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could close without a word from him. I have known only one other so beloved. For years at Harvard Le Baron Russell Briggs has been "the dean", unique and not to be mistaken for any other of the raft of deans that infest that university, the understanding friend of the boy, the spokesman for the undergraduate life, the champion of athletics. As Briggs was the Burton of Harvard, so Burton was the Briggs of Technology. I cannot at this moment think of a higher compliment.

I need not here speak of his great achievement, to which during the last few months tribute has been paid over and over again. Suffice it to say that he took literally those early words of General Walker, which he was so fond of quoting, "This is a place, not where boys may play, but where men may work," and gave it a far wider application than perhaps the speaker ever imagined, an application which made Technology the pioneer in the country in the idea of teaching students to take their activities seriously, to work at them as businesses, to be managed on business lines, with full responsibility taken, with everything accounted for, so that at Technology it is really true, as it is only partly true at other places, that in a properly managed college participation in acitvities is equivalent to not less than twenty-five per cent of the actual value of the whole college course, in discipline, in business experience, in handling men and co-operating with them, in adapting the world as it is to one's own legitimate purposes. The curriculum is too often only theory; activities properly managed by the men themselves are both theory and practice of the most instructive kind. And the making secure that condition of affairs at the Institute is as fine an accomplishment, and in the long run, perhaps, unimaginably more useful than the scientific work the Dean laid down when he began his work in Human Engineering.

One fruit, not the least, is that closely knit, harmonious, efficient triple alliance of Faculty, Alumni, and Undergraduates, which in the past few years has helped to solve some of our most perplexing problems and will, if allowed to continue in the spirit of the men who originated it, do still greater work.

And this last spring the Dean saw the seed of his labors spread abroad, to take root in other institutions across the country, when from fifty colleges the representative students gathered at Technology to exchange views on student government and to learn that here was freedom and responsibility, but freedom that was never license, and responsibility that was shared but not dictated. One wishes that other dean he's now a college president somewhere- could have seen and, like Thomas Didymus, believed.

And, withal, our Dean never lost his dignity, he was never razzed in an unkindly spirit, he never condescended, was never aloof, or petulant; it never seemed an effort, though often it must have been, to be so continually with the men; to understand them, to separate the essential from the inessential, to praise or reprove the essential and let the inessential go as of no importance. It never seemed an effort, as it surely must have been, in the days before the medical service was instituted,

to keep track of the boys who were sick and lonely, to get doctors for them and visit them, at how great a sacrifice of time and strength nobody knows, to find the boys who were badly lodged or in the wrong neighborhoods or the wrong company, to keep track of the foreign boys, who so often were entirely on their own responsibility in a strange city, and to try to give them something of our American home life and companionship. It never seemed a task to this man of splendid strength, who wore his years so lightly, who kept his temper and his courage and his enthusiasm, and, above all, his humor, so unquenchably alive.

He was to be seen at his best at the Walker Club, which was perhaps his favorite among Technology societies, for it grew from the personality of General Walker, whom he wished always to keep alive in the imagination of those who never knew him. It was the Dean who kept the Walker Club alive, after all, and his oft-repeated story of its founding and the tradition it implied, of comradeship between student and instructor, of an interest in the things of the spirit and of the arts, was of prime importance in maintaining that tradition. And the last meeting, in the dusking spring woodlands, where, after a camping supper in the firelight, the boys, quite in the spirit of his own Commedia del Arte, burlesqued his past adventures, with Peary in the North, in Sumatra taking the eclipse of the sun, and then after listening to one of his clear-cut characteristic little speeches, toasted him and sang to him - that last meeting will not be soon forgotten by those who were fortunate enough to participate in it.

It was only one of dozens of such farewell meetings. I suppose every organization in the Institute gave him a send-off. He called them his obituaries and vowed that he was fortunate in hearing them while he could enjoy them. And he was. For no man ever heard more good spoken of him, more good will and friendliness expressed than did the Dean from these boys who looked on him not so much as an officer of the Faculty retiring, as a well-understood, well-beloved, infinitely companionable elder brother-setting out on new adventures.

And the responses he made! I heard several - at the Walker Club at the freshman dinner, at the senior dinner, at the inaugural banquet and I could not help but notice their freshness, their variety, their clearness and spontaneity, and above all, their never failing cogency and wisdom. He had been making them steadily for two months, I suppose. For that matter, he had been making them steadily for twenty years and the spring had never run dry. His voice still lifted quietly, but clearly and compellingly, saying the things men need to have said to them and wish to have said to them. He said things this generation will remember as he remembered the sayings of Rogers and Walker.

In the sketch reprinted in this issue from the Tech Engineering News Professor Robbins called him an artist. That is the happiest and truest thing that has yet been said of Dean Burton. He was an artist. He was an artist using the tools of science, and, later, the tools of human relationships. He loved to create in art; he loved the masquerades and

merrymakings at his home, his little marionette theatre he spent so much care and pains upon; he loved, apparently, to dress up and see others play a part; he loved to see people come out of their shells and create, for their own pleasure and happiness. He loved to create, but better he loved to encourage others to create. And in that he was the finest artist of all. Lots of people can teach science and engineering and things; lots of people can be good administrators and efficient deans. But the man who is an artist in an inartistic job is one in a million. And that is Dean Burton - a long life to him and happy days! - a creative artist in teaching men how to live.-R. E. R.

