>From Little Round Top a night hawk screams and comes booming down to earth where squadrons of insects are manoeuvering; by the Devil's Den a red squirrel is berating an unseen enemy, hurling all sorts of abusive epithets at him in his wheezy, irate manner.
Rising in strong relief at the southern edge of Cemetery Ridge are the picturesque hills known as Little and Great Round Top. They are wooded from base to summit. What mighty forces have been at work here! Crevasses of broken ledges, immense boulders cropping out on the slopes or lying here and there all show that a battle royal has been here waged by Nature. Here, thrust out from little Round Top, is a heap of "ripped up" ledges and massive rocks where a great fissure leads back to a place where the Southern sharpshooters hid while picking off the Union officers on Little Round Top. It seemed that some great mass had slipped from Little Round Top and had been hurled still farther by some unknown force—a vast heap of stone deeply seamed by rents and scars thick set with boulders and filled with holes providing excellent hiding places for the men.
"All through that moonlight night while Buford kept watch the roads leading to Gettysburg were lighted up by gleaming campfires. How peacefully lay the little village slumbering in the quiet moonlight, with never a thought of the coming battle on the morrow. Soon the lovely valley of Willoughby Run with its emerald meadows, flashing brooks and green woods would be deformed by shot and shell."
It seems difficult even to imagine the terrible price that was paid at Gettysburg—while wandering here in this charming spot, where stretches a beautiful world of woodlands with their feast of varying shades of green whose rare vistas open up to fields of hay and grain.
Marry flowers and ferns grow here and, like the birds, they, too, have their preacher. Jack in his pulpit of light green is proclaiming wildwood messages to his flower brethren. If scarlet represents sin among the flower family then in his congregation are many sinners, for the vivid hues of the cardinal blossoms burn like coals of fire against their setting of green shrubs and vines. Joe Pye weeds blush at what they hear, as if guilty of some flagrant wrong, although they took their name from Joe Pye, the Indian who cured typhus fever in New England by means of these plants. Elecampane stands up tall and straight as if conscious of having been mentioned by Hippocrates, the father of medicine, more than two thousand years ago, as being an important stimulant to the brain and stomach. Fox gloves, those Good Samaritans among the flowers, bend low their lovely heads to catch Jack's text, and among the patron Saints John's wort humbly rears its yellow flowers, unmindful that it was hung at the doors and windows on St. John's Eve as a safeguard against thunder and evil spirits. As if to destroy the good Jack wished to do, the Devil's Paint Brush (European Hawk-weed) had been busy among the brethren, sowing seeds of strife and contention and the brilliant orange blotches interspersed among the other members told how successful were his labors.
We have not told much about the battle of Gettysburg and the observing historian may say that our time was wholly wasted, but the wonderful words of Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech still ring in our ears like heavenly music and as we turned to leave this "hallowed"—this "consecrated"—spot, the lines repeated here by Ella Wheeler Wilcox came to us like some grand triumphal strain of music:
"We know that you died for Freedom,
To save our land from shame,
To rescue a periled Nation,
And we give you deathless fame.
'Twas the cause of Truth and Justice
That you fought and perished for,
And we say it, oh, so gently,
'Our boys who died in the war.'
Saviors of our Republic,
Heroes who wore the blue,
We owe the peace that surrounds us,
And our Nation's strength to you.
We owe it to you that our banner,
The fairest flag in the world,
Is today unstained, unsullied,
On the summer air unfurled.
We look on the stripes and spangles
And our hearts are filled the while
With love for the brave commanders
And the boys of the rank and file.
The grandest deeds of valor
Were never written out,
The noblest acts of virtue
The world knows nothing about.
And many a private soldier
Who walks his humble way,
With no sounding name or title,
Unknown to the world today,
In the eyes of God is a hero
As worthy of the bays,
As any mighty general
To whom the world gives praise.