Mansfield High School - Hornet / Green Years Yearbook (Mansfield, MA)

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CLASS PROPHECY yn on Wa By GORDON P. FULLER I was standing in an ofhce overlooking Broadway when the telephone gave a sharp ring. Russell McCann picked up the receiver and said, MecCann’s Masterful Music Mart. — Yes, we provide entertainment. May | help you?” While the other party was talking, I stood admiring a picture of Lydia Kashtan, the former jitterbug of the Mansfield High, now a well-known dancing instructor. Mac laid down the receiver. “Well, Jeff,’ he said, “I’ve got you a job at last. After two weeks of one- nighters here in New England, your orchestra will open at Grant’s Tomb in New Yiorks, “Grant’s Tomb?” I exclaimed. ‘Are you kiddin’ ?” “Oh, I don’t mean the burial place of the famous general and president,” Mac replied. ‘The Grant’s Tomb I refer to is the night club owned by our former class president, Grant Wood. He named it The Tomb because he buried so much money in it.” “Too bad,” I said soberly, inwardly wondering if Woodie would be able to pay me. Mlac, however, seemed to read my thoughts. “Grant is doing all right now, Jeff,’ he assured me. “He’s in politics and plans to oppose President Roosevelt in his campaign for a fifth term at the White House.” “Grant might win at that,’ I remarked with a knowing smirk on my face, “for he’s sure of the women’s vote.” ” “Right you are,’ agreed Russell. “In fact, several famous American women have already given him their support. Pearl Syat, the great pianist, has composed his campaign song, ‘Boogie, Woogie, Woodie’; and Nancy Tuell, a hot trumpet player, has also promised to help him. Woodie, however, does not feel so sure about Nancy now, for her action has involved her in difficulties with her manager, John Kaye.” We both laughed heartily, but Mac noticed that I was getting impatient, so he told me that a bus would pick up my men and me at ten o’clock, Monday morning. I hurried out to tell the good news to the boys. In my haste I almost knocked over Eloise Smith, Mac’s private secretary. After apologizing to her, I decided to take things more calmly and stop off at a drug store to soothe my nerves. After all, why shouldn’t I be excited? This was the first contract my band had secured in three months. To my surprise, it was Barbara Devine who came forward to serve me. After three years at a college of pharmacy, Barbara certainly could make a swell chocolate soda. After complimenting her on her skill, I left. When I got back to the Ritz Carlton Hotel, where my men and I were staying,—that’s where we were staying, back of the Ritz Carlton,—I saw a familiar

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patience to listen. Miriam Milson leaves her class picture to next year’s picture committee, for their inspiration, and as an excellent ‘‘ad”’ for Purdy. Louis Nelson leaves to that happy-go-lucky Junior, Bob Patriquin, his recently published book “How To Get Along with All the Teachers.” Charlotte Patriquin passes on to Martha Hodges her ability as a bridge player, with a periscope so that she can see her opponent’s hand. Eddie Pazsit, for the last three years, has been drawing airplanes. If they were in the air instead of merely on paper, they could devastate Germany, demolish Japan, and conquer the world. Eddie leaves all of his drawings to those in charge at Boltz’s Field. Priscilla Phillips leaves her position as class treasurer and a book on balancing the budget, discarded by Secretary Morgenthau, to the treasurer-elect of the Junior Class. Dot Plausse bequeaths to Helene Gallipeau a book entitled “How to Use Brass Knuckles—in One Easy Lesson.” John Reid leaves his footprints on the Shower Room floor. Paul Scialoia leaves all the Sophomore girls in the Tuesday home room period to go “Hunting” in Foxboro. Ruth Bolton leaves to Marion Wirth her place by the drinking fountain during lunch period. Eleanor Murphy leaves her position as assistant coach of the class play to the dramatic critic in the Junior Class. Priscilla Shepard passes on her pleasing personality and charm to Deborah Sullivan, who has received a like honor every year, but who really doesn’t need it. Eloise Smith leaves her ability to complete her homework when it is due, to Earl Buck. Pearl Syat leaves her soft voice and quiet ways to Verne Butts. Joe Teixeira leaves his joke book, which has been handed down from year to year, in the care of David Jackson, with the admonition to guard it well, so that he, in turn, can hand it on again. Donald Vickery leaves Priscilla Wheeler with detailed instructions on how to avoid the wolves during her last year in. high school. I guess, along with that, Priscilla is left with a lonely and broken heart. Etta Wellman recommends to Ruth Nelson her system for passing notes in Room 5. ‘These notes are always in the line of study, of course. Grant Wood, our esteemed class president, bequeaths to Eddie Dalton his popularity, his leadership, and his place in the headlines as basketball captain, with the good wishes of the Class of °42 for the Class of ’43. As for me, I leave Mansfield High School with regret and memories of happy days with good friends and kindly teachers and coaches. In testimony whereof we hereunto set our seal, and in the presence of three witnesses declare this to be the last will of the Class of 1942. Witnesses : Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Co. B. Dr: Calsatratapatus, MI. D.; W. P. A., M.-H. S. Bob Hope, King of Komedy

