Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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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

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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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Philips started again toward the tents, all his excitement was now gone. Sorrow was stealing into his heart. On both sides iay the dead and dying. A riderless horse was standing over a rigid corpse, all that was left of the master that he had loved. As he stumbled on, two huge vultures rose a little way from the ground, then settled back to tearing the flesh from a body. A cold, grey, nameless fear was stealing into his heart. It seemed like a clammy hand that was closing over it, robbing it of all but unspeakable fear and dread. He tried to shake it off but the clammy hand squeezed tighter. He looked down. A corpse with a powder-blackened face stared wildly up at him. He turned to the right to get away from those glaring eyes. But there he saw dozens instead of one pair. He turned to the left and put up his arm to shut out the awful- ness—the toll of war. A nasty, cold, grey mist was falling. Be¬ hind, the screaming roar of battle bore down upon the man and engulfed him. Before his mental vision came an awful apparition, a huge grin¬ ning skeleton was mounted on a wounded horse. The figure wore a slimy, grey misty robe and dragged along behind were mutilat¬ ed corpses over which hideous vultures were fighting. Some of the tattered uniforms were blue and some were grey. The skeleton stopped, grinned more friendishly than before and said, “My name is Death, my joy is war, and this my holi¬ day since Waterloo. Philips opened his eyes, but the glaring eyes of Death ' s vic¬ tims stared wildly up at him. The mutilated bodies looked more awful in the drizzling rain. How soon would he, now standing here alive and warm, be lying mutilated, or be torn to bits by the vultures ? A little voice seeming to come from the mists, whispered “desert. Desert? Yes, that is what I ' ll do. I will get away from these awful blood-soaked fields and staring eyes. The vultures shall not have me, thought the private. No one will ever know. They will think that I am dead. These dead will never be searched. He could see his mother coming out to meet him. How glad she would be. She would forgive him for deserting. “I will, he breathed and clenched his fists. In his left hand he felt something hard. He opened his hand and from Ben’s locket his sister the girl with the sunlight in her hair, looked up at Philips. He bent down to kiss the locket, but—no, he was not 26