Inasmuch as these aren't as yet copyrighted, you may plagiarize at your discretion, which I hope is better than mine in printing these little gems.

Now that the New Year is well underway, I trust you've treated your New Year's Resolutions with the proper respect. X made nothing but mental reservations which by now are all unconsciously cancelled. Hope you have better luck. But although I may resolutely resolve to uphold some fine decision, something ups and dissolves my determined resolves before the nova annum has even found its place in history. And again human frailty is bared to the disinterested world.

Ghosts out of the past appear in the most unlikely places. This particular one was a plump, well-fed, satisfied variety of the suburban genus, named Don Moore. The place of discovery was at one of those holiday institutions, the egg-nog party. Don knew I was coming and recognized me, he said, with little difficulty. To me the foundation was familiar but the frame had been somewhat improved by time and good food. I finally placed him.

Sportsmen attention! In Millbrook, N. Y., lies the Tower Hill Pheasant Farm with 345 acres of excellent shooting and a genial manager in Pete Bontecou. According to wife Susan, who oh so kindly sent this information along, the Bontecous have three, almost four children, Pamela, 7, Kathy, 5, and Michael, 2. They have been in the pheasant-raising business for one and a half years and also raise top-rate and beautiful English setters, my favorites, sold as pups or trained. GeorgeMerrill, alias "Red," is attending "Junior School" at Quantico, Va., finishing up in June. They have two children, Bobby, 7, and Judy, 5. This from George's wife Barbara, whose efforts are sincerely appreciated by SEC. From the depths of Foggy Bottom comes news of that displaced Philadelphian, HarryCarter, who reports himself now as special assistant to Gordon Gray, Assistant Secretary of Defense for International Security Affairs. Harry, when last heard from, was assistant to Senator H. Alexander Smith, and has just lately taken up his new job. Did you ever get rid of that $48 worth of Princeton tickets you were holding, Harry?

My fears that the projected Massachusetts Turnpike would never reach completion are now allayed. Booming Bob Hooker is now on the job and I can rest at ease. And what a job! After four years of selling, Bob has gone back to civil engineering with a vengeance. He works a ten-hour day, six days a week! Jan, his wife, also writes that the Hooker family numbers two girls, Lynn and Jane, and they are expecting a third in March. Let's say it'll be a boy for the sake of variety.

At last, a colleague! Thornton Birdsell is in the same capitalistic profession as I, private school teaching. I guess he likes it as much as I do, too, for he's been at the job for some ten or so years. Most of this time was put in at Episcopal Academy, but he now plies his pens and books at Germantown Friends School, Philadelphia-wise. In this case, I must again extend my great appreciation to the eternal woman, his wife Barbara. I'm beginning to think that some of my classmates are unable to write, Dartmouth education or no.

With a hi-ho and a flourish, Harry Roberts reports aboard for mention. After serving for eons as a lieutenant, Mr. Roberts is now a lieutenant commander; "At last, by damn" to quote the gentleman. And, to boot, he is now stationed in the States. San Diego, California, to be exact. Well done, lad! His handsome profile jutting out of the picture like the Old Man of the Mountain, ArthurPounds gazes scholarly at a wall map of Lorain County, Ohio. Such is the picture and the caption goes on to explain. Art is the new chairman of said county's Citizen's Committee, and his group is at present busy at the job of reorganizing the school districts for purposes of consolidation.

How about that bonanza the Ford Foundation tossed out last fall? 2½ million of the long green for the Big Green is quite a basketful. And they did it without even being asked, feeling that such a grant was warranted to keep American Education progressing at a desired rate. Sometimes I think that you out there think that we, the directors of your class, have banded together in some kind of a conspiracy to defraud you of your hard-earned money. Hardly. We are merely the means through which our College, and many others, reach out to those who have benefited from a first-rate education and ask them if they will but aid in the provision of equal, if not better, facilities for those who are yet to come. And those who want a better America, like the Ford Foundation, answer as best they can.

See you next month; that is, if you don't see me first.

Secretary, Middlesex School, Concord, Mass.

Treasurer, R.D. I, Stoney Ridge Rd., Avon, Ohio