KENNELLY FOR EXCHANGE PROFESSOR

ARTHUR E. KENNELLY, director of electrical research at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and professor of electrical engineering at Harvard University, has been selected as the first exchange professor from the engineering and applied science fields between this country and France. He sailed from New York, June 9, under the auspices of a committee of American universities. The French have selected for their first representative Prof. J. Cavalier, rector of the University of Toulouse and an authority on metallurgical chemistry. He will come to this country in the fall and divide his time during the academic year among Columbia, Cornell, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Pennsylvania, and Yale.

THE DEAN'S PAST REVEALED

An enterprising reporter and a false friend — " of moving

accidents by field and flood."

IN the dean's office at Massachusetts Institute of Technology are two stuffed beavers.

The pedestal on which they are mounted is a section of a real beaver dam.

They are the mascots of the institution, symbolizing as they do, industry and engineering skill, and they typify, too, the spirit of Prof. Alfred E. Burton during the nineteen years that he has been dean of the Institute, which office he has just resigned because of his concern over the ill health of his wife who is in California.

"I've just worked like one of those fellows," he said quietly, as he pointed to the stuffed beavers, when I stepped into his office the other afternoon and asked him to tell me all about himself.

"Nothing has ever happened to me that hasn't happened to most men, I guess, and I haven't done anything other men couldn't do as well or better," he said, smiling.

He smiled a good deal during my chat with him, but talked very little about the things I wanted him to talk about.

A modest man is Dean Burton, but let's see how modest is he who has been a father and adviser to the students of "Tech" for so many years; whose tolerant and fair disciplinary methods, genial ways and cordial, unaffected interest in those young men have to an unusual degree made them love and respect him; and whose faithfulness to the highest ideals of the Institute has made his influence of such a character that it is highly esteemed by graduates and faculty of the school.

Something did happen to Dean Burton that hasn't happened to most men, I guess. He was rudely awakened from sleep once and had to grapple for his life in the darkness with a man who took him to be a polar bear.

Prof. George H. Barton, for several years in the department of geology at Technology, now director of the Teachers' School of Science at Harvard, and a close personal friend of Dean Burton for many years, told me the story as we sat in the Children's Museum at Cambridge, where he is in charge.

It happened in North Greenland. Dean Burton was born in Portland, Me., in 1857, and while a student at the engineering school of Bowdoin College, from which he graduated in 1878, he roomed with Admiral Peary.

At Admiral Peary's suggestion he organized, in 1896, an expedition to Umanak, North Greenland, and the pendulum and magnetic observations he took there are among the most valuable scientific accom

plishments that have ever been made in the Arctic regions. Admiral Peary, then Lieutenant Peary, was a member of the party, as was Professor Barton.

While making their observations on the inland ice one day the scientists caught sight of a polar bear and naturally there was some conversation about the ferocity of these monster denizens of the "great white silence" as Jack London calls it.

After their labors that day it was in the summer time when the sun shines the full twenty-four hours in the Arctic- the members of the expedition pitched their tents where they were to get some sleep.

Dean Burton had as his tentmate one of his pupils at Technology, and evidently the polar bear that he had seen reappeared to the young man in his dreams for he had a terrible nightmare, or more properly speaking a “day-mare", in which he imagined that he was being attacked by a polar bear. In his struggles he happened to touch the bear skin covering Dean Burton and this evidently intensified his sensation of being attacked by a bear, for he began grappling with his

mentor.

Sound asleep when the attack came it was only by exerting all his strength for several minutes that Dean Burton managed to release himself from the grip of the young man, and the commotion woke up everybody in camp. Professor Burton had many of his delicate instruments in the tent, but fortunately these were not broken in the

rumpus.

When the student was finally fully awake and learned of what he had done he cried as though his heart was broken, but Dean Burton soon comforted him and cautioned everyone in the party not to mention the incident again for fear of hurting the young man's feelings.

"Burton was one of the best companions imaginable on a rough trip, always thoughtful of others, ever ready to bear the brunt of the work, courageous and jovial at all times," said Professor Barton. "But imagine such a mild fellow as Burton being taken for a ferocious polar bear!" he laughed.

"Even the elastic imagination of a newspaper man doesn't stretch so far,” I said.

"We were constantly on the outlook for polar bears on that Greenland trip," continued Professor Barton. "I recall one time I was sharing a tent with Burton when I was awakened by the rattling of our food tins. Immediately I concluded there must be a bear prowling around and got out my dirk to slit the tent and slip out if Mr. Bruin poked his nose in under the tent flap.

"Are you awake, Burton?' I whispered.

'Yes', he said.

'What are you going to do if that bear comes in our front door?' 'Slit the tent with my knife and go out by the back door,' he replied, chuckling.

Later we discovered the rattling of the tins was caused by the wind and not by a bear."

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