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

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EDITORIAL |ODAY it is natural to hear people continually dis- cussing the war in Europe”, but I wonder if we give enough thought to our differences of opinion right here in our own country—the coal miners’ strike, the political turmoil, the tax controversies, the way in which the war is run. Do our community clubs and organizations run along smoothly, or are they constantly badgering among themselves? Do we all cooperate with the Red Cross or do we crab about giving up a few hours each week? How, if we can’t work together in our own country, can we expect the whole world to be in accordance? In times of extreme danger we know that lack of cooperation would lead to catastrophe. Thus everyone rushes to do his part—until the trouble vanishes. Then gradually the tension and emotion die away and things pursue their nor- mal course. Families and communities continue in their own selfish ways, not listening to the other person’s views and opinions. Then we revert to the attitude we had as- sumed before the war and thus conditions arise which lead to another war. The time to appreciate our homes and country is now. Are you one of those persons who run affairs by talk but not by action? Put your shoulder to the wheel—be posi- tive not negative! If you want something corrected, why put it off till tomorrow? Why not go out and do it now? Let’s cooperate with our government, which we our- selves set up, and with our neighbors. Let’s be honest and fair in our dealings with other countries and set an ex- ample worthy to be followed. —Audrey Bid well ’44 4

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MY DAY The phone jangled on my desk. I put down the bunch of papers I had been sorting and reached for the re- ceiver. Hello, Oh, Hello, Joe!” It was my brother, who drove a big truck for a large clothing firm in San Fran- cisco. Yes, I’m fine. What are you doing in town? You what! When? Where? ’Bye, Joe, ’gotta run.” I slammed the phone down on the hook and made the office door in one second flat. Racing down the isles past the rows of desks I heard someone shout, Hey, Ginny, what’s the rush?” This was no time to stop and pass the time of day. This was a race against time. Grabbing my hat, I went through the doorway. I was smashing all track records—both indoor and out. Superman himself couldn’t have caught me. I didn’t stop to find a taxi or take a subway; it would have taken too much time. I raced madly down the street, barely missing a fat lady pushing a baby carriage. I heard her send a string of curses after me—such language from a woman, and on the public street, too. But what did I care!—this was a race to the finish. Would I be too late? Could I possibly make it in time? It was a good thing Joe had told me. Just then I heard a whistle from a cop ahead of me. A husky voice with a decided Irish brogue yelled, Hey, Lady, pull over to the curb. Where do you think you’re going—to a fire?” Fine time for someone to get funny. Yeah, to the Chicago fire!” I yelled back, not slowing one bit as I passed him. Hey, you, come back here!” he called, racing after me. But he was no match for my running and I soon left him far behind. As I said before, not even Superman could have caught me. Soon I could hear a rushing sound of tramping feet behind me. I looked around and saw a mob of young girls in sweaters and skirts coming after me. Holy Cow”, 6