1944

The Christmas cup is at the lip In a quaff of fellowship; With '44s both far and near Waxing poetic on Christmas cheer. It's time again to look and see Who they are and where they be. Hark, then, hale, and tally ho, Why, there's Bud Talley, on the go. Ezra, too, Hale and hearty, Ears alert, where's the party? Huzzah our prexy, shake those boneses, Ben and Betty, the B.F. Joneses. At the door, give a rave For the Pattersons, Ann and Dave. There's a couple, makes our day, Bill and Barbara McElnea. And a welcome, happy sighting, The grin and pate of Richard Whiting. Trim and slim, they no-sweat it, Ann and swinging Joe McDevitt. Spy that form, by gar, by cracky, Who else, indeed, but big George Recke. Reunion kingpin, gathering shekels, Our erstwhile treasurer, David Eckels. It's not hard to feel quite partial To neighbors Liz and Henry Marshall. Hey, there's nothing chug a lugless About Sue and Tommy Douglas. Seen in church, nothing pagan About the ed, Merle E. Hagen. Check the smiles, there's no more than You can find on Rodney Morgan. A lawyer's touch, down to earthy, That's the word on tall Jack Murphy. No, you don't need a marker To sip a beer with Bud's Frank Parker. And when all is done and said, Hug the Mortimers, Jean and Ted. Welcome, too, those all time smooths, Neat Irene and Snooky Hughes. Plain to see, there's nothing fazin' The heres and theres of Bracket Hazen. Hard to slow him, he's a tiger, Our man upstate, Ross H. Higier. A stately waltzer, just for Starters, Clear the floor for the Stanley Carters. Hark the herald angels singing, And the Bensingers, closely clinging. In the sand there, you can reach 'em, Friendly Brand and Bessie Beacham. Newly married, Darla's boss, No complaints, says Gordie Ross. Nothing is, of course, more dandy Than the sight of young Jack Handy. No need, no way, to take a poll On the fun of seeing Richard Sholl. Salute the lifetime and career Of the doctor, William Trier. Not to leave out Donald Weir, A "hi" to him is just as clear. Another thing that gives us swellses Is the sight of the Whitcomb Wellses. Who could help but be most smitten, Press the hand of Rudy Whitten. All of us are hep and smiley, Open arms to Robert Wiley. Another doc, a real bod healer, From Sherborn, Mass., Jack S. Wheeler. No one would ever hide, man, In the presence of Bill Seidman. Now there's a fellow, hardly fierce,

The gentle sawbones, Charlie Pierce. Ah, the mien, the heartfelt yummer, The sight and sound of Gordie Plummer. A bachelor type, we feel he oughter Show us more of Fred "Dick" Potter. We like those Lynchburg heads a showin', Thomson, Koenig, Earl T.Owen.

But time is nigh and space is ending For this try at classmate blending Of a name and in a rhyme, Not too far out of sync and time. But there are those whose names decry A rhyme, a pun, an apple pie: Shapleigh, Pennington, Rothermell, Zarod, McLaughry, how the hell . . . We've missed a bunch, that's our confesses,

But love you all. That's it. And blessings.

Marry christmas!

Lovejoy Hill Cornish Flat, NH 03746