Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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OAK, LILY AND IVY. 9 him to the distant horizon, and as the sun shone full upon some far-off steeple, he saw the white sparkle rise, then fade away. He sat beside the old mill stream and heard it sing its low song, while a woodpecker, in a nearby tree, kept up its monotonous tapping. And as he sat there, dreaming, thoughts of another, un¬ bidden, but welcomed, crept into his heart. He stood beside Her in the meadows, while around them stood the grass, knee- deep. A wind, moving above it, caught it and sent it forward in waves, undu¬ lating, curving, like the waves of ocean. Hair, touched by the sun in some far- off, long forgotten land, eyes of blue, and laughing face—and the Romance of the Ages, calling, demanding that he speak. Again time passed away—he was in the ranks, marching with his comrades. It was early morning, and there was no sound except that of their feet, a deep, rhythmic murmur, rising, dull, accentless, on the still air. A thick fog lay around them and the trees were dripping with dew. The sound of the falling water seemed to him to mingle with the deeper sound of the marching feet, making a word—a word that pounded and hammered in his ear relentlessly, “Tomorrow? Tomorrow?” What could that mean to him that it should fill him with a sense of dread and fear? He tried to fathom its significance, but the effort tired him. They were in the battle now. It was in the forest and because of the smoke he could see little of the scene about him. Occasionally, though, the wind would lift the dense curtain for a moment and all would lie disclosed—eager, little groups of men struggling for life or death; the flash of musketry, and sounding above all, the ceaseless roar of battle. A man rushed upon him, but he leaped aside, and thrust out his bayonet. The man fell, dead. His opponent now ran on and joined his comrades, but a peculiar numbness had overtaken him. The battle became less a real, living fact-; it grew hazy and dim. Yet he went blindly forward, and as he stumbled on, he heard a faint whisper beside him. It was only a whisper, but it confused him and he tried to hurry on faster than before. Finally, the whisper ceased; he looked around. FJe was alone, ahead of the ranks, and before him was the enemy. He saw a man aim at him, but a strange lassitude and weariness possessed him. He did not move. The man fired. The soldier felt the darkness of night descend upon him; he was falling, down, down through infinite space. Again the whisper commenced; it grew louder and became a voice. It was Hers, calling him, sadly, wistfully, as from a far distance. He groped toward Her and found Her standing beside a great, white stone waiting for him. She was pale and tired, as though she had traveled many miles. It was late afternoon, and the sun, a smouldering globe of fire, was sinking into the hazy west, but the last rays seemed to rest upon Her, bathing her in a flood of golden glory. For a moment he turned away and saw below him a village and he knew it for the town of his youth. Again he turned towards Her, mutely inquiring. She pointed to the stone at Her side, and now he noticed that there were words carved upon it. He stooped, even though he knew before he looked that the name was Hers. Slowly, he rose. The robins in the nearby maple trees had ceased their evening song; all about them was the deep, solemn silence of twilight. A mist had come up from the river and he could no longer see the little village. 1 hen he turned to Her again. She smiled and held out Her hands. Hours had passed since he had closed his eyes; and the sun was sinking deep into the west. The air was no longer parched and dry, but there was no wind, and the flag still hung in limp, motionless folds. Suddenly the bugles sounded sharply, and the flag floated gently down from the pole. The sun shone no longer; dark clouds were near the horizon, gray, almost black, with ragged edges and piled-up sides, flecked here and there with spots of crimson. A breeze had sprung up with the setting of the sun, and now it

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8 OAK, LILY AND IVY. War. The tide of war had moved southward during the last two days, leaving in its wake a varied scene of ruin and desolation. Everywhere grim evidences of its passage lay stamped upon the country. It had entered a land where the beauty of God and Nature held untrammeled sway; it had left it, a few weeks later, a wreck, a mockery of its former glory. It was July, a time when, under ordinary circumstances, the valley would be reaching its greatest height of summer beauty, its nearest approach to perfection. Even now, some vestige of its former loveliness remained—the little river, a sil¬ ver ribbon, still glistened and sparkled as it ran onward, and the green of tree and grass blended in perfect harmony; war could not take these away. Otherwise, destruction could be seen everywhere. The grain, which should be raising glossy stalks high in air, was leveled to the ground; the stately mansions with their many-columned balconies had disappeared, leaving only a few blackened rafters and beams to mark the place where they had been. No longer could one hear the pleasant song of the field hands at their labor; they had long since fled with their masters. All was silent save for the call of some cricket, undismayed by the heat, and a deep, low murmur, like the rumble of distant thunder, coming up from the south. It was the voice of war, never far away, always threatening to return. On a knoll overlooking the valley stood the hospital. There the air was hot, and stifling, and there was no welcome breeze to lessen the heat. The flag, hanging in