Leave It to Beaver (1957–1963): Season 6, Episode 13 - Beaver's Autobiography - full transcript

Starring...

and...

Is that you, Beaver?

No, it's me, dear.

- Hi.
- Hi.

Isn't Beaver home yet?
It's almost supper time.

No, he went to the library

as soon as he came
home from school.

I can't imagine a
building full of books

keeping him this long.

Well, of course,
there are other things



at the library he
could be studying.

Like girls.

Our little Theodore?

Dear, our little Theodore's
in the eighth grade,

and if he hasn't discovered
the romantic advantages

of studying in a
library by this time,

he's not his father's son.

Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.

- Beaver.
- Hi, Beav.

Who is she?

Who's who, Mom?

The girl in the library.

Gee, Mom, the only girl in
the library is Miss Dodson.

And she's not a
girl, she's a lady.



She helped me
pick out these books.

Oh, The Life of
George Washington.

The Biography of
Theodore Roosevelt.

Don't tell me you're thinking
of becoming president

when you grow up.

Who? Me?

I don't even want to
be a monitor at school.

I got these to see how
to write this kind of junk

because Mr. Thompson...
He's our English teacher.

He wants us to write
an autobiography.

You know, Dad, that's
the whole story of your life

from the very first
second you were born.

Yes, I know.

Beaver, you could put
in your autobiography

sometimes I forget to
get washed for dinner.

Yes, Mom.

Hey, Beav, if you come up
with a real good autobiography,

you might get rich.

How come, Wally?

Well, the movies might buy it.

They're making all
that kind of stuff now.

Aw, cut it out, will you, Wally?

I can see it now.

Marlon Brando in The
Life of Beaver Cleaver.

Wally, stop picking
on your brother.

Yes, sir.

Beaver, just how long does
this autobiography have to be?

Three whole pages. Boy.

Well, Beaver,
that's not very much.

No, I noticed those
biographies you brought home

on Washington and Roosevelt

ran anywhere from
200 to 400 pages.

Gosh, Dad, look how
old those guys were.

They had lots
more to write about.

I guess maybe you
have a point there.

Well, say, Mom, Dad,

do you guys remember
any interesting stuff

that happened to me
when I was a little kid

that I could write about?

Well, you did have
the chicken pox

when you were only 4.

And the measles when you were 6.

Chicken pox? Measles?
Oh, boy, I'm in trouble.

Why don't you write about
how you fell off the roof

when you were a baby,
and you landed on your head

and you bounced all
the way across the lawn?

Hey, that's neat.

Uh, that's funny. I don't
seem to remember that.

Wally, you know
that never happened.

Well, I know, but I was
just trying to help him

punch up his life.

I can't make up
any stuff, Wally.

Mr. Thompson says
he only wants us

to write about stuff
that really happened.

Well, you started to talk when
you were only 7 months old.

Yeah? What did I say?

Mama.

Mama? Is that all I said?

Beaver, I wish we could tell
you that you startled the world

by reciting the
Gettysburg Address

from your bassinet, but
it just wouldn't be true.

Boy, I don't know how
I'm going to fill three pages

with that kind of junk.

Oh, Beav, why don't
you just take your life

and triple space it?

Thanks a heap, Wally.

Finish your
autobiography yet, Beaver?

Yeah.

Hey, that's neat.

No, it isn't.

I only have two pages,
and Mr. Thompson said

you had to have
three whole pages.

So write another
page, you dummy.

We don't have to hand
it in till Wednesday.

I can't. Well, after
I wrote two pages,

my whole life was used up.

Yeah, they shouldn't
make kids like us

write our autobiographies
until we get to be real old men.

My father helped me with mine.

You're lucky.

My father makes me
do my own homework.

Every once in awhile, my
pop likes to do my homework

'cause he wants to
see what kind of marks

the teacher will give him.

Last week, he
wanted to come over

and holler at Mr. Walker
for flunking him in arithmetic.

Hello, Beaver.

Hi.

Hi, Betsy.

I watched you in the
cafeteria yesterday.

How come? Was I slurping
my soup or something?

I think you're
cute when you eat.

Eh.

