Wellesley High School - Wellesleyan Yearbook (Wellesley, MA)

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THE WELLESLEYAN 1935 CLASS PROPHECY ’35 “Oh where, oh where, has my little Elmer g one?” I wailed. Overcome by my loss, I took up the daily journal hoping to find some mention of my curly haired and brown eyed darling. For a moment my grief was forgotten in a startling discovery. The name of the editor was familiar. Where had I heard that name before—Owen Hillberg— Hillberg—mmm—why, of course, he was that charming, friendly soul of my high school days who delighted in pushing defenceless little girls against walls and maliciously pulling their hair in classrooms. All thoughts of Owen were banished by an advertisement which declared in bold type that the “Can’t Fool Us” agency would guarantee the return of lost relatives and friends. In other words it was a bureau of missing persons. Just the place to find a reliable detective to discover the location of my idol. With renewed hope I made my way to the address given. A big, rough looking uniformed officer, wearing the stripes of a lieutenant, answered my knock. As the “boss” was busy, the lieutenant offered me a chair and before I knew it I was pouring out my tale of woe into his sympathetic ear. As I finished, my listener said, “Say, ma’am, haven’t I seen you before, some place?” Then he hastily amended his question with the suggestion that, perhaps. I was a Wellesley High graduate. With my affirmative answer he declared that he was Francis Kilduff, “Curly” to his pals. Now I remembered the great Kilduff of football fame. At this point the buzzer announced that the “boss” awaited me. “And wait until you see who he is,” Francis whispered as I passed him. Prepared to meet anything, I went- in to face the “boss.” All that I could see at first was two fairly sizable feet stretched out on a desk. At my entrance the feet were quickly placed on the floor and up sprang boss Tartari with that inevitable pipe of his. He declared that it was the same pipe he had had his picture taken with way back in ’35. (Nobody would forget that photograph in a hurry.) My own business completely forgotten as a result of so many discoveries, we sat down to recall old times. Always one of the well dressed boys in the class of ’35, he now looked even better. My comment on how well he looked brought forth the information that Zatz, that tailor of tailors, kept his clothes in A-l condition. (We both remembered seeing Earl racing up and down Washington Street on business.) When I inquired into the nature of his work, Joe volunteered much of interest. “Do you know,” he said, “one of my most difficult ca.ses is keeping track of Betty Drake for her parents. Only last week I answered their plea by locating her in Bagirmi, Africa, trying to discover an indelible lipstick. Period¬ ically it is my duty to seek out Charlie Abraham in his hermitage in the Blue Hills and bring him back to civilization. Charlie insists that solitude is the way to wisdom. And do you know. Bill Price”—at this moment a terrific din is heard outside the office door. Staccato masculine and feminine shouts fairly deafen us. Then, all of a sudden, the noise ceased as abruptly as it began. Bewildered I turned to Joe. With a sigh as if he was glad that it was over and yet acting as though he were accustomed to it, he explained, “That outburst you just listened to came from four persons, two males and two females. Remember Winchell? Well, one of the members of the fair sex is more deadly than that keyhole artist ever could be. She runs the “Snooper” column in Hillberg’s paper. What she doesn’t find out nobody can. The name is Deborah Campbell. Debby and Virginia Brady, the other woman in the feud (Brady runs the linguistic column in the same paper) have been arguing over the position of their respective columns in the index for so long that now neither column is mentioned. The male part of the battle rages between two more members of the staff, cartoonist Dick Monahon and Russell RoSe. Dick says that his “Can We Forget” page of cartoons is far superior to Rose’s comic section on “You, Me, and the Guy Next Door.” Certain facial contortions by Joe revealed very plainly his feelings on the subject. Incidentally, I later learned that Bill Price was driving the wagon that delivered Hillberg’S publications. Now it was my turn to talk, and tearfully I poured out my story of how much I missed my Elmer and wished I could find him. Joe assured me that he had never lost a case yet. First we visited the county jail where Chief Angelo Di Giandomenico informed us no one by the name of Elmer had been “hauled in.” Seeing that my spirits were extremely low, Joe suggested a walk in the park. He promised to get to work immediately and call me as soon as anything developed. A department store which I passed on my way to the park suggested that all ladies, in order to look “their best,” should visit Mile. Bernice Beale’s beauty salon or call her secretary, Page Thirty-Two

