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.
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