Over the weekend I cleaned out my desk, and I found three things that reminded me of three other things. These were the three I found a brasaring, a page about Herodetus torn out from a Colleges Outline Sevics, and a bluebook containing a German hour exam with D written on the outside and I ask you, wasn't that Chipper Gannon something to see moving down the field? Wasn't that something pretty to see?

But to get back to this brass ring--it was bought in Italy. Now in case you aren't up on your baseball statistics, it's a fact that nine out of ten times the hidden ball play has worked, it has been pulled by the Italians. Freat actors, the Italians. Great actors, those Italians, And this ring reminds me of an extra great actor Harold Wit '29 and I met in Rome.

It was the summer of 1947, and Mosse (that's what people call Harold Wit '49) and I were traveling with the American Youth Hostel. We were walking along the Piazza Barberine when a little man came up to us. The Piazza was where the bus from Army headquarters stopped. Dozens of little men there always came up to Americans, in or out of uniform, saying. "Hey Joe--ya wanna change da dolla?" Other little men wanted to buy your watch, sell you their watch, buy your shirt, or sell you French francs at a bargain for American money . . . and what about these immense Charley Roche punts? When was the last time you ever saw anyone in a Crimson jersey kicking like that?

But to get back to this little man--he was different from the others--sort of secretive. He got it across to us that he wanted to sell us a gold ring. We told him we weren't interested, but he kept after us, getting more and more persistent. After awhile he got all hot an fidgety, and let us gather that he had stolen this ring. Naturally this made us agree to inspect it.

The little man hustled us in a little neck, placed us between him and the street, apparently so that nobody, passing by would see the ring, and held out the piece for us to look at. It was very gold and very shining and had a very fine looking diamond in it indeed . . . and did you notice that downfield blocking! Who are these players? Where did they come from?

But to get back to this little neck. I asked the man how much, and he said $200. I took pity on him. I told him to go back to the Piazza and get his ring's worth from some rich American. I told him that we were just youth hostelers, and thus among the poorest of the poor. He asked how much we had, and I said, thinking this would get rid of him at last, that between the two of us we had $20.

"SOLD"

Would you believe it, we bought the ring. His desperation to get his money and then to best it out of Rome fast had convinced us that we were getting bargains and saving his hide, in one swell foop. But this you won't believe. Right away, pausing one more minute before leaving Rome, he offered in another ring, and we bought it for three dollars, an uncounted handful of lire, and Mosse's ball-point pen. Now we both had gold rings . . . but did you see those Columbia passes? How could we expect to break up those passes when half the time we let the receivers wander out way beyond the defense?

But to get back to the gold rings--after a few minutes, they got dull. We polished them for half-an-hour, and they regained their shiny luster, but the one thing the customs officer didn't question me about in New York was my declaration of one brass ring, value two dollars.

That little man was the greatest. He could have played the hidden trick on nine out of ten other Italians.

All of this leaves no room for the other things I found in my desk. And you should be grateful, because they are going to remind me of some intelligent remarks I wanted to make about Radcliffe girls as students, and the study of languages. Just what they were you will find out one of these days when there isn't any readable copy lying about . . . don't forget about Cornell. Army is on the horizon, but it's still a long way to Ithaca.