Sharon High School - Marsengold Yearbook (Sharon, MA)

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The Caerulean of the play for you have all seen it or heard of it already. I need only say that we had all worked hard to prepare it and a day after it was given we were offered a contract to present it in the biggest theatre in Boston every night for the rest of the season. Of course we did not accept; we could not bear to leave our beloved High School even for so great an offer. After the play we turijed our thoughts more and more toward the future. We became serious. We resumed the role of student abandoned since our Fresh- man year. As we approached this eventful day, we have thought solely of leaving. Tonight we go. Tomorrow night we shall be all together for the last time. Now we realize our good times are gone, that High School offers more than drudgery to the student. Now we realize that we are facing a far more difficult task than getting passing marks in our classes. We are about to enter schools of higher learning, or, more important yet, the School of Hard-Knocks. Page twenty-six

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Sharon High School The last important events of our Sophomore year were our vocal contributions at the high school concert and at graduation. By the time we reached our Junior year, our number had been diminished noticeably, but what we lacked in quantity we made up in quality. The year marked the beginning of our real social activities. Being promoted from the class where we knew it all, the Sophomore class, we proceeded to unlearn, and consequently our presence was easier to bear. The hardest work we did that year, outside of preparing for the Prom, was to scrape together enough pennies to get our class rings. In truth, I think some members actually engaged in real physical labor to lift the mortgage the rings put on their property. Others transferred the mortgage to their brains and allowed it to foreclose. The mortgagee got the worst of the bargain at that. Can you imagine Donald Stockman with dirty hands and disheveled hair? Neither can I. Yet Don actually went without a new hat and raked leaves to get his money. Nancy Wood conducted a spelling class for freshmen. Jean Caldwell pawned the jazz bells she entertained us with in English class once. hvian Leighton got her money by tutoring a couple of teachers who were behind in assignments. Venita Baker earned hers by requiring a penny for every minute she held her tongue (it took her three weeks at that). George Watten- dorf gave a few lectures on elocution, and Kenneth Brown let the car alone for two whole weeks, just to have enough money from his allowance. The others worked just as hard, but used more method than madness. We always emphasized equality not quantity and we showed it very well at our Prom. We did not allow enough tickets to be sold to over-crowd our spa- cious ballroom, but gave the limited number present a most unusual time. Our decorations could not be rivalled by any class. Our orchestra was incomparable, and the guests mixed well, insuring a good time for all. We spent the rest of the year listening to the Seniors tell us to follow their shining example of good behavior. We never could quite see the illumination and determined to be models ourselves. I will never forget how saintly and quiet Venita Baker was. But George Wattendorf spoiled the class by his constant talking and loud laughing, you know how noisy he is anyway. When the end of the term came, we sighed with relief, not because we were through for the year, but because the Seniors were— for good. This year, our Senior year, we entered our lofty seat, with equally lofty ideas. We were modern, or tried to be, and when a Shakesperean play was suggested we downed it and chose one that had more to do with prohibition. The name was No Trespassing.’’ We did not burn the mid-night oil very much at re- hearsals, but wasted a good deal of eleven o’clock gas (hot air) on various parts. The refreshments at these rehearsals were abundant and varied. Cake was com- mon, although Mr. Stockman can testify that a cake shower in the literal sense of the word, is nor exactly appreciable, nor that cleaning up the affected area is either. We all enjoyed the drinks. Our hero was again the victim of excess when one night he came limping home with a sprained ankle, caused by a fall when he went for the drinks too eagerly. 1 do not have to mention the success Page twenty-five

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Sharon High School Trophecy M y friends, I have brought this crystal ball with me here tonight, so that I might be able to find out something about my friends of the Class of 19x6. I shall now begin operations. Ah! I see a big city with many houses and many factories. Suddenly there seems to be a big explosion in one of the factories, and a figure goes hurtling through the air. As he picks himself up off the ground, I recognize Dick Rafter, the chemist. In another part of this city I can see a large hall with a stage and thousands of people. On this stage a woman is apparently singing. Without a second glance I recognize her as Betty Peck, the opera star. This time I see another smaller hall, which I gather to be a moving picture theatre. One glance at the title tells me all I need to know: Venita Baker, the famous movie vamp, in “Flaming Fires”. Next, I see a large, imposing building which looks to me very much like a State House, and out of this building is coming a dignified woman surrounded by other officials. The crowd eagerly gapes at her and cameras click. Good Heavens! Cathella Wright! Suddenly all the crowd looks up while a monstrous airplane roars overhead. There, hanging by one foot from the botton of this plane, is Kenneth Brown, the daredevil! Now the scene shifts to a stately palace, probably in England. A carriage drives up to the door and a tall and dignified and graceful lady steps out. The lady hands a card to the servant at the door which reads: “Countess Von Hiffenreizan.” As I look closer, I recognize her as— Nancy Wood! My attention is now turned to a long body of water which can be nothing else except the English Channel. On the waves are several boats, evidently following a swimmer— a girl. Can it be?— Virginia Collins! Now I see some green islands, in a blue sea. On one of these islands is a small brown hut, probably a missionary’s hut. The door opens and out steps— Jean Caldwell, and then, if that isn’t enough, the savages gather around her, and she starts teaching them the Charleston. This is more than I can stand! Wait! There’s somebody else here, but I can’t just make out who it is. Miss Wood, will you please come down and see if you can help me? Page twenty-seven