Audubon Republican. [volume] (Audubon, Iowa) 1894-1925, 1898-05-26
THERE WE'RE MEMORIAL wREATHs UPON PORTRAITS

denly one night, as my master and his
companion conversed in low tones In
their hammocks, there came sound as
of thunder, the great ship heaved and
rocked, fires burst forth as though her
interior had become the crater of a vol
cano, and by their baleful light bodies
of men could be seen hurled into the
air, some shattered, rome whole, while
underneath the watching sharks waited
for their prey and overhead great vul-
lures gathered for their grewsome
feast. 1t seemed like section of the
judgment day breaking prematurely
before the natural coming of the dawn.
The Maine had been blown up and an
other event had been written in blood
and flame upon the pages of history.
The two comrades, my master and his
friend, both died. They were brave and
comely youths. God keep their memory
green!
I was sent home and again installed
upon my throne, more priceless relic
now than ever. 1t chilled me to note
the grief of the aged couple, now be-
reaved, with both the brave boys who
would have cherished them in their old
age, gone before them to the silent land.
There were memorial wreaths upon both
portraits now which fianked me on
either side and completed the row of pre-
cious things grazing this home altar.
The open fire below seemed to be offer
ing incense to their memory when the
aged father at eventide unburdened his
heart in prayer, his only arm clasping
close his aged wife.
Then came the sorrows. The home
had been mortgaged to pay for the
tuition of the boys, and the scanty pen
sion served simply to meet the mere
expense of living. The holder of the
mortgage was one of those who think
sentiment is unbusincsslike, men who
think the dollar mark n better badge
than the hero's scars. So the day of
fate drew on apace and the skies of the
future seen from the little home dark
ened. There was faith and courage
there, but these do not heal SCARED
hearts or shield the most heroic souls
from bitter sorrows. How / would have
liked to spike that hard-hearted old
skinfint who sneered cynicaliy at pleas
made for time and opportunity. 1t is
lucky for such wretches that swords
are powerless to act upon impulse or
strike when the iron Tor rather the
steeD is hot.
The night before the day of doom,
that on which the aged couple were to
be driven from the home made sacred
by precious memories, there was a
knock at the door and who should walk
in but young Louis Carroll, the son who
was supposed to have been lost on the
Pacific. Stalwart, smiling, brown as
berry, he clasped the aged parents in
his arms and they mingled smiles and
tears in confusion as charming as it
was unphilosophical. The ship had
been lost but all the passengers had not.
Louis was one of the rescued, was taken
in the schooner which picked them up
to it's far northern destination as one Of
the whaling fleet in the Behring sea,
and he had been out of reach of mail
facilities and ordinary transportation.
One letter he had entrusted to rowing
Esquimo, but the man in furs had evil
IDENTIFY proved poor postman. Perhaps
he had fallen victim to walrus or
polar bear, and the letter reposed with
his remains in its department of the
interior.
Better still, Louis had been to the
Alaska mines and had been there rea-
sonably successful. He was not mil
lionaire, but he had nuggets enough to