Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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worthy to touch even her painted likeness. He had vowed to be¬ come a traitor. He again heard a low voice say, “do your duty—but I know you will.” Then he remembered the commanding tones, “third tent, fourth row, new flag.” Gripping the locket firmly he went forward, “third tent, fourth row,” and found the flag, went back across the field. He joined the ranks. “Let ’em have it boys,” the Rebs were almost to the cannon’s mouth. The southern flag was flying, now it waves for an instant, it waves on the northern breastworks. But.only for an instant, for brave Armistead falls, not dead but like the southern confederacy, not yet dead but mortally wounded. Philips springs forward, plants the flag and hears the joyous shouts of his comrades. He sees it wave victorious, he smiles and kisses the miniature. Tears were coursing down the old man’s cheeks. He drew from his breast a flat locket, pressed a spring and there within, a tiny piece of a flag. A piece of the flag that waved victorious over Cemetery Ridge, the same flag that floated above President Lincoln when he gave his address that stilled the hearts of those present and stirs the patriotism of all who read or hear it. A tear dropped on the piece of flag. The old man picks it up tenderly. There looking up at him is the girl with the sunshine in her hair. 27

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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

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True Devotion By SYLVER STROUT Second Prize History Story Andrew Jackson ' s general merchandise store of rough-hewn logs was the central gathering place for the small handful of back¬ woodsmen who happened to live so far from cultured circles as Lonesome Camp. Here, one day, seated on floor barrels and soap boxes, a group of rustic settlers were discussing the important topics of their neighborhood. “Well,” drawled one, “Jackson, you didn ' t have a great sight o ' trouble in being nominated ' for the governor’s chair of this ' ere state of Tennessee. The real fight an ' rub will come in gettin ' elected.” The storekeeper, a tall, lank, uncouth personage, with his shaggy red locks falling over his brow, and a queue tied with a strip of eelskin hanging down his back, kicked the heel of one heavy cowhide boot with the broad toe of the other and replied, “Yow, Pete, work or no work. I ' m going to be governor and the people ' ll have to elect me. My wife, though she don ' t say much, has set her heart on my being elected governor of Tennessee. And if she wants me to be governor. I’ll fight until I am.” “But,” put in a short, stubby fellow with large piercing eyes, “the people might not like the outcome of your duel with Dickinson. I ' m afraid, since he ' s laid up and injured for life, that the opinions of some might not exactly jibe with us that know you.” “Keep your tongue!” thundered Andrew Jackson. He didn ' t get as bad as he deserves. Any one who dares to say one word against my wife—,” the proprietor of the little store stood speech¬ less and choking with rage at thought of the daring words of Charles Dickinson, which had brought on their violent duel, in which the offender had received much the worst of it. When the man ' s fiery wrath had cooled down one of the company summoned courage to speak meekly. “Andy, I heard Charles Dickinson ' s brothers swear this morning to kill you, for 28