ONCE AGAIN ACROSS THE RIVER

It has been a long time since I invited you to Vermont, with stories in mind, and the Editor says that once in a while it is permissible to make such an excursion.

You will recall that Vermonters are quite apt to be taciturn but even they will talk freely if properly provoked. They tell about the summer resident who had decided to stay year 'round and while walking along the road one October day met a native Vermont farmer who lived nearby. Accosting him, city fashion, the new resident said, "Good morning, Mr. Allen, good morning. And how are you on this beautiful October morning?" "None of your damn business," retorted the farmer. And then with true Vermont spirit he added, "And I wouldn't tell you that much if you wa'n't a neighbor."

Another city man who shifted residences to Vermont told me the other day that he had been calling by his first name a native whom he met regularly in the village post office but that the native was always careful to call him Mr. Adams. After about two years of this Mr. Adams said he inquired why his friendly familiarity of address was not reciprocated. "I'll tell you," said the native, "in Vermont when a newcomer gets too chummytoo fast we're apt to be damned suspicious." And in the same general mood there stands a silent tombstone in Stowe, Vermont, which bears the words: "I was somebody, who is no business of yours."

This somehow reminds me of the Vermont farmer whose barn was one of those hillside structures that are one story high on the upper side and probably three stories on the side where the land slopes away. He slipped and fell off the roof, unfortunately on the high side, and died from a broken neck. His son was filling out the forms necessary for the collection of his insurance — when and where and how the accident had happened — and when at the bottom of the page he came to the heading "Remarks" in all seriousness wrote, "He didn't make none."

Vermonters do, of course, have their more social side and I have occasionally run into one, off in the country, who was most anxious to talk. Sometimes they will actually seek company. A few years ago there was a man down-river in Hartland who put up a sign "Poison Ivy for Sale." An acquaintance of mine couldn't resist and out of sheer curiosity stopped to see what was cooking. An old gentleman came out of the house and explained the matter as follows: "You see, all my neighbors had something to sell. Gladys has gladiolas, Bill has Beagle pups, Hattie has hooked rugs, and they meet an awful lot of nice people. I couldn't think of a thing I had a surplus of 'cept poison ivy. I had plenty of that so I put up my sign and I'll tell you since then I've met some of the most interesting people."

Then I like the story of the farmer from Tunbridge who was coming back on the train from Boston and was joined by a Bostonian en route to White River Junction. They chatted a bit and then the city man, unimpressed with the Vermonter's common sense and general intelligence, suggested a game. "We'll each ask the other a question," he said, "and if we can't answer it we'll give the other fellow a dollar." "Well," said the Vermonter, "sounds like a good game but I don't think the rules are fair. You've had an education and been 'round a lot. I just graduated from grade school and have spent all my life on the farm. If you can't answer my question you should give me a dollar but if I can't answer yours I should only give you fifty cents." "Fair enough," said the man from Boston. "Go ahead and ask the first question." "Very well," said the farmer. "What is it has three legs and flies?" After some thought the city man said, "Damned if I know. Here's your dollar." "OK," said the Vermonter, "what's your question?" "Well, I'd like to know. What is it has three legs and flies?" "Damned if I know," said the man from Tunbridge. "Here's your fifty cents." The game didn't proceed much further.

Vermonters have always had the reputation of being very thrifty and the real explanation I guess is that in general they have had to be. It has not been a very rich country for farming, or much of any other honest occupation, as the boy from Iowa concluded when I drove him over to Plymouth Notch to see the rock from which Calvin Coolidge was hewn. I had one more illustration last year when I was in Woodstock speaking to a group of state directors of recreation from all over the country. A gentleman from Colorado Springs decided to call an old aunt in Wallingford, Vermont, and say hello. He told me that she immediately asked, "Where are you?" When he told her he was at a meeting in Woodstock, Vermont, and before he had time to give greetings or ask how she was, she retorted, "Why, you fool, why didn't you wait until you were back in Colorado? Then you could have taken advantage of the new three-minute dollar rate!"

Sometimes this business of watching the pennies goes rather far. When speaking to a group which includes the wives I often use the story of the two hill farmers from opposite sides of the town of Chelsea who met on the village street one Saturday. After exchanging typically reserved greetings one inquired how everything was at home and received the laconic reply that things were pretty good except for his wife, Jessie. "What's the matter with Jessie?" "Well, first of the week she'll ask me for five dollars, middle of the week she'll ask for a couple of dollars, and toward the end of the week like as not she'll ask me for five dollars again." "That is most peculiar," said the first, "what do you suppose she's doing with it?" "Dunno," replied her husband, "I ain't given her none yet."

Vermonters also have the reputation of being very independent, and recently I heard of an incident which shows how sometimes these folks can be too independent for their own good. A Norwich lister — or assessor as he would be called in some states — was asked by the board to visit a rather decrepit farm house with a view to recommending reduction in the appraisal. When he asked to go inside, the wife, working outside in the garden, refused him and after a little talk told her twelve-year-old son to "fetch the rifle." Thus warned the lister withdrew from the scene and fairly, or unfairly, as you will, recommended no reduction in the assessed valuation.

And so much for our trek to Vermont. It was, on the whole, a beautiful autumn season, though a very dry one, and disturbed by an over-amount of political harangue and a rash of ballot-splitting. But all things come to an end. Christmas has already come and gone and the New Year's resolutions are already forgotten. As you know, we have joined the ranks of the Vermont legislators in Montpelier and are getting a deeper insight into Vermont character. We may be able another time to give you a glimpse of that side of things.