I was a 16 year old girl when the quiet little town of Gettysburg had greatness thrust upon it with a roar and clash that made the encircling hills tremble. We dwellers in Waynesboro, another small town, little more than a score of miles distant knew nothing of the terrible three days' conflict until it was over. The intervening Blue Ridge Mountains intercepted the sound and, being within the enemy's lines, we were cut off from all outside communication, but we had known many of war's alarms, and we were to witness for many days the tragic aftertmath of the battle.

In the more than threescore years that have passed our unpretentious village has grown into a thriving manufacturing town and I, then a girl of 16 years, into a gray-haired great-grandmother; yet to me the recollections of that far-off time are more distinct than those of a year ago.

We were twenty miles from the Potomac River and two and a half north of the Mason and Dixon Line, and from the time that war was declared a rumor that the Confederates were crossing the Potomac would bring through our town hundreds of refugees from Maryland. Sometimes at night we would be awakened by the rumble of wagons and the clatter of horses' feet on the stony streets. Not only colored people, but farmers from our own vicinity would flee with their horses and cattle, and even household goods and farm implements, the Negroes bound for the Northern States and freedom and the farmers for some remote and almost inaccessible place on the mountain. In a few weeks the farmers would return to their neglected fields, half starved and tired out, to find that the enemy had not crossed the river after all. The newly invented verb "skedaddle" forced itself into our vocabulary at that time and was immediately put to hard usage, as no word in the dictionary expressed half so well this helter-skelter rout of an army of non-combatants.

Other better-authenticated words came into common use at the same time, many of them in strange forms. An old neighbor informed us that her son was coming home from the army "on a furlong or a padroll or some other outlandish thing." Later she asked for some blue cloth, saying her boy's haversack was out at the elbows. She confessed that the new words "befuddled her."

When we expected a visit from our neighbors across the border, we laid in large quantities of provisions, not for hospitality's sake, but for fear our stores would be looted. We also concealed small articles of value in cunningly contrived pockets and carrled them about with us for weeks. We buried silverware and clothing in our gardens, and some persons, to make the hiding-place more secure, planted cabbages over them. The plants grew beautifully. We might have spared ourselves our pains; General Stuart made his memorable cavalry raid through the Cumberland Valley and, ignoring our town, recrossed the river. Then we disinterred our buried treasures, much the worse for a heavy rain, and regretted that we had not left them in their accustomed places.

The summer of 1862 passed and September was half gone when, on bright Sunday noon, at the close of services in the churches, we noticed groups of excited people, on street corners and in front of hotels and in other public places. When we asked the cause of the excitement, they whispered, "Listen." and for the first time we heard the sound of battle. The two armies had met on the rocky ledges of South Mountain, only eighteen miles distant.

On Monday a number of the young girls canvassed the town for hospital supplies, and that evening, with older women, we met to prepare them for use. Every detail of that scene is distinct -- the low ceiled, unifurnished room, the only light a few tallow candles, a large clothes-basket in the center, and round about a circle of girls, each with a pine shingle, a knife, and a lapful of pieces of old linen tablecloths, towels, and napkins which we were scraping into lint. Back of us the older women were making neat rolls of strips of old soft muslin for bandages.

Sunddenly above the scrape, scrape, scrape of the knives the swish of tearing muslin, and the low murmur of voices a woman's shrill scream rang out on the night. Terrified, we dropped our work and ran out to the sidewalk. It was a mother's cry for her boy, who had been killed the day before, only eighteen miles from home. That night I felt the horror of war. The dead soldier was a cousin with whom I had been very closely associated all my life.

Only a few days later we heard again the noise of battle and felt the ground tremble with the terrific concussion. This time the fighting was at Antietam, only twenty miles distant, with no intervening mountains to deaden the sound. How fearfully we listened hour after hour. In the 126th Pennsylvania Regiment were many of our town men and boys, among them my two brothers, two uncles and a cousin. We had every reason to think that they were among the troops engaged, and we looked at one another with blanched faces, not daring to express the terror in our hearts. Next day we learned that they had arrived a few hours too late to take part in the engagement and were encamped on the battlefield.

