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

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were coming to anchor that night the thread that held the fishhook anchor broke. As they were too close to shore to turn, they went crashing into a house built at the bank of the puddle. They did not know it at first, but they soon found out that the house was the barracks for an army of ants. The small people hauled up all the sails and start- ed the wind-up motor so they could get away from the ants. But the ants also had a boat. They piled into it and sailed after the little people. The little people set their bean cannon up on the deck of their ship. After they had fired four or five beans, the ants were glad to re- treat. To celebrate the victory the little fold finished their cruise around the puddle and returned home without any more trouble. —John Mahnker ’49 GRAMPA JACK What’cha doin, Grampa Jack?” Fixin’ my traps.” Goin’ trappin’, Grampa Jack?” Huh?” I said, 'Are you goin’ trappin?’ ” Yuh!” When ya goin?” Tomorrow.” Kin I go with yuh? Kin I, Grampa Jack?” Why, when I go trappin’ you’ll be in bed asleep. No, it’ll be too early for you. Long afore dawn. Probably ’bout 4 o’clock.” He shook his grizzled head and kept on oiling his traps. Occasionally he would stop, tilt his head back, hold his trap out in front of him and examine his work through his old near-sighted eyes. Aw! That’s what you said last year but you over- slept and never went t’all,” persisted Little Jack. Well, I’m goin’ this year sure and don’t bother me. Hand me that rag over there, will ya? No, not that one, 11

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At the end of a week came a radio announcement that a required broadcast was to be given Saturday eve- ning at nine o’clock. Tersely, America waited. Fellow Americans”, said the President’s voice, this week has been an experiment to show the people of the United States what life without liberty and justice for all would be like. The experiment is over. Once more you are free to enjoy freedom in our democracy. As we thank God for our own freedom and think with pain in our hearts of those who are in bondage, let us sing together softly the last verse of our national hymn, America”. Our fathers’ God, to Thee, Author of liberty, To Thee we sing; Long may our land be bright With freedom’s holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God our King.” —Barbara Bid well ’45 THE CRUISE ON PICKWICK PUDDLE Once upon a time there lived a race of little people about three inches tall. They lived in a little village by the edge of Pickwick Puddle. To us Pickwick Puddle would be only a little mud hole, but to the little folk it was a mighty sea. One afternoon the mayor of the small people called a meeting of the citizens and declared that a boat should be built and acruise taken on Pickwick Puddle. Everyone contributed to making the boat. Someone gave material for the sails, someone gave lumber, and some- one gave a wind-up motor, in case the wind died down and the sails would not make the ship go. In a week the ship was finished. The galley was full of food, and the indoor swimming pool filled with water. All the tickets were soid and the cruisers started early one morning. They sailed all day, but when they 10

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the one over’t the right by the oil can, that’s it.” He took the rag, shook it once and then started polish- ing the trap as well as his knobby, shriveled hands would let him. You done a lot of trappin, ain’tcha, Grampa Jack?” Yuh! . . . Lot of it . . . Yuh!” A pause while he ran his tongue over his lips. Been trappin’ nigh onto sixty year now. Ever since I were ten. Never forgot the first time I ever went. Went with my Dad. Things was different then though. Traps wan’t so good. Wan’t made of steel. More muskrats, too.” He stopped, wiped his hands on his dirty pants, took out his handkerchief from his hip pocket, blew and wiped his nose fiercely, put his handkerchief back, and continued. I ’member my Dad had took me to the river and showed me how to bait my trap with an apple, set it, and cover it. Well, the next day we went back and there were a muskrat in it. It wan’t a big one—just a little one. Well, he looked so little and harmless it just made me sick to think of him bein’ killed. Well—when my Dad took out his knife I---” Little Jack,” a voice called from somewhere upstairs. That’s yer ma callin.” Aw!” Little Jack,” the voice called again. Better go on up and see what she wants.” Aw, she wants me to go to bed. Go on an tell me what you did when your Dad took out his knife.” Never you mind. You go on up. Mind yer ma. If you don’t you won’t never be president.” You weren’t never president, Grampa Jack. Didn’t you mind your mother?” Well .... once I didn’t.” What’cha do?” Never you mind young man. You just get yourself upstairs.” Little Jack grudgingly stomped upstairs and through the door. The old man finished his traps and cleaned up 12