Sharon High School - Marsengold Yearbook (Sharon, MA)

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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

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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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The Caerulean I see an immense fortune, heaps and heaps of paper bills on a table, gold pieces, gold dust, a fragile wine glass half empty, a silver cigarette case — they are receding. A face looms up— a smiling, care-free face— it is Mr. Stock- man. He has on a high silk hat, white gloves and a white gardenia on his lapel. The form becomes larger. He is swaying on his pearl-tipped cane, back and forth, back and forth. He is the height of perfection, wealth, ease. His eyes twinkle, his lips are smiling, he turns away, but, ah, just before him is a hotel where he is to dine and dance. He glances around very nonchalantly as if to say: “At last I am Prince.” There is a room resembling a workshop here and I can see Kenneth Callahan sitting before a big radio. There are many complications of wires and tubes. He is very intent upon his work. I see his face light up— something is happen- ing! He turns off the loud speaker and puts the earphones on his ears. He fades —and far away I see an oddly rigged-up station. Tgetation looks as though it were in the tropics. That fades quickly. Then again I see Mr. Callahan sitting before his radio set. Several people, apparently pupils, are listening to him. A newspaper on a nearby table reads: “Kenneth Callahan, radio expert, is now famous for the new discoveries he has made.” He— but the picture is gone. I am looking down on a room. It is very large, and in it people are rushing to and fro like so many bees. There are desks, typewriters, telephones and heaps of papers. Every person is intent upon his work. I see a woman enter a door at one end: Things seem to quiet down. The woman walks down the room and glances at the busy people, and goes into her office. As she takes off her smart little hat, I see it is Kathryn Collins, smiling and very business-like. She seats herself at a large desk, as a stenographer enters the room. Kathryn takes up the telephone and begins to talk, while the girl goes on with her work. Kathryn is a successful business woman and manager of a large corporation. I see a vast expanse of plains, sandy with sage-bush, and a few stunted trees. I see a horse dart from one of these and race like mad to the low foothills. Someone is on his back— a masked girl. She jumps off, hides behind a bush, and waits. Another horse is coming slowly across the plains. He nears, the girl gets ready to shoot. She fires and the man falls from his horse. She leaps to the horse’s back and darts away. The picture is gone. A scrap of newspaper flutters before me, the words in black letters read: “Ethel Kaercher, private secretary of the richest ranch owner in the West, yesterday, shot and killed the bandit and won the 10,000 dollars offered for his body, dead or alive.’ The paper flutters away. Before me lies a beautiful garden, roses, masses of brilliant flowers, shady trees, and a low, sloping lawn. Back of these a large mansion, stately and quie t in the warm sun. A young man, very tall and distinguished, is walking toward me. He is thinking deeply. He pauses and looks up. It is Mr. Wattendorf. He has a pad and pencil in his hands. He has been writing. He is going into the Fagf twenty-tight