The Waterbury Democrat., 1946-08-07
The Firing Line By D. N. T.
OLD COLLEGE DAYS

While we are, bee-like, industri- ously engaged in the process of con- piling a sucient number of advance columns tthirteen) to fill this space during the annual vacation, various more fortunate to fill this space during the annual vacation, various more fortunate fellows in stocks, in- Surance, motion pictures, farming, the ministry and other assorted trades are gathering for the twen- tieth reunion of the Class of 1926. Hurried and frequent assurances from The Committee guarantee that so many hundreds of these drones have applied for reservations and will be present and accounted for when the reunion uniforms are handed out and the first barrel of beer is preached. On the chairman's bond, there will be adequate enter tainment for the wives and issue. Everything is rosy, as the saying goes.
 But, alas, we must reune in re- trospect, foregoing the campus didoes and the proof of inability to recognize good old So-and-So, now that he has paunch, bald head and four of the cutest darn kids you ever saw. And in retrospect, we dis cover the Night of the Title.
 In those bright days, we fancied ourself as something of an expert in the composition of the English lang uage In 1922, that was a common failing of freshmen, for back in that era, the grammar and secondary schools entertained the antic idea that pupils should learn how to spell and to present what they spelled in something resembling orderly syn tax. That provided two requisites for the composition of the English language; the schools failed, as al ways they must, in the medication of a capacity for ideas, but that was only minor deficiency to the fresh men of '22, who drank at the foun- tain of Nathan and Mencken and were, in their minds, tainted with genius the moment they Tapped the heady waters.
 Well, anyway, this night - the Night of the Title-we were sweat ing over grim piece due for de- livery to Professor Pressey the next day. It was veritable jewel of real ism, cut from our Coos County background and swollen with the To- cal color of the papermaking coun- try. It is impossible to recall, even dimly, the tenor of the tale. the plot the circumstances, the events lead ing up to the Grecian climax of disaster and death.
 The climax, however, remains crystal-clear A little boy, a little French-Canadian boy, but newly ar rived in the Land of Opportunity, forlorn, albeit cheerful tot, fond of his Papa and of Mama, too, and also of his little brother Petit One slime and of his sister, Celeste, and of his friendly bit of a dog, Va TEn, was the protagonist-and the vic tim. It seems, or it seems to seem, that he was carrying Papas dinner to him, still hot from the wood range in the modest but poor kitchen. He was as happy as lalou- cite, as he skirted the pond where stood a veritable mountain of pulp wood, piled sky high by the carriers after it's adventurous course down the river in the spring drive,
 AS he stood in open -mouthed awe contemplating the summit of this practical peak, there came the sound, the slight sound of rumble from somewhere in the pile. And before you could say lily await une fois deuX petits cevres noirs qui restaient dams un champs" what do you suppose happened? The whole damn thing came tumbling down on the little boys head, killing him deader than Eustis, Quebec.
 That, in those days anyway, was tragedy on an epic scale. The effort completed. we sat back toying with a suitable title for the piece Cor "apus,' as MT Mencken would Say). And couldn't think of a solitary title that was fitting, believe it.
 
 Just then MT. Bobo Williams from across the Hall crashed through the door with his customary inform ality. He saw the problem. He read the piece. And he gave the title that gave the Night of the Title it's title It was: "Plup Went the Pulp"