Paterson Eastside High School - Mirror Yearbook (Paterson, NJ)

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GIRLS' HIGH SCHOOL x A-'H ,-3 - ealg Hamill G-l 555 uytrl Us 1'liL WALT F015 YOU-IN THE GARDEN. It was in the Summer of 1918. Nancy Owen Barry was visiting her uncle. His house stood on the outskirts of a fine old Massachusetts town, and the elms before it seemed to whisper of the days of powdered wigs and bowing cour- tiers. For some time, Nancy had been explor- ing the attic and finding treasures in the form of flowered colonial dresses, hioop skirts, and costumes of men and women of Washington's time. There was one corner, however, into which she had not looked. A curtain separated it from the rest of the attic, and as she pushed it aside, her eyes rested upon the picture of a girl of her own age. The portrait, life size, was covered with dust, but the sunlight streaming through a window, revealed clearly the colors and design of the quaint, old-fashioned dress, the glossy black hair, clear gray eyes, and sweetly smiling mouth. Why, exclaimed Nancy, drawing a mirror from her pocket, I look just like her. Quickly she ran down the stairs to her uncle who was sitting on the porch. Oh, Uncle Jerry, she asked, Who is that girl whose picture is in the attic? Jeremiah Owens put his paper down and re- moved his spectacles. She is your great-grand- mother, Nancy Owen, who married John Barry, he replied. The picture was painted when she was nineteen years old. Just my age, murmured Nancy. Yes, and she lived in this very house. 'iCome, said the old man, and he led the way up the broad stairs and through a long hallway. Taking a key from his pockets, he unlocked a door. This was her bedroom, he said, and in that little box you will find her diary. Turning, he left the room, and Nancy gazed :uriously about her. A large, four-posted bed, old-fashioned chairs and furniture were in the room, and to her right was a door. Opening it, she saw a wardrobe. Nancy looked the dresses over, one by one, and then stopped suddenly. Before her was the very dress that the other Nancy had worn when her portrait was painted. She slipped into itg then startled, gazed into the mirror beside her, for there she saw the exact image of the girl who had lived so long ago. Then, taking the diary from a little box, she sat down to read. The day was warm and the atmosphere drowsy. Her head nodded slowly, more slowly, and finally ceased to nod at all. Nancy dimly became conscious of the sound of many voices. She was standing on the porch. There was something strange about it all-something missing--yes, that was it. That new bungalow was no longer across the way, but instead, a long stretch of farm land. The sound of voices became louder. She ran to the gate, reaching it just as a number of men and boys ran by. One cried, Minute Men! With sinking heart, Nancy Owen sped back to the house, seized two muskets and ran again to the porch. She had not l-ong to wait, for both Father and Brother rushed in. There were hurried preparations and farewells. Little Sister was crying and Mother, bravely winking back the teams, was telling Father to hurry. Nancy was waiting, dreading. A dashing young soldier strode up the path, and Nancy found her- self whispering, Yes, John. Hurry, hurry! I'l1 wait for you-in the garden. She heard softly, Be true, Sweetheart. I shall not be long. Then Mother, Little Sister, and Nancy were once more left alone, and the sound of voices grew fainter as the men hurried away to fight. The months passed by as a day. A year and a half had passed since the call for Minute Men had startled the town. There had been skir- mishes not far away, and foraging parties had come to the house. News of various battles had reached the 'Owen household, but the latest had