Skip to main content
Original Issue



The dog days of summer traditionally generate a sort of benign madness in men, as well as dogs; things seem out of joint, out of place, as though distorted by shimmering heat waves. Here, for instance, are some peculiar scenes: a perilous pillar of judges and timers anxiously attending a finish at Stockholm's European Games; a nonplused band of Frenchmen finding a patriotic art exhibition on a peak in the Caucasus; Coach Percy Cerutty, his premier pupil Herb Elliott and a file of faithful gamboling up an Australian sand cliff in their summer; harness racing fans setting a record handle at Yonkers (N.Y.) Raceway; and in the gaunt, cavernous Polo Grounds, stock cars blatting where Willie Mays once, in his ingenuous abandon, ran out of his cap.

A foothill of officials watch P. O. Trollsas win at Stockholm.

Assaulting a dune at Portsea Beach, 62 miles from Melbourne, is all in a day's grind for Coach Percy Cerutty, 63 (top), Miler Herb Elliott and other determined Aussies. Cerutty's radicalism pays off: Elliott set a 1,500-meter record this week (see page 5).

On top of old Elbrus, 18,480 feet up in the Caucasus, Alpinists Lucien Caillot, Henri Bouchez, Robert Bouillot, Guy Pelat and Charles Lelong find a singular cache left by previous Soviet expeditions: two busts of Lenin and one of Stalin but no Khrushchev. These are the first Frenchmen to attain this summit since 1909.

Jughead followers, averaging 30,339 a night, jammed the elegantly refurbished Yonkers Raceway and, by waiting with great expectations as they shuffled slowly to the windows, set a one-week harness-racing betting record of $12,536,306.

Abandoned playground of the Giants, the Polo Grounds, drew still meager crowd, some 3,000 in the rain, for a new, noisy game, stock-car racing. Forty disreputable-looking machines competed for some $2,500 in prize money.


Twice a week, a pack of lop-eared, sad-faced bloodhounds and their owners descend upon the Long Island home of Nancy and Robert Lindsay to take part in a unique sport which can only be called "people-tracking." Each of the dogs is made to follow and find a person hiding in the surrounding countryside. But behind the fun is a serious purpose. Some day these hounds may be called upon, as they have in the past, to find a lost child or a missing person, and this informal training keeps them in shape for a job they do better than any other breed of dog. The bloodhound's huge nose is his Geiger counter, and on a very old trail where the scent has almost disappeared, his wrinkled brow comes into special use. Head down, the loose skin of his forehead falls forward, forming a cup to trap scent rising from the ground. Properly trained, he can follow a trail two or even three days old. And like the Mounted Police, a bloodhound always gets his man.

Waiting for work, a bloodhound sprawls in lazy comfort, wearing leather harness or "saddle" used when tracking.

Details of tracking are explained by Sheriff Bill Biggs to Mrs. Lindsay (left), Gus Merz and Betty and Kent McClelland.

Taking the scent from pajamas of "lost" Bobby Lindsay, dog is readied by child's mother Nancy to follow the boy's trail.

Finding the quarry, bloodhound bounds at 3-year-old Bobby, who shows displeasure at unexpected attention.

Heading home after tracking exercise, Bobby and hound are ready for refreshments at end of afternoon's workout.

The 16th century text and woodcut illustrations shown here are not likely to be of much practical help to Yale's swimming coach, Robert J. H. Kiphuth. Without the aid of texts either modern or medieval, Bob's Eli swimmers have gone virtually undefeated for more than a decade. Nevertheless, to honor the impressive Kiphuth record in a manner befitting the great institution of learning which he serves, a grateful graduate presented to the Yale Library in Coach Kiphuth's name this oldest English-language treatise on the sport Bob knows so well. Through persistent and careful study of its terse text and 43 elaborate diagrams, students in the arid security of the university library at New Haven may now familiarize themselves with the basic techniques of the natatory art, ranging from the simple dog paddle to the complex maneuvers of the roach turn. We feel it only fair to warn the studious beginner, however, that a short session with Kiphuth in the university pool might be a sound idea before diving in and striking out for himself—the natural confusion resulting from a similarity between archaic f's and s's could lead to watery difafter.






To fwimme backward.


To tread the water.


To fwim like a dog.


To turne in the water like a Roach.