Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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had time to tell the little candle-stick good-bye he was swathed in brown paper and placed in a bag. “I wonder where I am going and what will become of the little candle-stick?’ said the lamp. “Oh, why was I so anxious to be bought?” “Keep still!” grunted the paper that was wrapped around him. “Isn’t it bad enough for me to be carried off without you scolding about what will happen to you and that silly brass candle-stick.” The lamp sighed and resolved not to say anything more, for the sake of keeping peace. He felt too sad to argue. The journey came to an end soon after and when he was removed from his paper wrappings the lamp found himself in a large room of a hotel, with a girl bending over him. “I wonder if it really came from Pompeii. It looks very old and I can hardly wait to fill it and see if it leaks,” she was saying as the last piece of paper dropped from the lamp. He was beginning to tell her about his adventures and that no one had ever accused him of leaking before, when the wrapping paper said with a crackling chuckle: “Do you suppose she can hear you? Be quiet!” The lamp did not answer, for to his surprise upon looking around he saw the little brass candle-stick smiling at him from the mantle. “How did you get here?” he asked, almost afraid t ospeak lest it should prove only a dream. “That other American lady bought me at the same time you were sold,” smiled the little candle-stick. “But we might as well have stayed in that dirty little shop for that friendly little gold clock on the dresser said we were to cross the ocean to America and that these two ladies live many miles apart.” The Roman lamp straightened himself bravely and resolved to-find a way. Sud¬ denly an idea came to him and he grimly accepted it. Just then the young lady approached him with a small can of oil and al¬ most before he realized it, he was casting his mellow light over all the objects in the room. That night the hotel burned down and among the ruins a small lump of metal was found which could scarcely be recognized as silver and brass. 28

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Years passed and the lamp grew tarnished and covered with dust. “Now I am more beautiful than ever,” he thought. This black makes me look slender and delicate.” One day he heard a loud noise and a few moments later he was pulled out into the sunlight. How things have changed,” he said to himself. Where is the palace, where are the streets, and the gardens ? The ampi- theater is gone and where are those noisy gladiators?” Before he had time to see anything else, he was placed in a bag with a number of other lamps and vases. Where are we?” he asked his nearest neighbor, a vase in the shape of a fat old man. I just heard that fellow, who calls himself a dynamite box say something about excavation what ever that is, and that we were still in Pompeii.” That night the sack was carried away and at last when it was opened the Roman lamp found himself in a dirty little shop. A grimy old man came to polish his wares and when he reached the lamp, he picked it up and examined it carefully. The lamp shud¬ dered with disgust at his touch, but nobody noticed him. Now perhaps someone will buy me and I shall see the world. Perhaps it will be a beautiful princess,” said the lamp. He smiled stiff silver smiles at all who came into the shop. His nearest neigh¬ bor iu. the shop was a little brass candle-stick. She had a great many stories to tell about her life before coming to the shop and soon the two became good friends. A tall blue porcelain pitcher stood on the shelf above them, and when ever possible he mo¬ nopolized the conversation. The Roman lamp hated him with all his silver heart. You look like a cheat,” the pitcher said one day, when he was feeling unusually cross. I don’t believe you ever saw Pompeii. It’s more likely that you were made just to sell to tourists.” The Roman Lamp was very angry at such slan¬ der, but long ago the Persian vase had told him it was not polite to fight in the presence of ladies so he sullenly glowered at the pitcher and said nothing. The days flew quickly past and the lamp thought he had never seen anyone as nice as the little brass candlestick. He had given up wishing for a princess to come and buy him. - All he wanted was to remain in the little shop with the candle stick. One day two young ladies came into the shop. After looking around a while one of them pointed to the Roman lamp and the dirty old man, who owned the shop, picked it up and handed it to her in exchange for some money. Americans” grunted the blue porcelain pitcher, I hope they like you, Mr. Cheat.” Before he 22

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Memories By ELEANOR PURRINGTON First Prize History Story An old man sat on the porch of his granddaughter’s home. He was old and bent, and the head that bowed over his cane was snowy white. It was spring. The bees were humming, the birds singing, and at his feet the golden poppies vied in glory with the sun. The gentle breeze wafted by, bearing the scent of apple blossoms. The old man blew a ring of smoke upward, stared at it, but, he saw it not. He saw myriads of pink and white apple blos¬ soms. He was walking thru them and was very happy, for by his side walked a girl with the sunlight reflected in her hair. Again he heard the birds singing, the hum of busy bees, again heard the murmur of a low voice and smelled the fragrance of apple blossoms which had been dust for fifty years. “Extra! Extra, all about the war with Mexico,” shouted a little newsboy as he hurried along. The old man hobbled to the gate, bought a paper and sat studying it for a long time. “May God forbid, may God forbid a war” he muttered to the poppies beside the porch. On the first page was a picture of a flag, yet, perhaps it was because of the mist before his eyes, he was looking at another flag. It alone was moving, it waved gloriously in the sun while the vast throngs about stood dumb as if in the presence of the Al¬ mighty. Thru the old man’s mind echoed part of that famous address by Lincoln. “But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot con¬ secrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men living and dead who struggled here, have consecrated it, far beyond our poor power to add or detract.” The phrase “who struggled here” re-echoed again and again. He looked at the flag and smiled, yet sighed as he smiled. The scene before the old man’s mind had changed. He was living over again the battle of Gettysburg. The Union soldiers were marching to their places. Those under Hancock were sta¬ tioned on Cemetery Ridge. Now they had reached the crest, the 24