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ry t =e ' : wie inva fiansiield Puolic Library NONAQ 1) t tie figure talking to my bass fiddle player. It turned out to be Wilbur Chapman. Overjoyed at seeing each other, we had a long session talking over old times. In the course of the conversation, Will said that he was out of work. Immediately I asked him to be manager of my band, remembering, of course, the swell job he did with the M. H.S. Basketball Team of 1942. Wilbur gratefully accepted the job, borrowed five dollars, and agreed to meet me Monday at ten. At the appointed time a bus came rolling around with the name Moron’s Master- ful Music printed on it in large red letters. Of course, this was obviously a misprint, or had Mac heard my orchestra before? As we sped along at fifteen miles an hour, the driver of the bus kept mumbling over and over to himself, ““Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.” Finally, in desperation, I reminded him that we wanted to reach Boston today and not tomorrow or the day after. He turned and gazed at me reproachfully and to my surprise I recognized Eddie Pazsit. Sadly Eddie explained that he was still trying to memorize Macbeth’s speech for Miss Hannon, his high school English teacher, who had told him to go away and not to come back until he had learned it word for word. “That,” said Eddie mournfully, “was ten years ago.” Suddenly Bessie Goodwin, the torch singer with my band, exclaimed, ‘This isn’t the way to Boston. We must be lost.” True enough, we were. Under the influence of Shakespeare, Eddie had taken us to Worcester. I was pretty indignant with him, but philosophically decided that as long as it was time for lunch, we would stop and eat. In the restaurant I met Jimmie Ienello, who had just returned from an expedition to deepest Africa, where he had been studying the monkeys. Cushie, it seems, had become a trapeze artist of no little fame. In fact, the monkeys were his only rivals. “T could beat them, too,” said our modest Cush, “if I only had a tail.” Sympa- thetically I agreed that it was too bad that evolution had progressed so far. Returning to the bus, I opened a paper I had bought. ‘To my great interest I ran across the name of Alfred Chandler. Apparently Alfred had been appointed lighthouse keeper at the Bay of Wales (164° W, 78° 48’ S, Antarctica.) ‘‘You’ve got to admit,” I remarked, passing the paper over to Chapman, “‘that Al has carried his ‘I want to be alone’ policy too far this time.” We arrived at the Raymor Ballroom, only just in time for the dance because Eddie got lost again. “This time I did not try to keep my temper but really laid him out, for in the music business you have to be on time, or else—. Eddie became quite sulky and murmured something about ‘“‘a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then.is heard no more.’ Naturally I didn’t like that, so we parted in anger. Soon my orchestra was going full swing and I dashed down into the crowd to greet my old classmate Ralph Dustin. Dustin was sitting on top of the world. He had managed to get a B-3 card for his auto, an X card for his truck, and Alice Card for a date. Alice, he informed us, was the world’s champion bowler, and we could all easily see that she had bowled Ralph over already. After the dance we all went over to the Copley Plaza for the night. I was pleased to find that Paul and David Lane were owners of the hotel. Since I was