You're even cute
when you're not eating.

You better hurry up, Betsy,
or you'll be late for class.

You want to walk
over with me, Beaver?

Why? You afraid you'll
get lost or something?

Of course not, silly.

I just thought you might
want to walk over with me.

That's all.

Well, I got to stay here
and clean up my locker.

It's a mess. Isn't it, Gilbert?

Yeah, and that's how
come the Board of Health's

making him clean it up.

Okay, I'll look for
you in class, Beaver.

Boy, Beaver, she sure likes you.

Yeah, she's really a kook.

Yeah, she does
act kind of goofy.

Yeah, I wish she'd
stayed in Bellport

instead of moving down here.

We got enough creepy
girls running around

without importing any.

Sure is funny how
a goofy girl like her

always gets A's in composition.

How do you know she gets A's?

Virginia told me.
She said she was

the head of her
English class at Bellport

and she was just about

the smartest girl
in the whole class.

Maybe Virginia
just made that up.

No, Virginia's her best
friend. She hates her.

That's why she always
tells the truth about her.

Yeah, well, if
Betsy's that smart,

I'll bet she gets an A
for an autobiography.

Yeah, and if you could get
her to help you with yours,

you'd get an A on it, too.

Gee, Gilbert, why
would she help me?

I've been calling her
a nut and a zombie

and a creep face and
all kinds of stuff like that.

'Cause she hasn't
heard you, that's why.

Hey, that's right. I never
said any of that stuff

when she was around.

Yeah.

And I'll bet she has
enough words left over

from her autobiography

to finish that
third page for you.

Yeah, girls always have
more words than they can use.

That's why they're all
the time yakking so much.

Oh, thank you, Beaver.

Oh, that's okay. I wanted to
see how far it opened anyway.

Um, if you want to watch me eat,

I'll be in the cafeteria
in about an hour.

Oh, that'll be neat.

I'll be there for sure.

Yeah, well, this is a good day
because I'm having spare ribs,

and there's a lot of action
in that kind of eating.

How come you're so
nice to me today, Beaver?

Oh, well, I guess I just
sort of feel sorry for you.

You know, moving
here from Bellport

and having all the kids call
you creep and everything.

They have some real
mean boys here, Beaver.

I'm glad you're not like that.

Yeah, well, I'm
pretty mean, too,

but not when I'm talking
to a nice girl like you.

Oh, Beaver.

Uh, Betsy, if I could ask
you to do a favor for me.

Well, certainly, Beaver.

Honey, you want another cup
of coffee before I throw it out?

Oh, when you put it
that way the answer's no.

It's just I made a
little too much tonight.

June anytime you're torn

between throwing
something down the drain

and offering it to me, I
always choose the drain.

Hey, what's making
Beaver so happy tonight?

You know, I don't
understand it, either.

Last night, he was certain

he was going to get a
D in his autobiography.

And tonight he says he wouldn't
be surprised if he gets an A.

He'll be the only one
who's not surprised.

I've read some of
his compositions.

Oh, you don't
think he writes well?

Oh, parental pride forbids
my putting it so crudely.

Let's just say that,
as of the moment,

I don't think either J.D.
Salinger or John O'Hara

has anything to worry about.

You know, I don't
understand it, either.

Wally says Beaver read

his autobiography
to him last night.

Oh, what was
Wally's expert opinion?

He couldn't say.

He fell asleep before
Beaver finished the first page.

Hope it doesn't have the
same effect on Mr. Thompson.

Boy, Beaver, how can a girl
write a guy's autobiography?

Well, she said it'd be easy.

All she's going to do is
stick in a few extra words,

and I'll have three pages.

Well, I guess if she's as
smart as you say she is,

then she can do that all right.

Well, sure, she's just going
to stretch everything out.

Like, take about how I wrote
when I was born. Remember?

Nah, I think I was
falling asleep about then.

Gee, Wally, that
was only the first part.

Well, anyway, I wrote it
was raining when I was born.

You know what she's
going to put instead?

She's going to write that the rain
was beating against the window pane,

saying, "Pitter patter,
pitter patter, pitter patter."

Gee, Beaver, you
can't have a whole page

with nothing but pitter patters.

