CLASS of 1929

Here it is the last day before this copy must be in, and a certain old married man is just beginning to realize that there are other duties to perform besides those incident to settling a bride into a two-room apartment and again those of donning the accouterments of a student of the law. Happily we have a desk and a chair to sit on (the bride can retire to a comfortable corner of the floor), and a couple of good letters, which will well suffice until we have reached that point in our domestic career where tranquillity and an occasional chance for gossip are born of a more or less well-regulated daily schedule. By the time any of you get around to it the new family teepee here at 20 Prescott St., Cambridge, will be all ready to receive you at any time of the day or night you may drop around. We are on the second floor front of an apartment house, which is completely covered with ivy and which looks out upon the side lawn of the Fogg Art Museum. Prescott St. is between Harvard St. and Broadway, and is about five minutes east by north of Harvard Square. With such a deable to arrive safely, no matter what conditions you happen to be operating under. It would please us very much if all of you would consider it part of your personal pleasure and one of your most important duties as a member of '29 to include a visit to us in any pilgrimage you chance to make to this part of the country, whether you come from California or one of the many villages of the city of Newton (Mass.).

Here's a letter from "Rip" Ripley: "Here's some of the grist you need. I'll start in with the expected assignment of Brockton, though the contacts there are pretty scarce. John Davis has as fine a place out on Fairview Ave. as any of us could strive for. It sidles up to a pond and is one chip shot from Thorny Lea Golf Club. John is with the Colonial Brass Co. of Middleboro. Dick Barrett is with the Bankers' Trust Co. of New York in the Boston office. Jack Pillsbury still lives over in Stoughton, and at last reports was continuing on a night assignment for the Boston Globe, shooting for by-lines, a job that keeps him out of sight about as definitely as a berth on a prison gazette.

"About a month ago I slowed up to say 'Hi' to Ray White down at the corner of Arlington and Boylston St., and found out before we started off, an hour and a half later, that he was right in line for a berth as secretary to a Harvard professor on a year's trip through the Orient, where they're going to analyze missionaries. This just garbles a fine story about Ray, but we can get it in better shape later. By now he may have succumbed to business like the rest of us.

"Phil Gage shows up in Back Bay every once in a while, to work for the Paine Furniture Company, and I hope he's doing as well as he looked when he dodged a bus on Arlington St. last week. The Boston Elevated brings me most of my '29 reunions. Don MacCornack and Frank Weeks were almost regulars last winter. Two weeks ago I climbed into someone who was leaving a train at Quincy, and he looked up in the person of Doc Stacey. I think he said he worked with the Chamber of Commerce in Boston. I know he said he was married and living in Quincy. Oh, did I mention John Davis's wife—and daughter? I should have, believe me.

"Perhaps I'm way ahead of things, but Herb McCreery had something worth while on one arm at the Fair last week. I didn't feel so much like the enquiring reporter that night, so news of Herb is scanty. He may be as far from a benedict as I. I walk half way to work with George Kennedy every morning, and I know I'm going to weaken—here it comes; I can't forego it—it's going to be recorded that he does a stretch for the Boston Garter Company every day.

"In the course of trying to put soul into a great corporation I was manoeuvered into collecting a coin box route the other day, through illnesses, vacations, and whatnot, you know. When I got back I ran into Phil Rising who, through vacations, illnesses, and whatnot, you know, had been sent down to inspect a defective caster on a steel cabinet of ours. You should have seen two 'minor executives' trying to impress each other that 'this isn't my job.'

"That just about uses up the news. I don't know how long you'd have waited for this much, but I'm bound to chip in a little help to any man with Law School and all your extras in addition to a wife on his hands. It's been a surprise to me to find what fun it is to type again. I'm getting in the swing of it better than the effect may indicate. It's been only a few months since I'd dare use eyesight for a job like this. By December '29 the eyes had me down on one shoulder, in fact, they literally had me on my back for 14 hours a day. Ames and Gliddon got out their lenses that I'd been awaiting a month or more, and things have been blooming ever since. Within two months I had a job, and by now I have twenty extra pounds and a joy in life that will startle you. There are indications that I'll be a Juke family for Ames and Gliddon. Last June they stepped things up a bit more, so I don't have to limit my outside-of-work writing to poetry and love letters. (I've cut out the love letters.)

"Here's to seeing you! And good, warm, grinning congratulations, and if it weren't for etiquette I'd send the same to Kay, instead of wishes.

