In news from the 1930s, Pomona College used to own a 25-year-old horse named Frank. No, the venerable steed was not the namesake of the college’s south campus dining hall—that would be Richard N. Frank, restaurateur, who passed away last year. But we think Frank (the horse) would make a great mascot for the Claremont Equestrian Team, if they’re looking for one.
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COLLEGE HORSE MAKES HAY GLOOMY SPRING DAY
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Mar. 22, 1933
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Yesterday was the first day of spring. That is, if we believe what the calendar has to say about such a surly looking day as it was.
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But that wasn’t the only reason why Frank, the college horse, was working.
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“The hay began to get pretty low,” explained George Corly, who has been in charge of Pomona farm and orchard activities for the past ten years, “and this alfalfa though not yet fully matured, will feed him for another two or three months.”
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Seeded 12 Years Ago
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The field back of Holmes was seeded to alfalfa about 12 years ago, according to Corly’s memory. Before that, some 25 years ago, it used to be the football field. This spring’s crop is rather scant, in spite of the fact that the field was reseeded about two years ago.
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Along about commencement time another crop will be ready for Frank, the hay burner, to eat.
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The old white horse hasn’t been used for at least two months, Corly stated yesterday. There really isn’t much for the last survivor of another day to do. Time was when the college had four houses in the barn down by the heating plant on First street.
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Frank, who is, as one fraternity minded college wit remarked, the last local member of the Alpha Alpha, is about 20 or 25 years old and still capable of lots of work. He has been on the campus for about ten years.
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The hay cut yesterday will have to lie in bright sunlight for several days in order to be properly cured for equine consumption.
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Zzzz zz zzzzz. Shortly after eight Frank began a slow steady walk in front of the harvester which looks like a large saw, has blades like a pair of scissors, and operates like the barbers’ clippers as they mow up the back of a scrubby neck. By three-thirty the last narrow swath of waving grass fell before the right-reaching cutter and left the field a neatly lined and shorn expanse of green.
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— Compiled by Sam McLaughlin PO ’16
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