She's not going to do that.

I bet she's good
at padding stuff out.

I don't know, Beav.
You're taking a big chance

having a girl write
your autobiography.

Gee, Wally, she can't
do anything wrong.

Well, look, Beaver,
suppose she forgets herself

and starts writing
about the first time

you went to the beauty parlor

or the first pair of silk
stockings you ever got

or something like that.

You'd feel pretty dopey

having Mr. Thompson get
up in class and read that.

She can't do that, Wally,

'cause, you see, I told her
not to write anything new.

And then I'm going to
read it before she turns it in.

And she's going to
type it and everything.

No kidding?

Boy, she must really like you.

Yeah, she's really a kook.

I guess that's why she likes me.

Hi, Betsy, your mother
said I could come right up.

Hi, Virginia, how come
you're out on a school night?

Oh, my mother came
over to stick your mother

with some raffle
tickets for some charity,

so I came with her.

How come you're
still doing homework?

Oh, it's not my homework.

It's for a nice boy

who asked me to help
him with his autobiography.

What's his name?

Theodore Cleaver.

Beaver?

Why, that rat-faced little goon.

Why, you ought to hear some
of the things he says about you.

Gee, Virginia, are you sure?

Well, he even let
me sit next to him

in the cafeteria today
and watch him eat.

That's because he
wants you to help him,

but he's been going
around telling everybody

that they should've never let

a creepy-faced zombie
like you out of Bellport

because they've got enough
creepy-faced girls here.

Why, that awful
Beaver. I'll show him.

That's it, Betsy.

Let that big monkey write
his own autobiography.

A D's too good for him.

Monkey. That's it.
He was born in Africa

right in the middle of a jungle

with a bunch of
cannibals all around him.

No, he wasn't. He
was born right here.

Not in the autobiography
I'm going to write for him.

I'll get even with him.

I'll help you.

Let's write a whole
bunch of stupid things

about him and his whole family.

Gee, Betsy, I never knew
homework could be this much fun.

Hi, Mom.

Hi, Beaver.

Where did you and Whitey
run off to this afternoon?

Down to the fire station.

They were having a drill,
and we wanted to watch them.

Oh, well, that must
have been fun.

No, it wasn't. They were
practicing jumping into a net,

and they didn't even miss once.

Hey, Mom, did anyone call me?

No, Beaver, were
you expecting a call?

Well, yeah, I thought some
girl might have called me.

A girl?

Well, does she
want to invite you

to a party or something?

Well, no, I don't think so.

But, Mom, is it okay if I go in
the den and shut the doors?

I think I better call a girl.

Well, sure, Beaver,

but you don't have to be
afraid that I'll try to listen.

Oh, no, Mom, I'm
not afraid of that,

but you might be
dusting around there

and you might
happen to listen in

without even trying.

Yes?

Oh, just a minute, please.

Betsy, there's a call for you.

- Who is it?
- Some boy.

Well, what does he want?

Well, he wants you,
that's what he wants.

Now, why don't you pick
up the phone and find out?

I'm not your
secretary, you know.

Hello?

Yes, this is Betsy.

Oh, hello, Beaver.

I was just wondering
when you'd be through

fixing up my autobiography.

Why, Beaver, I finished it.

I even handed it in for you
this afternoon after school.

Well, gee, Betsy, what
did you do that for?

You said you'd let me read
it before you handed it in.

Did I say that, Beaver?

Gosh, I'm so sorry. I guess
I just must have forgot.

Oh, but you don't have to worry.

It's even better than the
one I wrote for myself.

You're sure to get an A on it.

Yes, it's exactly three pages.

You're welcome, Beaver.

I'm always glad to do a
favor for a nice boy like you.

Horrible little rat.

Of all the
autobiographies handed in,

there's one in particular
that's most interesting.

It's very unusual,
to say the least.

It was written by
Theodore Cleaver

and displays and
extraordinary talent

far beyond that for which I
ever gave Mr. Cleaver credit.

To say I was surprised
is putting it mildly.

I'd like to read a
portion of it to you.

Boy, Beav, I'll bet
you'll get an A+ for this.

