1918

You would, I think, want me to begin where I left off writing on Friday 4 April just as word came in from Arizona of the sudden death of our own Colonel Duke. ... His body was flown here and on Wednesday the 9th was buried in Hanover Center, a little village back in the hills beyond Etna. Its cemetery commands a beautiful view of Moose Mountain. ... A military funeral it was. A detachment of soldiers from a New Hampshire airbase did their part, firing the salutes, folding the flag and giving it to Ellen as she stood between Duke's two fine sons. . . . Then in the distance a bugle sounded the sad, sweet notes of Taps. ...A goodly crowd was there - Duke's family and his local friends both town and gown. Eighteeners were Barr, Blandin, and I, plus Bill Montgomery, who had driven over that morning from Meredith. He'd been on the College gym team with Duke, and in football he'd played one end and Duke the other. ... We have from Ellen a gracious note of appreciation of the flowers sent by 1918 "'to lie," as she put it, "beside him." ... Some sentences in a letter Duke wrote last summer I am moved to share here with our entire class: "To survive, a college must be at least contemporary. I don't understand a computer, let alone what all this new technology is doing in the world everybody seems to know how to save. But I do know it's not the same old world of 1914-1918. And I'm glad Dartmouth isn't the same old college. ... If we who proudly call ourselves men of Dartmouth can be panic'd about the College by one valedictorian in a couple of hundred years, then maybe the granite is settling in our brains. ... In both World Wars I couldn't wait to enlist because in each the nation was clearly in danger. ... But the administration that sent the first 250 advisers to South Vietnam could not have felt our national interest to be seriously threatened by what was and still is a civil war. . . ." Duke's obituary, written by Amos Blandin, you'll find under "In Memoriam."

You all read each month, I trust, in this MAGAZINE its "Wah Hoo Wah" column, and spot the now-and-then occurrence there of the name of an Eighteener whom Alma Mater thus proudly beams on for outstanding achievement. Dick White has made it more than once, most recently in the March issue. Being congratulated by a classmate, he wrote, "Yes, I have been mentioned a couple of times there, I guess, but the really wonderful thing that happened to me several years ago never got the light of day. In 1954 the Massachusetts Horticultural Society awarded me its George Robert White Told Medal of Honor, which is the highest that one can receive in this country, perhaps in the world. And I was the youngest person ever to be awarded it! That threw me for a whole day'" ... Dick then wrote to another classmate: "If you should draft anything horticultural for the ALUMNI MAG, be sure to include the name of Fritz Cassebeer and sneak of the eminence that's his. I'm what you might call a 'business horticulturist' and business association manager, whereas Fritz is really a real one, one of the nation's foremost hybridizers of gladiolus and other bulbs. He's probably the greatest authority in this country on iris. By hybridizing he's introduced over a score of new species. It's his avocation. He's written on it extensively. Every spring literally thousands of people visit his garden on the shore of DeForest Lake in West Nyack, N. Y. The class of 1918 and Dartmouth should be very proud of him." We are, Dick, proud of you both. To you our thanks for your generous, and indubitably deserved, praise of your fellow horticulturist. He's also —is he not? - a great photographer That reminds me: In our freshman spring was it he or Al Street who took the official picture entitled "Raspberry to 1917"? Fritz and Al are photographers of professional caliber - and they're both that good because they both love it. As an undergraduate Al founded the Dartmouth Camera Club, and it still flourishes. Him I think of as taking our Freshman Picture in the cold gray dawn, spring of 1915, down on the river bank opposite Wilder. Wasn't Pen Carolan the little Napoleon who planned our strategy and led us to the spot after a night of dodging sophomores? Who can now produce a print of that priceless snapshot? I cannot. In it, though, I believe, nine-tenths of us, even after being out all night, wore our neckties!

It's the spring season a-warming that annually calls to my mind our Freshman Picture fun. And on balmy evenings also the all-college hums We frosh in front of Bissell, Jay LeFevre conducting our lusty "Goodbye, Girls, I'm Through." Remember? Those sophomores facing us from Webster steps, juniors up in front of Dartmouth Hall, and the Grand Old Seniors on the sacred Senior Fence. ... Memories pleasant to dwell on. ... But every year they prompt in me nostalgic regret. "Hums" students of today sing it still. Yes. Some students, competitively, by fraternity groups, so that an entire class never sings together as a body. ... Seems truly a loss. ... And Crosby Hall is full of dedicated and able people a major promise of whose lives - and livelihoods - is that Dartmouth men are organized and competitive as classes. ... Ah yes, Rollo, I should have said Dartmouth alumni. I guess my old fogyism is showing. ... But haven't I a point? ... Anyway, the object and focus of our loyalty, yours and mine, is still the Class of '18, second only to the College. All hail, then, to Tom Bryant, our Class Agent Emeritus, for his award of an Alumni Citation, which, I'm assured, is to be publicized elsewhere in this issue. The momentum Tom gave our class as Alumni Fund contributors let's help George von Kapff maintain.

Yes, for the Alumni Fund do dig deeper than ever if you can, and to the other, the Third Century Fund, give. I'm plugging both of these even though this morning, 7 May, I'm sick at heart over last night's student unrest. ... That's a vile phrase, though, grossly inaccurate, because it too much suggests spectacular noisy action. The group so restless as to have tantrums and threaten violence comprises a minority, a rather small minority, as surely you know. The majority of students are not indifferent, not apathetic, but they give the issues, which are real and serious, as thoughtfully mature consideration as they can.

This is the Class Notes column I can close with the journalist's "30" — until next October. Before signing off, though, I've some orders to obey. Our class president directs me to advise you that for the Harvard game weekend, October 25, the firm of Shirley, Ferguson, and Hood are going to make their usual hospitable arrangements for our pre-and-post-game enjoyment at Brae Burn Country Club and Holiday Inn, including bus transportation to and from the Stadium. Concerning all details look for announcement that Shirley says he'll mail you in September. Meanwhile, a good summer to all! ... Oh, yes —if you attend the glamorous Bi-Centennial Commencement, or the post- commencement geriatrics' doings, or summer school, or Alumni College, then remember Barr, Blandin, Booth, and/or Stoddard - one or more of us will probably be in residence, as the phrase is, and would welcome hearing from you. ...

Once more a heavy postscript to add: Notification has just come from the Alumni Records office of the death in Amityville, N. Y., of George Dockstader. To his widow Carolyn and their two daughters we proffer 1918's sympathy. In a fall issue of the MAGAZINE will be found George's obituary.

Secretary, Elm St., Norwich, Vt. 05055

Class Agent, Lower Troy Rd., Fitzwilliam, N. H. 03447