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

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M. H. S. YEAR BOOK wanted to mingle with common folks, to talk and to play with them. “A queer man,” thought the first-comer. Then a light dawned, and he tapped the banker on the shoulder. “Listen,” he said, smiling for the first time. ‘‘Do you want to hear a story? You see, it’s a story that took place many years ago when I was a boy, and it’s about me.” The banker became interested ; here was the sort of man he was looking for—a man who would treat him as a pal. “Certainly,” he said. “Well,” began the pensive one, “I lived in Massachusetts.” “Massachusetts?” the banker interrupted. ‘‘Why, that’s where I came from. I used to live in Mansfield, a small town not far from Boston. But go on with your story.” The oncé-sad man straightened up, astonished. They were both from Mansfield. Immediately they began to talk over old times. Coincidence is, indeed, a strange thing. Both had been graduated from Mansfield High School in 1934. “Do you remember,’ the banker said, “the day we entered High School ?” “Yes,’’ answered the first reminiscently, “how could I forget? That day marked the arrival in High School of a class that was destined to be the most brilliant and accomplished one in twenty years.” “Boasting?” The banker’s eyes twinkled as he smiled. “No, just proud,” was the response. “I’ve got an old Year Book, and I’ve read it so many times that I’ve memorized it. Remember Carl Garo- fano and Ginesio Ginesi? “They were two of my best friends. I was just reading about them in this book.’ He took an old, worn copy of a Year Book from his pocket. ‘The first year Gene was elected president of the class, and Carl was treasurer.” “T remember them well,” said the banker. “‘Let’s look through the book together.” “See those two pretty girls? This is Ina—Ina Pritchard; and this is Emma Morini. Ina became vice-president; and Emma, secretary when we were sophomores.” The banker sighed and gazed out across the park as though he were looking into the distant past. ‘“T remember them, too,” he said. “I used to sit near them in history class. Then there were our athletes. I'll never forget them. I myself was a three-letter man. Let’s look at the teams. Who is that?” ‘The banker pointed to a boy in the front row of one of the pictures. “He looks familiar.” “He should—it’s you.” They both laughed. “Here’s Walter Ripley. He made the big leagues, didn’t he? And [ 29 }

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Wor Oe oA Re BOOK CLASS HISTORY by Jack Bennett It was spring in the year 1970. “The scene was Central Park, New York City. The trees that had a long while been standing on a blanket ot grimy snow had awakened and were now adorning themselves in their early spring raiment. Patches of green grass had begun to cover the squares of brown, muddy earth; and from ground to tree groups of little birds were fluttering, singing and chirping as they prepared for a long stay. From above, old Sol was sending down rays of warmth and cheer, doing his best to augment the beauty of the scene. Everyone was happy, it seemed, for spring had cast its spell over all, making them very light of heart, as spring is wont to do. Down the walk there came a middle-aged man. In spite of the at- mosphere of cheer that prevailed generally, he seemed very sad. Espying a bench, he walked up to it, sat down, placed his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, and began to meditate. This man had been in New York only a few weeks. The metropolis did not please him. Rushing, jostling, noise—that was what the city meant to him. Turmoil! How he wanted to get away from it all! “Extra! Extra!” shouted a newsboy. ‘Banker missing! Feared Prince of Wall Street kidnapped!” The man on the bench heard the cry, but he was not interested. Bankers! As far as he was concerned, they might all be missing. He won- dered what he would do if he were a millionaire and could do exactly as he pleased. He would, he said to himself after a moment’s thought, give all his money to return to his boyhood days if that were possible. Ah, youth! That was the time when he enjoyed life. His thoughts drifted back—he was often reminiscent like this—to the happy years when he was in high school. He had gone over that period of his life so many times that he knew it all by heart. How he would like to talk over the events of those days with someone! Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted. A man who had strolled up the walk sat down beside him. ‘This gentleman was immaculately dressed; cane, spats, and silk hat—all showed that he was very wealthy. “Good afternoon,” said the newcomer. “How do you do,” the dejected one replied coldly. “This is much better than sitting in a stuffy bank office all day,” the stranger said. “Out here one can really enjoy life.” The pensive man sat erect and gasped. “This was the missing Prince of Wall Street! The banker offered an explanation. He was tired of the artificial life he was leading. He wanted to get away from society; he [ 28 ]

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VEAP Leake DOO and that’s Alfred Doerfler—and Joe Julian—and Bill Lucy and Joe Faria—and Howard Strang—and johnny Moresco—and Walter Smolisky—and Walter Streeter—and Huck and the great Warren Mackinlay. What athletes! We certainly turned out some good ones, didn’t we?” “Yes, I'd give anything to see them play again. Do you know that it | had all the trophies they won and could pawn them, I’d be a wealthier there's Al Sankey and Amando Amici Shaw man than you?” ‘Thus they conversed, each name mentioned bringing back sweet mem- ories. “Chey recalled their junior year. “They read about Joseph Julian, who became class president that year, and Ginesio Ginesi, who was vice- president. “They perused the pages until they found the other two officials of the year—Secretary Alice Dunne and Treasurer Viola Cataloni. Once again, with fair classmates, they danced to the strains of an old waltz; once more they made merry in the High School gym at the junior social. What a grand time everyone had at that party! And then they pictured again the reception that they, as juniors, gave the seniors. It was a gala event, indeed. The Town Hall was crowded to capacity on that beautiful summer evening, and everyone, dressed in finest raiment, was gay of heart as under- graduates and townspeople paid honor to the departing seniors. The old Town Hall—what memories it brought back—the speaking contests, in which Dorothy Stearns, Doris Smith, and Lloyd Williams ably upheld the prestige of dear old M. H. S.; the basketball games; the class play. The two old graduates looked at the picture of the cast of that play, “Good Morning Glory.” ‘There were Lloyd Williams and Gertrude Wil- lard, the leading characters; and Leland Orcutt and Jack Bennett, the riotous comedians, standing beside their respective loves, Dorothy Stearns and Eleanor Tillotson. ‘They saw Virginia Briggs, who played the part of Mrs. N. G. Fleepepper, the haughty society matron; and Ina Pritchard, who was her proud daughter, Florabelle. In the corner of the picture was Alice Dunne, who was cast as Mother Tony, proprietor of Tony’s Tavern; and beside her, Ruth Archibald, who was Clare, a poor working girl, the victim of the bold villain—Ginesio Ginesi. Said the banker: ‘I was in that play, and of all the experiences I’ve been through, that little play was by far the most exciting to me. When I, who was wont to become stagestruck, heard that it was a sellout, I thought that I was doomed.” “Throughout all these years,” the once-sad man continued, “what I’ve remembered best are the senior class meetings. The first one saw the elec- tion of the class officers. Let’s look at them in the book. ‘This boy, John Connor, became class president; and this little girl on the next page, Lois Griswold, was elected vice-president. Let’s see, now, who was secretary? [30 ]