Then it was time to buy a paperweight With flags upon it in decalcomania And hope you wouldn’t break it, driving home.

Draw a clumsy fish-hook now on a piece of paper, To the left of the shank, by the bend of the curving hook, Draw a Maltese cross with the top block cut away. The cross is the town. Nine roads star out from it East, West, South, North. And now, still more to the left Of the lopped-off cross, on the other side of the town, Draw a long, slightly-wavy line of ridges and hills Roughly parallel to the fish-hook shank. (The hook of the fish-hook is turned away from the cross And the wavy line.) There your ground and your ridges lie. The fish-hook is Cemetery Ridge and the North Waiting to be assaulted⁠—the wavy line Seminary Ridge whence the Southern assault will come.