Scores of our townspeople rushed to the scene, and brought back sickening details and gruesome relics of the battle. The troops, after a forced march from Washington without even their usual rations, were exhausted and half starved. At once we gathered wagonloads of provisions. I remenber one night in particular when in my home we worked from dusk until dawn packing barrels and boxes with cooked food, donated by the soldiers home folks. When we were told how joyfully that food was received and how ravenously devoured, we wept.

Among the many touching incidents this is one I shall never forget. An uncle, the oldest man in the regiment, whom I remember as being extremely bitter against the South, took all of his share of the home- cooked food and gave it to Confederate wounded in a field hospital. It was his boy who had been killed less than a week before by a rebel bullet. Later he himself was wounded fatally at Fredericksburg, Virginia.

During the following winter the line of activities moved farther south, and there was little we could do for our boys. How troubled our hearts were and how we hoped and feared from day to day. It was customary to announce a death by tolling a church bell, and during the war we knew by a double stroke when a soldier had answered his roll-call for the last time. The double stroke sounded pitifully often in those days of strife. The suspense after a battle was torturing; we held our breath as we read the long lists of killed, wounded, and missing. Anxiously we waited each time for a letter. Sometimes it was a long, long wait, because our soldier had written his last letter home.

When spring came again, the same old rumors brought the refugees from across the border. By this time it had become a habit to hide our valuables, and so once more we stowed them away. One Sunday in June Jenkins' cavalry, reconnoitering in advance of Lee' s army, made us a hasty visit, but hearing of Federal troops on the mountain a few miles east of town, scurried back across the border. Again the rumor that a large force of the enemy were crossing the Potomac echoed through our streets, and for a day and night we watched the usual mad rush to get beyond their reach. At last the rumor appeared to be well founded. On June 23, 1863, just before noon, we found our streets swarming with grayclad men. That which we had so long anticipated with dread had happened, and the enemy was at our gates -- indeed, he was within them. At once the town was placed under martial law, a requistion for provisions was made, and some of our returned soldiers and stay-at-homes were ordered to canvass for bread and meat, which in most cases were given very unwillingly.

My father, who had been Burgess but was promptly deposed was told by the Provost Marshall that the troops were under complete control and the residents need fear no depredations, as orders had been given that no person or private property should be molested and no houses entered.

"But," he added, "we may be repulsed, and if we have to retreat we may not have complete control. Tell your people, in that case, for their own safety, not to taunt or offer our troops any insult. I advice you also to have all intoxicating liquors put out of reach."

Along the border in those days sectional feeling was very bitter and many families were divided. My mother had one brother with the Confederate army and another brother and two sons with the Union troops. There were many other cases of the same kind. When the first company of cavalry came up our street, a neighbor, a native of Virginia and pastor of one of our churches, was sitting, on his porch. The captain of the company dismounted, and the minister rushed to meet him. They were brothers, and they embraced with tears coursing, down each face. Others, friends and college mates, dismounted and greeted the minister. All the same time his wife, an ardent Unionist, had shut herself in an upper room and was crying hysterically because of the desecration of Pennsylvania by rebel feet.

In youth one is inclined to notice the brighter side, and it is the more romantic features of the advance of the invading army that linger longest in my memory. The troops under General Lee at this time were said to be "the flower of the Confederate army." They filled the town with their gay music, prancing horses, glittering musical instruments, bayonets and other bright equipment, and their banners -- such beautiful banners' -- made by mothers, wives, sisters, and sweethearts in the South. Ah, the tears and sighs, hopes and fears, stitched into their silken folds. One in particular I distinctly remember, a palmetto tree in white embroidered on a large square of shimmering blue silk.

