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

Page 16 text:

SPRING MAGIC Ah, what is so rare as a fresh spring day When all the world is out to play. When fresh green grass springs up o’er all, And hearts are released from winter’s thrall? The world is one big humming sphere Reflecting joy from far and near While babbling brooks and bright blue skies Leave their wonders in everyones’ eyes. A time when old and young rejoice With awful wonder in every voice Ah, what a breath-taking, throbbing thrill To view it all from a lofty hill. And when at last spring magic's gone A tender memory lingers on For in our hearts the echoes ring The glories of our blooming Spring. ANN DEMERITT, ’51 ---WRHS— PERCEPTION I thrill to the cold dark metal of my gun In hand, the damp still hour before The dawn shall break and find Me waiting, listening for the snap Of some small twig, watching for The track to lead me on Into a world of fascination and enchantment. The warm scent of crushed sweet fern Mingled with the tangy taste of birch buds Plucked unknowing from some low branch Which chanced to brush my cheek As I moved past, brings love of living And freedom to my soul. — Fourteen —

Page 15 text:

SPRING Leaves unfold to a new world, Birds a new song sing, Mayflowers show their smiling faces. These are signs of Spring. Grass fire's smokes are slowly rising. Mothers are house cleaning. Fields are sowed, and gardens planted. These are signs of Spring. Now the grass is turning greener, The days more sunlight bring. Skies are bluer, hearts are lighter. These are signs of Spring. Brooks once more throw off their blankets. Flowers by an old stump spring Up to greet the sunshine. For 'twill soon be Spring. JANE ROWDEN, ’ 2 ---WRHS------ WRITING A POEM I had to pass in a poem today. And I stayed up until ten last night Trying to think of something to say, Gee, it's awful hard to write! I tried to write about a tree. Or about our town or a car, And even about the busy bee, And the jokes told at the bar. But I guess I am not a poet And might as well stop trying, I only hope you're a better poet Sometime, before you are dying. SAM HUTCHINS, ’52 — Thirteen —

Page 17 text:

And as the morn wears on into the noon, The rain that tomes unheard, Begins to fall and I can see Last summer’s leaves made slippery. The checkerberry plants are shiny And I stoop to pick one, crushing it Between my teeth, once more 1 o taste the stinging flavor of the green. The earth is still but for the Muffled music of the rain and I am happy, filled with amazement At what this world can give And those who will not take it. Crossing a wood road, I feel that It intrudes upon my calm And once again I pass into the brush. Away from what is made by man, I o seek and find the intoxication Of living with the wild. Now the sun peeps out to find An earth more beautiful than I have tongue to tell, as many Jeweled rain drops dazzle me And prove that all the riches In this world are in my sight. I am a king. Looking into the glen I see what Brought me to this lovely paradise. I watch, breathless, wondering if These creatures are as filled with joy As I, to walk and live alone and silent In this wood, to see arbutus Budded, and hear the hidden brooks. Long days will come When I will have to stay at home, Like other men, and dream, but mine Will be enriched for I have seen the world As it should be. MARION WEBSTER, ’49 — Fifteen —