Wells River High School - Chatterbox Yearbook (Wells River, VT)

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1« THE CHATTERBOX you lose your breath, and whoop how glad he is to see you are back again. He is the kind of comedian who re- marks when anything falls on the floor, like a pile of dishes, “You’ll find it on the floor.” He always said, “What can I do you for?” instead of “What can I do for you.” In short he wore the bunch of cowboys’ nerves to a frazzle, who had to put up with this sort of humor, which was really about as funny as a wooden leg, though he couldn’t be shown this. He broke into ranch life with a dead joke the first day. As he rode up and dismounted he remarked that, “I see they ain’t had no communication from Washing- ton by mail or telephone for over two weeks.” “No?” Pete Bohn bit. “And why’s that?” “Why, Washing- ton’s been dead more than a century,” the coot shot back at him. Then he doubled up in laughter, slapping his chaps with antics fit for a circus. For one solid hour af- ter that he kept his mouth going, firing one joke after another in an endeavor to keep up the reputation he fig- gered he’d made with us. He dug up the joke about an Englishman who was told that death is like a tin can tied to a dog’s tail, “because its bound to occur,” only he got it mixed and got it off by saying “it’s bound to a dog.” We did laugh then. By the next evening we had our minds completely made up about the popularity of “Al” Hicks. He was not serious a minute. For instance, someone would ask him if he thought it was going to rain. He would look up into the sky, as if studying, and feeling around in his pocket, remark, “Why, no I don’t feel any change in my pocket.” Or again, while we were eating he would be asked to pass the butter. He would nod without making a move for the dish. “That’s what I always do,” he’d declare, “you see I had an uncle once who was killed by a goat.”

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THE CHATTERBOX 9 zan” attracted much attention. From there you could see most all of Lake Champlain, and the country for miles around. We hiked about seven miles through the woods to the Mt. Mansfield Trout Club, and just behind the Trout Club reservations we camped for the night. We made our supper of roast beef, tomato soup, bread and butter. We were up early the next morning because we want- ed to catch the trolley to Waterbury. I said trolley; it seemed more like a boat. It was a ride of about ten miles. We stopped at Waterbury to wait for the train for Montpelier. Of course, “Bing” was up to his tricks again, riding on a pass from Waterbury to Montpelier, which was marked Montpelier to Wells River. We ate supper at Miller’s Inn. You can imagine how we looked, as we shuffled in there, after hiking all day. Plainfield was about ten miles away. We hiked half- way and camped for the night. The next morning we got up and hiked an hour before breakfast, which helped us to work up an appetite, for our four cans of beans and the coffee. Then the word was, “On to Plainfield.” We arrived there about eleven-thirty, to wait for the ‘mud and water” home which sure did look good to us. for all its starts and jolts. We admired the up-to-date way of putting people on the train at South Ryegate; there is more snap to the conductors than there is to the train. When the group got off at Wells River, we were the same happy bunch only a bit the worse for wear. —L. Willis CURING THE CUT-UP “Al” Hicks was a natural born cut-up. He would think it a great joke to walk up to you and smack you be- tween your shoulder blades with enough force to make

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THE CHATTERBOX 11 We tried to have a heart to heart talk with him. but it was no use. He turned the criticisms which we direc- ted at him with jokes which must have been stale when Noah was sailing toy boats around in his old man s bath tub. One day Ed Marshall says to him, “If you can see a real joke, I’m the president of China.” “Well I can see one now,” says the shrimp looking straight at Ed with a silly giggle, which took all the sting out of his come-back. When we plugged up our ears with beeswax and cotton, he began a series of physical jokes. He put a wad of chewing gum in Ed’s hair, salt in the sugar bowl, and a chopped up whisk broom in our blankets. The time had come to do something desperate, but what was there we could do? After some hours of laborious thinking we hit upon a regular scheme. It happened that “Al” had been riding over to the ranch of Lem Pearsall lately to see Lem’s gal Mehitable. So the next day we laid for “Al.” “I see you’ve been over to Pearsall’s quite a lot lately,” says Ed. “You’ve got a good eye for a pretty face, but Mehitable’s a darn nice girl and the feller who cops her will be lucky.” “Al” is growing redder every minute but Ed goes on, “I s’pose it would seem to you as though I was meddlin’ in your personal affairs too much if I told you how to make a hit with her, so I guess I’ll keep my mouth shut.” No, go ahead and tell me,” says the poor fish falling into the trap. “Well, it’s so simple anybody would have thought you’d have thought of it yourself, but its this way,” Ed goes on. “she’s the kind of girl that likes a nervy happy lad, so just you go on springing every joke on her you ever thought or heard of and she’ll be your weeping bride any time you want her.” He took this for granted, it seems, and after that we hardly ever got any of his stale stuff uncorked on us. He saved it to spring on Mehitable when he rode over to her shack which stood across the creek.