THE HANOVER SCENE

WE weep, though not copiously, for younger generations who, despite many luxuries and advantages, can never know the thrill of getting a haircut with the horse clippers at the fire station, or possibly being allowed to slide down the pole.

They have Jaguars and rocket ships, but they never struggled with an acetylene lighting system or hailed a Wells Fargo delivery wagon or rode blind baggage to a football game. They operate their vehicles with the right toe and one finger, and probably could never solve the mysteries of a Model-T which required a minimum of three feet and two and a half hands. They have "Pogo" and "Peanuts but not "Little Nemo" or "Buster Brown," Hemingway, Kerouac and the Hardy Boys but not Henty, the Little Colonel, or Graustark. They never knew Ferry as a kid, when he was running around with Pat and Burma and a much younger and more seductive Dragon Lady. They have Rock 'n Roll, but "not the Turkey Trot or the Bunny Hug; intelligence quotients and psychoanalysis, but never a good dose of calomel. Brigitte Bardot and Brando, but not Greta Nissen or Wally Reid; or Fritzi Scheff or Trixie Friganza, or Lenore Ulric as Luana in The Bird of Paradise, or the chariot race on the stage in Ben Hur, or Everywoman, or Leo Dietrichstein - the Perfect Lover.

All of us undoubtedly recall the glamour of our younger days and look with misgivings on current mores and procedures. But we wonder if the child of today ever rolled cigarettes with cornsilk and tissue paper — or if he knows what cornsilk is. Certainly, no sections of rattan carriage whip are now available to create cigars, marvelous smokes if one took the wise precaution of peeling off the woven cloth wrapping; while coffee in hollowed acorns was the best fare for the less modish but still inveterate smoker.

One element of childhood joy has been irrevocably lost with the disappearance of the Big Top and the limiting of the circus to metropolitan arenas. No longer can one go down to the "depot" at 4 a.m. to see the circus unload and the elephants push wagons around in the mud, or stand on a thronged main street to watch the passage of the Grand Parade: brass bands, stately plumed horsemen, animal cages, beautiful ladies in pink tights, and, finally, the steam calliope - a three syllable word.

We used to get a package of Adams' Black Jack gum as a rebate at the barbers. We traded Taft and Sherman buttons for Bryan and Kern (not letting our parents know), and bought penniesworths of horehound or colt's foot candy. We sang Oceana Roll and The InternationalRag, and, as we aged, Poor Butterfly and Million Dollar Doll. The sound track of our cowboys and Indians went "bang-bang-bang," before the more sophisticated Chicago influence changed it to "r-r-r-r-"; far different from the present "ph" of the ray annihilator. We made our own electric trains - powered by the town circuit through a set of carbon filament bulbs hooked up in series - with steel strip tracks and Little Giant motors and insulated axles, long before the American Flyer and Lionel got into business. We built rococo structures with Anchor Blocks imported from Germany, till Meccano and patriotism took over. We could see the "steamer" rushing to a fire, belching smoke and flame behind three big horses.

Les neiges d'antan! The Chautauqua is gone, the Boston Transcript and the NewYork World are gone, and the White Sox scandal and "Say it ain't so, Joe" are forgotten. Lanterns no longer light the yardwide roadway of the Boston, Revere Beach, and Lynn, and even Beane has dropped out of Merrill Lynch, etc. The hat is going the way of the garter and stiff collar. The Chorus from ll Trovatore is seldom played on electric anvils at outdoor concerts.

Later generations are unquestionably in an "era" which we perforce share but do not necessarily envy. An entire change in our thinking and our way of life came about when, late one lovely June morning in 1914, an insignificant Bosnian terrorist directed at a minor royal throat a very significant bullet - corner of Franz Josefstr. and Appel Quay, Sarajevo.