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

Page 9 text:

THE CHATTERBOX 11 She tries to write short stories But meets with no success; She'll never he an author Although she tries her best. One day the teacher told her, Great to her dismay, That she must write a poem About the month of May. After several hours of labor She jotted down some lines. The accents she thought very good Were of many sorts and kinds. Next day she read it to the class— That wonderful composition! She felt very certain ’Twould be put on exhibition. As I have told you once before. She wasn’t born a poet; If you should ever read her poem I guess you would all know it. -Erla Darling ’40 THE ENCOUNTER NEAR DAWN It was a tine and starlit night ’Way down beside the creek, When all at once there was a sight One would go far to seek. ’Twas Reddie Fox and Jimmie Skunk Both out upon a spree;

Page 8 text:

The long corridor that led to the chamber had just been cleaned for one might distinguish the odor of some sort of cedar compound that had been used. Entering the chamber you were approached by a musty odor, characteristic of an old building or medieval castle. The bitter odor of burnt wood gave evidence that the massive stone fireplace had been previously used, but there was no need for it on this afternoon for it was quite warm ; the window had been partially opened and the wind was transporting the fragrance of the neighboring pine trees. There was even an odor of the leather chairs that seemed a part of the room. In one of these chairs sat a man smoking his choice pipe. One could see by the expression on his face that this pipe was an old friend, he wouldn’t give it up for the world. No other pipe could taste so satisfying nor bring back the memories like this one did. He was really a king of kings when he was smoking this pipe. His appearance was that of a kind ruler who knew nothing other than royal benevolence, a true enlightened despot. His facial expression seemed to denote a contentment in his life’s work. He must certainly have been a ruler of some sort. On the opposite side of the room was a lady about eighty years old. She might have been anyone’s grandmother. To look at her you could feel that she must have cooked many a tasty turkey dinner and you could almost smell the fragrance of apple pies in her kitchen. You leave by the same corridor that you came and go out the same door. If you turn and read the sign over the doorway you will see in brass letters: The New Haven Charity Home for the Aged. —Richard Long ’39

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12 THE CHATTERBOX Poor Recldie came upon him there Beside a maple tree. Poor Reddie Fox, who was so quick To dodge a farmer’s wrath, So slow did turn that he looked sick, And sick he was, alas! Now James J. Skunk was in a rage. But he knew what to do; He opened up, a full barrage; Oooh! Oooh! the air was blue. Poor Reddie I'ox let out one cry And then for home did flee, He was now very, very spry And he might right well be. It was a fine and starlit night, But now approaches dawn; And Reynard, in a sorry plight, Is bathing in a pond. —John Perry Hooker ’41