The men all seemed cheerful. They spoke kindly to the children on the porches; no doubt many of them were fathers of little ones. When a two-year-old boy, left alone for a short time, stood on a rocking-chair and rocked with all his tiny strength until the chair moved along to the very edge of the porch, a dozen men broke ranks and rushed to save the little fellow.

A long-legged, long-necked Shanghai rooster that almost lived on the street fearlessly threaded his way between their feet, and occasionally a man would take him and carry him a few yards until a watchful officer ordered his release. That rooster paraded long after the last gun of the Confederacy was silenced.

A high hat seemed to be a favorite target for their jests:

Hats are so dear and the cows all dead,
So the old man wears the churn on his head, they would shout.

One old gentleman whom I had never known to wear a low hat did so because he oot tired of being invited "to come down out of that hat" and being told that they "knew he was in it, for they saw his toes wriggle."

Not only did we observe the visitors, but they observed us -- with mixed emotions. As my brother sat on our porch steps an artillery officer dismounted, gave his horse in charge of an orderly, and came across to our porch. After introducing himself -- I have forgotten his name and rank -- he said that he would like to ask a few questions. Getting my brother's consent, he said: "This is the first Pennsylvania town we have entered, and I am surprised to see so many able-bodied young men on your streets. Is this town a fair sample of the reserve force of the northern States?"

My brother assured him that is was. He looked very grave for a moment, and then remarked that he could not have heard anything more discouraging.

"Why aren't you in the army?" he asked.

My brother told him of his first enlistment for three months, when it was the general belief that the war would all be over in that time, and of his re-enlistment for nine months. The officer then asked what battles he had been in, and when Fredericksburg was mentioned he said he had been there too, he had commanded one of the batteries on Mary's Hill. My brother told him that he had been with the troops that made the charge on that hill. The officer then remarked, `'I've been in many battles, but have never seen the bravery of that charge surpassed."

This conversation always seemed interestlng to us because it was said that officers and tropps alike were amazed and depressed by the sight of young men working in the fields or at places of business, when in southern towns no men remained except the very aged or the very young.

The first night after the invasion of our town a large number encamped in a field at the end of our street, and we heard hundreds of men's voices join in singing familiar old hymns, and persons living nearer the camp told of hearing the chaplains' voices in prayer. Never having seen a large body of troops, we were sure the whole invading army was passing our door, and we were surprised to learn that the larger portion had gone north by way of Greencastle and Chambersburg. The steady tramp of the men and the continuous rumble of artillery and heavily loaded wagons over our narrow stony street became almost intolerable, and we were relieved when the last straggling soldier and the last rumbling wagon had vanished over the hill north of town, even though we had every reason to expect a fearful disaster. Anxious, weary days followed. We were within the enemy's lines, cut off from all communication from the outside world, and we did not have the least idea of the location of either army. Whither had the gray-clad troops gone? Where was our Army? Where (small section worn and illegible) all, were our own beloved brothers, cousins and friend?

The New York militia recruited to check the advance of Lee's army, came along too late to get even a glimpse of the enemy. They had had a hard forced march, were poorly equipped, footsore, and tired. One, I remember, fainted at our door; mother came to his rescue and had two mates carry him into the house. They dumped him into her spare bed without removing his dusLy shoes or equipment. They were surprised to find that the invaders had not left a trail of death and destruction behind them.

Ten days passed; then from beyond the mountains came news of the Battle of Gettysburg. Now we had our real experience of the wretchedness and indescribable horrors of war. Almost immediately the defeated army was marching through our main street, all brightness gone, gay music silenced, beautiful banners furled or in tatters, horses exhausted, men worn out, disillusioned, sullen, hurrying to cross the Potomac before being overtaken by the victorious enemy. After them came the sorrowful train of wounded.

