Courtyard Festivals Are for Those Who Have "Neither Youth Nor Age"

Summer's perspired drone was interrupted for a few hours last night as Andrew T. Well, local theatre mogul and veteran of many social seasons, entertained in the Lowell House courtyard.

Though a light rain and jet sky gave the thickly planted court the macabre air of a Hawthorne novel, some 100 persons turned out to mark Herbert Hoover's birthday (Aug. 10, 1874), the annexation of Hawaii (Aug. 12, 1898), and the patenting of the washing machine (Aug. 9, 1910). There was little else to celebrate.

They were fed cheese from at least two continents and two punches -- a claret and a sauterne. The crackers were straight from Cahaly's (Ritz, mainly, and a mutant potato chip or two); the dip was no-nonsense mayonaise, made aristocratic with parsely.

Croquet Balls

A few couples clustered at 8 p.m. or so to nudge croquet balls on the House lawn. As more people showed the gateman their invitations or spoke the password, "swordfish," the air became thick with smoke from Danish tobacco.

The guests were older students at the College, recent graduates, and grad students. Some girls were shining, with skin smelling gently of almods and honey; others in heavy-rimmed glasses spoke of research grants.

"There are no deep psychological reasons," a girl without pierced ears said. Then she took off her shoe and held it carefully in her left hand. "No deep reasons."

Others mourned their lack of youth of youth or age. "We're at that age where everyone is going over to the other side of the fence. Students are teaching, children are having children." The boy who had spoken also knew someone who had been drafted out of the Peace Corps.

Later they went into Lowell's chandeliered dining hall, the one that brings on images of sodden barons and trenchers stoked with legs of mutton. Someone was playing a Bach cello concerto, but it was hot.

And everywhere were the two other hosts, Alfred L. Goldberg and Stephen C. Harrison, and Weil, in tux -- looking as irrepressible as a red and white fishing float.

Watermelon Time

"Time to cut the watermelon," Weil said. So he marched to the room in G entry which was used as a ladies room--probably the only lavatory in the state with a fireplace--and lugged the melons stored in the shower.

"These melons were aged in a Med School refrigerator," said Med student Weil, "in the same room where they do horrible experiments to helpless animals."

Near the dining room he plopped the fruits down, symbolically, on a pile of Crimsons. Then he hacked at the melons with a real machete which he had used last summer while collecting medicinal plants along the Amason. Like all true machetes, it was manufactured in Hartford, Conn.

A few Crimson editors, realizing there was not much news for the night's paper, stalked by.

More soul butter and flapdoodle.

"Next year I'm going to Columbia, modern Jewish history. When I say that, people usually say there isn't any.

Off in one corner, a man machinegunned six people wiht "hellos." "Hello," he said, and lightning washed across the sky and the red light is the Lowell House bell tower flared scariet.

Zeph Stewart, Master of Lowell House, is flying back from England tomorrow and will arrive at the House at 2:30 p.m. One of the hosts said he would try to blame the litter on Acting Master Arthur T. Sutherland, who atended the party with his wife