limp, motionless folds from the pole, rarely moved; even the sentry, pacing his beat, walked more slowly than was his wont. Inside the tent, though, there was no lack of activity; nurses moved to and fro, attending their patients, and the corps of surgeons were striving constantly to save what life the fate of war had left. In a cot, near the entrance, lay a soldier who had been brought in the day before, with a shattered thigh. Because of his condition no attempts had been made to question him and his name was still unknown. During the day, how¬ ever, he had so far recovered consciousness as to be able to notice what was hap¬ pening around him. The muttering and moaning of the other patients disturbed him; the air was breathless, and the odor of ether in the next tent made him feel strangely weak. The pain of his wound was growing greater, too, now that he had awakened, and he began to feel it throb and burn. He tried to think of the events of the previous day in the hope that he would forget the present, but it was useless. The torture continued, and with it now came a sense bf insensibility. The sounds about him grew fainter and fainter, as the pain became more acute. Finally all faded away; he was alone, groping in the dark coldness of night. After a long while there was a glimmer of light ahead; he struggled towards it, and at last burst forth from the shadow into the splendor of day and youth—his youth, which he was living once more. He was wandering in the fields, at home again, a happy, care-free, careless child. There were whispering trees about him and fieecy, white clouds that drifted lazily in the sky above. Across the meadows, far off, he heard the tink¬ ling of bells as some herd wandered through the grass. Joy—the joy of spring and of youth—was about him everywhere. Years passed away. He was older now, more dignified and grave, but the love of Nature was still within him. He wandered through the deep woods, where the sun shone only as shimmering flecks of yellow light upon the topmost leaves; he stood on the hill, looking down on the great world stretching out before

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OAK, LILY AND IVY. soft, sighing monotone sounded through the trees, mourning. In the woods, an owl hooted, and its cry was answered, farther off, by another long-drawn wail. The soldier’s face no longer showed pain, but instead, it seemed expressive of a joyous expectancy, as though he were dreaming of something pleasant—and the dark clouds faded from the sky; the stars, glowing, twinkling, came out and began their long march across the heavens. Night had fallen. Later, a surgeon came near the entrance of the tent, holding a lantern. He was about to pass on, but something in the soldier’s face held him motionless. He bent nearer, then suddenly straightened, called one of his men, and moved on. He was used to such sights now—anyway, it only meant another grave on the hillside. It is many years now, since the war ended, and the sun shines down on a land of peace. The waving corn stands where formerly the blood of armies drenched the fields; the long, white rows of tents are gone, and their occupants have joined the army of the dead. Peace, though, does not hold her sway uncontested—the trees still cast their shadows over many mounds. N ature has done her best; the grass waves evenly above them, and flowers blossom on their sides; but Nature cannot wholly efface and forget. The years pass above them, the seasons change, the white of winter becoming the green of summer; but through it all, they lie, inanimate, change¬ less, mute witnesses to war’s unending tragedy. —’ll. The Lost Child. There were not many settlers in the region of the King house along an upper branch of the Missouri River, but a mile above, there was a small mill and a clus¬ ter of houses near by in which the workmen in the mills lived. One day after the severe rains of an early spring, the dam of the mill suddenly gave way, allow¬ ing the great lake behind it to carry destruction all along the banks of the river, while it rushed onward to join the Missouri. It was on this day, that little Jimmie King’s mother had left him sleeping in his cradle, guarded by his faithful Newfoundland dog, Kaiser, while she spent a few moments talking with her nearest neighbor. When Mrs. King heard the rumbling and roaring of the oncoming water, she was not able to reach her home in time to save her only child. When the noisy waters struck the little house and tore it from its foundations, the dog, thoroughly frightened, set up a piteous howl, which awoke the little boy. Although frightened by the unusual noise, the child was not old enough to realize at first any real danger. But after calling repeatedly for his mother, and receiving no answer, he began to cry. The faithful dog went to him and licked his hands. This token of affection comforted him a little. The baby’s mother, seeing that she could not reach her child, fainted in the pathway, where, soon after, she was found by her husband, with the water rushing by within a few feet of her. The father saw his house floating down the surging river, but he did not know that his son was in it, until his wife told him they were childless. This answer proved true, for, after a long search, they found their empty house stranded on the river bank and no sign of Jirnrnie. As the house floated down the river with Jimmie in it, the people on the shore heard the cries of the dog. But even when they knew a life was in danger, no help could be given, because the house sped on its way so quickly. Jimmie trav¬ elled many miles that afternoon, and finally grew tired of the constant change of scenery. It was not until nearly night that the house was impeded in its course