Rising like giant sentinels off some distance from the ends of
Cemetery Ridge are those hills whose possession meant victory or
defeat. The northern-most group consists of that memorable trio
of Wolf's, McAllister's and Culp's Hills. There is a slender and
low ridge joining Cemetery Ridge and Culp's Hill which seems to
be thrown behind the ridge.
Between Culp's Hill and Wolf's Hill flows Rock Creek. It is very
shallow and winds through a wild ravine. What news it could tell
of those three days of fighting if we were able to interpret its
rippling music. But the vast numbers who listened to its softly
murmured notes have long since gone, borne down the rippling
stream of Time, from which there is no returning.
Here we learned why the soldiers made such a desperate attempt
to secure Culp's Hill, for what use would it have been to get
Cemetery Hill and leave a back door open, as it were, for the
enemy to pass through.
Here in spring the ravine is gay with the blossoming dogwood and
the redbud fills the place with its royal purple.
As we gazed at the many fine monuments on this, the best marked
and most beautiful of ail battlegrounds in the world, we thought
of the terrible waste of life. But then had it been wasted,
after all? As we passed down by the peach orchard, we saw a
battle between two robins being waged. Then we thought how each
spring, from remotest times this same battle-ground has been
used by Nature's children to settle questions of gravest import
to their race. Each season brings renewed conflicts. Down by the
Devil's Den ground squirrels wage their battles again and again.
Aerial battles, too, are fought by hawks above the tree tops.
In Nature, to the strongest usually comes the victory. For her
children cruel, relentless, bloody war seems inevitable. But is
it necessary that human life be sacrificed? What could be the
plan, the purpose of it all? Perhaps there was no plan, no
purpose; we do not know. But as we look across the changing
scenes that come and go with the changeless years, we seem to
see a plan, a purpose, and there are wars and bloodshed in them,
yet, they appear Divine. It seems that only the great principle
of the Universe is being fulfilled; that from the sacrifice of
life a richer, fuller life is gained.
Here the birds still come to bathe and drink and their songs
float to you from far and near. Among the branches of an oak
top, a red-eyed vireo is saying, "brigade, brigadier," and we
well know that he is not military and do not know where he
learned those military terms. But, he is destroying whole
battalions and even armies of caterpillars, those green coated
Boches and striped convicts of our forest trees; and we think
"brigadier" none too noble a title for the bravery he shows in
carolling all through the hot summer day.
