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

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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

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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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his bench. Then he sat down and stuffed some tobacco into his old corn-cob with his thumb. He scratched a match on the seat of his pants and puffed away in silent contentment. Soon he was aroused by a voice call- ing from above, Grampa Jack, you down there?” Yes, Mary.” Time for you to get to bed if you’re goin’ trappin’ tomorrow.” I’ll be up soon.” You come up now. It’s nine o’clock.” - The old man knocked his pipe on his shoe, put it in his pocket and shuffled upstairs to bed mumbling about daughters who wouldn’t ever treat their fathers like grown up men. The next morning the alarm clock went off at 3:30. Grampa Jack slowly got up, turned off the alarm, and sank back on the bed, meaning to get up and dress in a moment. When his daughter, Mary, got up at 6:00 she went into his room and found him sound asleep. It was too late now for him to go. Too bad he had missed an- other year, for his trapping days were about over. —Virginia Hamel ’44 SCATTERBRAIN ESSAY Yesterday, my English teacher, Mrs. Rowe, told me to write an essay. Today I sit here and think, and think, but it is no good—I can’t think of a thing to write. My mind keeps wandering to different things, for example, How am I going to get a haircut on school time?” I am thinking of many ways, when suddenly the vis- ion changes to Mrs. Rowe’s office. I can even hear her telling me—well you know what she would be saying. I decide that asking permission for a school-time haircut is out of the question and I start talking with the fellow next to me. Immediately I hear my name sung out by Mrs. Gibson. Nothing to do, Dargie?” I look around the room to find inspiration for that blasted essay, but there is 13