"The Autobiography
of Theodore Cleaver

"by Theodore Cleaver.

"I was born in the middle
of the African jungle.

"My father was a famous
newspaper correspondent

"and was writing a story
about some cannibals.

"My mother went
with him to make sure

"they didn't eat him alive
or something like that,

"so that's why I was born there.

"When I was little,

"I played with all
the little cannibal kids

"and their monkey friends.

"It was real fun,

"especially when they
went out headhunting.

"Sometimes it was very hard

"to find enough
heads for everybody,

"so some of the kids let
me play with their heads.

That was neat."

Now, quiet, please. Quiet.

"When I was a little bigger,
the king and queen of England

"asked my father to
come over to England

"and have tea and
crumpets with him

"because they were
such good friends,

"so my mother
and I went with him.

"We lived with them in
Windsor Castle for a long time,

"and I got to be
real good friends

"with their little boy, Charlie.

"Everybody else called
him Prince Charles.

"Then my father
was sent to interview

"the sultan of Morocco,

"so we rode on top of
the camels for 30 days

bouncing up and down."

I want a few words with
you after class, Mr. Cleaver.

Yes, sir.

Boy, Beaver, what ever made you

make up a dopey
autobiography like that?

I didn't make it up.

That gooney Betsy
made it up for me.

What did she do that for?

'Cause she's a goon.

Anyway, I ought to know better
to let a gooney girl help me.

Yeah, you can't
trust any of them.

Boy, it's a good thing
she liked you, Beaver,

or she would've written
something worse.

Yeah, boy, wait till I see her.

What did Mr. Thompson do to you?

Oh, he bawled me out

for making a joke
out of the assignment.

And he gave me an F,

and he said I have to
have it signed by my father.

Well, why didn't you
tell him Betsy did it?

'Cause then I
would've gotten a zero.

Boy, Beaver, your dad's
going to clobber you

when he reads that junk

about cannibals and
camels and all that stuff.

Yeah. Boy, I sure wish I could
go over to your house, Gilbert.

That wouldn't work.

Your father would only
come over to my house

and hit you there.

Yeah, he's real
good at finding me.

Oh, Beaver, aren't you
even going to thank me?

Gee, Beaver, it
sounded just like Tarzan.

What did you go
and write that junk for,

you stupid little zombie?

That'll teach you to go
around telling everybody

I'm a rat-faced goon

and should've
stayed in Bellport.

Well, you are. On
account of you, I got an F.

Good, good, good.

That's just what you
deserve, you dopey little dope.

Say, Dad, would you mind
signing something for me?

Of course not,
Beaver. What is it?

Oh, it's just some
crummy papers.

Well, suppose you let me have
a look at the crummy papers.

Well, gee, Dad,
couldn't you sign them

without looking at them?

No, Beaver, I usually
think it's good policy

to know what I'm signing.

Well, it's just that
autobiography.

Mr. Thompson said
he wanted you to sign it.

What mark did you get, Beaver?

An F.

An F?

Well, you told me you
thought you'd get an A.

Well, Beaver, I don't
always expect you to get A's.

That's asking too much,

but I certainly don't
expect F's, either.

You're capable of
better work than that.

I'd like to read what you wrote.

I didn't write it.

What do you mean
you didn't write it?

Well, I only had two
pages and I needed three,

so some creepy wise-guy
girl said she'd fix it up for me

so I'd have three pages.

Beaver, are you
trying to tell me

that you let someone else
write your autobiography for you?

Yeah, Dad, I guess that's
what I'm trying to tell you,

but I didn't know
she was going to write

about you being so
famous and all that junk.

Well, you shouldn't have let
her write it in the first place.

Yeah, but I didn't know
she was going to write

about you being a famous
news correspondent.

And she said I
was born in Africa,

and I played with cannibals.

Well, and we knew the
king and queen of England

and a lot of dopey
stuff like that, Dad.

Beaver, now why would she
write anything so ridiculous?

Aw, because she found
out I called her names

and said that they should've
never let her out of Bellport

'cause we had enough
creepy girls here already.

Beaver, did you tell your
teacher that she wrote it?

