Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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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

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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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guns were planted, all took their places in readiness. Both sides seemed to realize the toll that would be collected in the Valley of Death which lay between the armies. Both sides were loath to start the battle. A long nerve-racking wait after the men were stationed. A few shots came from the southern ranks, the north¬ ern soldiers replied, the battle had started. Far down the line came shots, then more, and more; cannons belched forth death. The flower of the confederacy was lined across the valley. Spurts of flame told of the starting of the missiles; groans, shrieks, and prayers of the wounded and dying told of their end. Then the rumble and roar gave promise of more to come. The din grew denser, the charges could not be distinguished from the thundering roar that rolled across the valley from side to side and reverberated among the hills. The men are falling, their places are filled by those from behind as the onslaught con¬ tinues. It is four o’clock on that afternoon. Look across on that hill, the line seems to be advancing. Are they moving? They are coming. Yes, they are coming. The bugles are blowing and the drums are playing Dixie. The men proudly step along. The light hits their bayonets and looks like scales of a huge serpent creep¬ ing on its prey. Now the huge guns are seen, one hundred twenty- six cannon. Now they are within range, they open fire on Ceme¬ tery Ridge. The Union flag staff is broken. It falls. The little drummer boy on the box catches it. A missile strikes him. The little drum¬ mer boy falls with the flag under him. He is quickly raised. The field of the flag is gone and the stripes are all red now. “Private Philips, to the mess tent, third tent, fourth row, bring new flag.” “Behind the hill, boys, they want the hill, we’ll give them h-.” Back across the field went Philips all excitement. Would they be so daring as to really try to take the hill. It must be only a bait for the Blues. Would they take the hill? No, they couldn’t, but,—how close would they get?” Ugh! Philips had tripped over a cor pse. His arm was in a pool of blood that was not yet cold. He was lying between the bodies of a horse and man. “Poor fellow, not yet cold, leg blown off. Good God, it’s Ben. Here is a locket, I’ll keep it for his folks.” 25