In the heat of mid-August, my young daughter flittered behind,
as I solemnly walked along the wooded path.
Coming to a solitary stone marker, I stopped.
'So, this is where it happened.....'
'What, daddy? '
'Listen, can you hear them? ! Alabama rebels running up to take this hill from us boys from Maine! '
'Quick, there is a stick - it is your rifle....Pick it up....We must hold this hill at all cost! '
'Get ready! Charge! '
Scanning the trees for the unseen enemy, clutching her rifle, tentative steps at first, then picking up speed...
'Stop! That's enough now.... how do you feel my brave little soldier? '
'I'm scared, Dad....'
'.....I know... I'm sorry...'
'Come sweetie, let's skip back to the car together.'
Comments about this poem (The Lesson by Stuart Kaler )
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