- Well, no, Mom.
- Why not?

Well, gee, Dad, you
can't squeal on a girl.

I suppose you can't,
but you don't go around

letting other people do your
homework for you, either.

Now, I hope this will
be a good lesson to you.

It sure is, Dad.

From now on, if anybody
does my homework,

it's going to be
some creepy boy.

Beaver, that was
not what I meant.

Beaver, you should always
do your own homework.

I thought we'd
impressed that on you.

That's right.

So I suggest you start right now

by sitting down and writing
your own autobiography.

But what's the use, Dad?

Mr. Thompson already failed me.

Because I think it's important
that he see your work,

not someone else's.

Yes, sir.

But, Dad, you are going
to sign it, aren't you?

Not till after I read it.

To find out what
I did in Africa.

Well, at least you
didn't get clobbered.

How did you know?

I didn't hear you
do any hollering.

Yeah, well, Dad said I have
to write my own autobiography

and give it to Mr. Thompson.

Boy, Beaver, you'd
have been better off

if Dad had clobbered you.

Yeah, now I got to do
the whole thing over again

just on account of
some creepy girl.

Boy, what a mess.

Well, Beaver, you got to learn

when you start asking
girls to do favors for you,

there's bound to be
some kind of mess.

Uh, Theodore, can
you come here, please?

Yes, sir?

I read that second
autobiography you turned in.

Yes, sir?

You realize, of course, you
took up almost a whole page

saying you were never
raised by cannibals,

you didn't know the king
and queen of England,

and you never played with
Prince Charles and so forth?

Yes, sir, but I thought
you ought to know

all that stuff never
happened to me.

Well, I was able to come
to that conclusion myself.

You know, that
first autobiography

was nothing like you, Theodore.

Would you like to explain it?

Well, I'd like to, sir,

but I can't without getting
somebody else in trouble.

Oh, I see.

But I'll tell you one
thing, Mr. Thompson.

You've got some real
sneaky girls in this class.

Yes, I imagine I have.

As a matter of fact, I know
the name of one of them.

She came to me this
morning and told me

that she was responsible
for your first autobiography.

- She did?
- Yes.

And Betsy also said
that she didn't think

it was fair for you to get an F

just because she was mad
at some creepy little boy.

Boy, what a kook.

I beg your pardon.

Oh, nothing, Mr. Thompson.

Oh.

Well, in view of
the circumstances

and the fact that you
tried to atone for it

by writing your
own autobiography,

I'm giving you a C.

A C?

Well, I hope you're
not disappointed.

I know that sneaky
girl promised you an A,

but you'll have to wait

till she becomes
a teacher for that.

Oh, no, sir, a C
will be just fine.

All right, you can
go then, Theodore.

Well, thank you, Mr. Thompson.

Oh, Theodore,
about sneaky girls,

we had a lot of them in my
class, too, when I was your age.

No kidding? Gosh,
how could you stand it?

Well, when you get old
enough, you won't see their faults.

Gee, Mr. Thompson, I don't
think I'll ever get that old.

Honey, would you mind
emptying the trash can for me?

It's full.

How the mighty have fallen.

What do you mean by that?

Well, here I am,

a once world-famous
newspaper correspondent.

I had tea and crumpets

with the Kind and
Queen of England.

Saved the life of the
Sultan of Morocco.

Showed the emperor of
Japan how to do the twist

and taught the Eskimos
how to can blubber.

Look at me now. Reduced
to emptying trash cans.

That little girl did have a
wonderful imagination, didn't she?

Yeah. Yeah, too
bad it wasn't true.

You know, she must
be a pretty sweet little girl

to have told Beaver's
teacher the truth.

Dear, yesterday you thought
she was a horrible little girl.

Dear, yesterday
she hadn't confessed.

Oh, there must be some
logic behind there somewhere.

I'll look for it after I
empty the trash can.

You mean, she told
Mr. Thompson that she wrote it

because she didn't
want you to get an F?

Yeah, she's a
real kook all right.

Boy, if that isn't
just like a girl...

When you don't expect it,

they go and do
something nice for you.

Yeah, but like you said, Wally,

you can't trust any of them.

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