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THE WELLESLEYAN 1935 with Ruth Smythe, Francis Kilduff, Ruth Matthews, John Doherty, Kaspar Pilibosian among the actors; the second, ‘Clarence ' with Allan Stevenson, Dick Monahon, Valice Foeley, Edmund Rice, Ruth Matthews, Christine Hunter, and Virginia Brady. I see a great deal of entertain¬ ment : One evening with a magician and a dance; another, with ama¬ teurs from all sections of the country and Paul Monahan officiating. Another night, the gentlemen-of-the-guard played basketball with the ladies-in-waiting and the latter, with the aid of boxing gloves, won 9—8. Several of the male members of the audience shifted uneasily as if stirred by unpleasant memories. “The floor of the hall is now being cleared so that the athletes of the kingdom may be presented. Among them I recognize Joe Tartari, Charles Mantovani, Stuart Lowell, Rufus Ferioli, Whitey Nelson, Louis Villa, Alfie Juliani, Bob Austin, Dorothy Garland, Barbara Wheeler, Betty Cunniff, Ruth Smythe, Christine Hunter, Katherine Grant, Dorothy Hatch, and Irene Carpenter. The women in this court are very proud of a banner they won from others of the realm, and the men are still boasting about their victory over a certain kingdom called Needham. It is leaving me!” he tried to sound disappointed. “All is getting hazy and the people in the hall are filing out slowly in two long lines. Alas! There is no more.” Mopping his perspiring brow, the crystal gazer retired amid applause. “I enjoyed that,” said one rotund soul. “I didn ' t have to do a thing but listen and no one else had to do any work.” “If we ' d had a class history in our Year Book, we could have asked some one to read it and would have saved the expense,” added a disa¬ greeable looking woman. “But,” argued a forlorn and care-worn creature, “did you ever try to write a class history?” DEBORAH CAMPBELL, scribe GERTRUDE JOHNSEN RUTH MATTHEWS Page Thirty-One

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THE WELLESLEYAN 1935 Miss Dorothea Hogan, for an early appointment. (Is there anyone of the class of 35 who has forgotten Dorothea’s efficiency?) The display window of the store was cleverly arranged by our artistic classmate, Jeanette Adams. Another surprise was the discovery that the smart clothes, exhibited in the same store, were created by Winton of Wellesley and Paris, who advertises color schemes designed by Phyllis Rogers. The park turned out to be of great interest. Sprawled out asleep on a bench, with the customary newspaper covering, was Estabrooks. No one ever got so much rest as did Wilbur in History class! Over in one corner Frank Linden was setting up the annual city Christmas tree in anticipation of the approaching holiday season. “Paper, paper, latest evening news,” ding-songed a voice behind me. And none other than newsboy McCabe sold me my edition. I quickly found a bench where I could read in peace. On the theatre and amusement page Symphony Hall was offering two celebrated musical stars, Janice Lee and Kenneth Seagrave, in their only New England appearance. The program looked decidedly entertaining, so I mentally set aside that night to see my former schoolmates perform. Also a great political upheaval at Washington had aroused the entire nation. President Hunter (our first woman president, and are we of the fair sex thrilled!) had introduced into Congress a bill to close all public schools in April and open them again in August instead of the customary September to June session. Bitter opposition was being voiced by the brain trust head, Rice from Massachusetts. Eddy was always good at arguing! Under the social events column Hope Kingsbery of Long vale was holding a bazaar cn her lovely estate for the benefit of the million and a half unemployed. A feature of the bazaar was the sale of green sweaters with the white “D” on them. With a sigh I closed the paper. Evidently my long and uneventful life must be made more miserable by the unsolved disappearance of my Elmer. Tired of waiting any longer I turned my steps homeward. Yet, could I return tc that solitary place? No! I took a taxi, driven by Georgie Foster (who still has difficulty in reaching the foot pedals) to Miss Maulsby’s finishing school. A visit to the quiet, dignified, and pleasant Gloria would aid me immeasurably to forget, my loss. On the way over Georgie told me that he and McGlone ran the taxi service. He also confided that since prosperity had turned the corner McGlone was thinking of taking a “turn” at matrimony. No more would Foster reveal. As I was a classmate of his, he good-naturedly refused to accept any money from me. At “Miss Maulsby’s School” I met Ruth Barr rather nervously attempting to lead several temperamental children into the school building. It is her duty every day to transport these little wretches to and from their residences. She confided to me that daily, after her work is done, she has to get an aspirin from Billy Birgfeld at the corner drug store. At my rather impatient knock little Inez Wilson, who still maintains her quiet unassuming dignity, opened the door. Gloria received me most cordially and offered to conduct me on a tour of her establishment. In room 101 Miss Matthews was trying desperately to inject a slight conception of the fundamentals of mathematics into the heads of her pupils. By the drawn expression on her face and disarranged permanent wave, I judged her attempts were futile. Farther down the corridor, Miss Hoyt was teaching the finer points of knitting to the most cherubic little girls. My inquiry about musical notes issuing from an unknown spot brought forth the information from Gloria that Phoebe Allen ably directed the music department. In the kitchen Ruth Smythe was arguing with dietitian Elinor Thayer that salads were the correct thing to eat at noon, in order to maintain that school-girl figure. Elinor, with her usually perfect curls awry, looked as though she might be getting the worst of the argument. A wail and a moan caused Gloria to hurry into the room marked lOA. To everybody’s relief it was only Miss Gretchen Willard explaining certain elements of emotional acting. Who could be better qualified for such a position than Gretchen? In the gym Marjorie Keylor was demon¬ strating exercises that used to be the bane of some of us who were less athletically inclined. She stopped her work long enough to tell me that frequently she saw William Cooley pass the school on his way to his radio shop. Also, that now the was taking riding lessons from Virginia Cook, whose thoroughbreds are the talk of the horse world. Gloria told me that because of her expensive and well-equipped laboratory (which is run by chem ist Gorman) she must have a day and night watchman. Day watchman Cronin is relieved every evening by Mantovani. Already Fred and Charlie had ensnared several marauders. After leaving the school my one idea was to eat. I sought a good but inexpensive place. In my “seeking” I came across a book shop. Books here, there, and everywhere Page Thirty-Three