Remembering the warning of the officer who had been temporarily in charge of the town, we expected the worst, but although the soldiers entered stores and took what they could carry away, as a rule private property was not molested. The only exception to the rule was that they helped themselves to hats from citizens' heads and compelled some to sit on horse-blocks or curbs and take off their shoes or boots. One of our neighbors was a very decided Unionist, while his wife, a Virginian, gave her sympathy to the South. A barefoot soldier asked her for shoes, and he was scarcely out of sight with all she could find when her husband came home bareheaded, barefooted, and in a towering rage. He had to go shoeless, for there were no shoes to be had in town for love or money.

We were told that Generals Lee, Longstreet, Early, and others were holding a council in the public square, and several of us, all young girls went to a near-by street corner to see them. Two young officers left the group in the square and came across to us. They introduced themselves as Captain Lee anl Lieutenant Pickett. I asked which of the group was General Lee, and Captain Lee pointed to a sad-faced, weary-looking man on horseback.

"That," he said, "tis my Uncle Robert, General Robert E. Lee of the Confederate army."

He then asked if we knew a certain man of our town, and one of the girls answered that he was her father. He took from an inside pocket a small notebook, and from it a few withered flowers; "I met your sister in Chambersburg when we were advancing," he said. "She asked me if we came to this town to give them to her father. Please tell her that Captain Lee kept his promise."

The flowers were not delivered; the father never saw or even heard of them. At that time he was too sore, over the loss of a hat, two pairs of shoes, and his dignity to receive them gracefully, and his daughter wisely did not further excite his wrath.

As a number of us watched the planting of a battery on a hill about a half-mile distant, at the eastern entrance to the town, an officer, seeing us through his fieldglasses, rode down to tell us that they were sorry to have caused us alarm and that they had no intention of shelling the town or injuring anyone, they were merely protecting their troops. A beautiful cemetery now occupies the hill, and many of those who watched the planting of that battery have been peacefully sleeping for years under its green sod.

During the retreat an officer brought to my father, who was once more Burgess, three very large pieces of solid silverware -- a water-pitcher and tea snd coffee urns. They had been found in one of the wagons, and, as his men were under strict orders not to take private property, he wanted, if possible, to have them returned to the owners. An advertisement in a Gettysburg paper was the means of their being claimed by the wife of one of the faculty of the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Gettysburg. I still have in my possession a letter written by the owner's husband saying that the pieces were part of a highly prized heirloom and that the injuries they had received in their rough ride over the mountain gave them a historic interest that made them even more valuable.

Following the long train of ablebodied or only slightly wounded came the procession of army wagons and ambulances with their terrible loads of dead and wounded men. I do not remember how long it was in passing, but it was miles and miles of horror. We could hear the groans and shrieks of agony as the heavy springless wagons jolted over the rough pike, mingled with the shouting and swearing of the drivers as they urged their jaded horses to greater speed -- a huge aggregation of agony, despair, and death, hurrying back to the waiting arms of loving mothers, wives, sisters, and sweethearts.

The last straggler was scarcely out of sight when Union cavalry dashed over the eastern hills and into town. The sight of our own loved Star - Spangled Banner brought glad tears to our eyes, yet we trembled with fear of another battle. Both armies were exhausted and rested that night, only a few miles apart, and we slept peacefully between the lines. Eventually, Lee succeeded in crossing the Potomac.

That evening along our sidewalks were groups of soldiers eating their suppers. I can't remember that they had anything but coffee and hardtack, though I suppose they had. When they could get a handful of sticks, they made little fires along the curb to boil their coffee, and we had all the pots and kettles we could muster full of boiling water to help them out. They would come to the door with quart cans half full of ground coffee and brown sugar, and would fill them up with boiling water.

When General McCausland dashed across the border and applied the torch to Chambersburg, fifteen miles distant, we watched the smoke from a hill north of town.

The events of the closing year of the war are not as clear in my memory as those of which I was an eye-witness. But that day in April, 1865, when the church bells rang out the glad tidings of peace I can never forget. Later, when our boys came home, how we rejoiced and how we wept. So often we had joined in singing that gay little song "When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again," but oftener we had sung "The Vacant Chair," and in our rejoicing we grieved for our boys whom we should see no more.