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I KNEW
^-JigjA*.
WHEN
by HENRY M. FINE
Looking into Charles Far
rell's past with one of his
boyhood pals
A Small Boy In dirty overalls and old, faded blue shirt was sitting along the edge of a river near the Bird paper mills in East Walpole, Massachusetts, fishing for minnows.
He got a bite and started pulling a "shiner" in when suddenly a large pickerel jumped clear of the water, snatched at the minnow, swallowed it, and giving a hard tug, broke the line, getting away with his smaller relative. The youngster, startled, let out a yell, dropped the line and fell into the water.
Years later the same lad walked into the Hotel Biltmore of Los Angeles, faultlessly attired in evening clothes, and accompanied by a beautiful girl. The two were attending one of the exclusive Mayfair Club dances.
The boy was Charles Farrell — the girl, his wife, Virginia Valli.
• Always in love with the outdoors, Farrell spent most of his youth fishing, romping through fields, assisting in "pear hunts," and otherwise following the rather devilmay-care existence of a New England country youth. In Walpole, his early home, he had sufficient opportunities for his youthful talents for mischief, play and work.
Here was a quiet farming community with only the large Bird paper mills to break up an otherwise serene country setting. Charlie could fish whenever he wanted to and close to the best trout and pickerel pools was a swimming hole that had everything a youngster might dream of, from deep, clear water to a raft and home-made spring board. And right across the river was a large apple orchard.
Ganging together, Farrell and his pals would swim across the river to this orchard, pick a good sized load of apples and then leisurely swim back, throwing and pushing the apples ahead of them with every stroke. It was lots of fun and little risk.
However the opportunity to buy a small neighborhood theatre in Onset, a seacoast community, some miles away, attracted Charlie's father. The family moved and the youngster was transplanted from a farming community to one that smacked of the sea.
Onset proved extremely interesting. Here large, magnificently equipped yachts floated at anchor in the quiet harbor. There were musty, evil-smelling fishing boats with
I'lesise turn to page sixty-four
''''Charles Farrell teas never a snob. To him. a friend is a
friend, regardless of what or icho he is or hoic much he has.
He has seen too much of life's struggles to let superficial
phases of life stand between him and friendship"
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