"Rip" And here's one that's hard to beat from that good old regular, Woodsman Bob Monahan: Dear Bill:

When the spring term of the forestry camp broke up in Arkansas, I had three objectives in view: to obtain some experience on the cattle range of the Southwest, to learn something about the sheep grazing game in the Rocky Mountains, and to get some real forest fire experience.

So I proceeded to eat Argentine beef for three weeks on a 300-square-mile cattle ranch in south central New Mexico. Then I drove west through Arizona and north through Utah to Idaho, stopping long enough en route to give the Grand Canyon the once over and to climb San Francisco Peaks, the highest in Arizona.

For the next three weeks I made my headquarters in Ketchum, Idaho, the largest sheep-shipping point in the United States, but where a lamb chop can't be purchased for any price at either of its stores.

On July 6, I joined the Forest Service and went to war. The forest fire situation became increasingly serious until late August, when the climax was reached and martial law established in seven counties. Only last evening a National Guard patrol car was shot at from ambush at a point eight miles below my station. Incendiarists have been as popular as enemy spies during wartime, and the careless camper once apprehended can expect no leniency from the courts.

Many of the forests have been closed to all trespass except for official business. Passes are required in order to travel over several federal aid highways as well as most of the lesser roads. Even Zane Grey, than whom there is no greater hero—barring Teddy Roosevelt among a large class in the West, was refused permission to pack into the Sawtooth back country after traveling up there from Pasadena.

Countless homes and mines have been destroyed and several towns completely wiped off the map. Numerous lives have been lost in attempts to control the fires. About thirty miles west of my headquarters, two fellows were burned to death while working in a crew being directed by Dana Parkinson '08. The fire apparently put the crew to rout, and these two chaps broke ranks, probably thinking they could find a quicker way to safety. It remained for Parkinson to make the sad discovery that they had been trapped.

My stamping grounds are in the Sawtooth National Forest on the highest headwaters of the Salmon River. I travel over a district exceeding 300,000 acres in area and ranging in altitude from 6,000 feet to better than 12,000 feet. The nearest place of any consequence is Twin Falls, Dave Alvord's home town, 150 miles south of my station on Fourth of July Creek.

I have just returned from an over-night pack trip. In the afternoon of my first night out I was obliged to ride across a 10,000-foot ridge in a blinding snowstorm. The next morning I cooked breakfast over an open fire with the temperature at 19 above, so if life in Cambridge becomes too dull, look me up, Bill, and we'll take a pack trip into the back country.

I haven't seen a classmate for some time, and have seen only two N. H. license plates since Carnival. One I met on the desert between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. Its occupants proved to be three fraternity brothers of this year's class. A month later while checking traffic through this district. I happened to stop Dick Streber '32 and A. Smith '33.

Until we take that pack trip, the best of luck to you on the bell lap of your schooling and on the getaway in that other race. Sincerely,

Bob.

We recently received a card from Dick Hunke, written in a beer garden in Koblenz, where he and Mrs. Hunke were refreshing themselves in contemplation of the continuance of an European wedding trip, which started aboard the SS. Bremen on September 7. Mrs. Hunke was Mildred Hall of Jersey City.

Then we got invited to a wedding out in California, Jack Allen's marriage to Janet Irving White of Glendale, Cal., on September 26.

Ellie Cavanagh, that venerable benedict, sent us a long clipping from the PlattsburgRepublican which announced the wedding of Eddie Chinlund to Jane Frances Cavanagh on September 19. That makes Ellie and Eddie brothers of a sort. In fact Ellie had the honor of giving his sister away. We further learn that Mr. and Mrs. Chinlund are to live at 151 Bronxville Road, Bronxville, N. Y., after November 1, and that Eddie is working for Price, Waterhouse, and Company of New York city. Also that Mr. and Mrs. Ellie Cavanagh and family now reside in Maplewood, N. J. A good clipping.

The next engraved announcement was one heralding the good news of Jim Loveland's marriage to Emily Benson Zetsche on September 26 at Bogota, N. J.

And then just the other day along came the long-awaited invitation to the marriage of Art Rydstrom and Harriet Livingston Lowry. We hate to miss that wedding. Art will make such a gallant groom. The nervous hour is to be eight-thirty, Friday, October 23, Montclair, N. J.

Secretary, 20 Prescott St., Cambridge, Mass.