The following letter is from the pen of a graduate whose departure from the Cambridge scene occurred prior to the withdrawal of Major Bill Bingham, former Director of Athletics, who is on leave of absence with the Armed Forces.

Open letter to Bill Bingham:

Dear Bill,

It will be a terrible thing to contemplate--the spectacle of Soldiers Field gradually transforming itself into a jungle of cat-tails and Scotch thistles. And the thought of the press-box silent as an examination hall, the stillness broken only by gnawing of the termites, is one that could wring tears from a city editor.

So I have a plan, Bill. It will keep the pastures green; and, what's more, it'll fill that Ivy-decked coliseum seven days a week. And what a Godsend it should be for that athletics-for-all program that's been so close to your bosom these many years. I guarantee that you'll get more men out on the sward of the Stadium than ever swarmed upon it during a Heptagonal track meet. And, to top it all. Bill, my plan is long-range, a sure-fire investment. Why, in two years this plan of mine will gross so much that you won't ever have to charge admissions to future grid games, and we can even bring varsity field hockey, there'll be so much money in this.

Here, Bill, is my plan. Turn Soldiers Field into a Victory Garden.

Stand up there on the ramp behind the press-box. Cast your eyes over that magnificent panorama of baseball, football, and softball fields. Then, gaze towards the Field House. Land, land, land. All the way to the fences and off into the purple haze of Brighton it stretches. What a nightmare for Henry George!

Now go to the other side of the Stadium, and look across Boylston Street. More land, this time lacrosse fields, soccer fields and just plain fields, all as level as an ironing board and with perfect drainage.

Let your imagination run not, Bill. Imagine that instead of muddy, gaunt lacrosse fields, you see acres and acres of golden wheat waving in the breeze, row after row of corn, patch after patch of tomatoes, and whatever else might grow in patches. And in every acre a sunburned, freckled Ph.D., toiling with scythe and hoe.

Down the first base line of the Varsity diamond, the groundkeeper is wheeling his lining barrow, but instead of dribbling lime, it sprinkles seeds which will soon sprout into lusty egg-plants. Then peek in the Stadium itself. Hundreds of stout Radclifflians, wearing yellow yellow badges labeled "Official," are milling about on what used to be the scene of historic gridiron duels. But now the turf is being torn up in long, deep-brown furrows. And the old familiar chant of "Rah-rah-rah" that formerly echoed through the Stadium of a weekend afternoon has given place to "gee-haw, gee-haw," as the girls crack whips over the back of straining horses.

Ponder on it, Bill. There are untold possibilities, the beauties of the spring sowing and the harvest, for instance, about which Wallace Woodworth could improvise a pastoral symphony in 100 voices. Can't you envision the swaying bodies of the reapers (brought in by the Student Union in truckloads from everywhere) and the rhythmic motion of their scythes. And then there are the social possibilities. Corn husking bees, with red ears a-plenty. Square dances in Dillon Field House, with chaff upon the floor.

Consider the proposition from a standpoint of physique. Henry Lamar could hold spring practice, but have him hitch the bucking machine to the plow. Have the players tackle the spring planting instead of the dummies.

The faculty would love it, too, Bill. Kirtley Mather would be out there plumbing the sod for rocks, sort of an agricultural sapper in the van of the plow. And out beyond a potato patch would be Derwent Whittlesey, examining the topography of the 10-yard line from an economic standpoint. Sorokin could investigate the effect of farm life upon the Average College Man and Woman. We would have the linguists harking to the guttural shouts of the plowmen. The Grant Study would stage a mass invasion, weighted down with electrodes and calipers. Norman Fradd, the News Office, Professor Merk (History of the Westward Movement), Ada Comstock, Dean Sperry, the Master of Kirkland House, and Mike of Mike's Club (with portable dispensary) would be there for obvious reasons. You might even come across Claude Wickard, grubbing about in a bean patch.

And finally, Bill, think of this. Grain prices are going up. And you can't buy a tomato anywhere.  Joe Lyford '41  Ensign, USNR (Section Base Corpus Christi, Texas