Ya can read and reread all the books, watch the movies and hear the Hx but when you walk the paths they walked on and drink from the creek those young bloodied boys drank from, sit up on a boulder in Devil's Den where a sharpshooter once took aim at a boy from Tennessee, you'll get a rush of goosebumps you'll never forget. And, like a good dream or good lovin', you want more and more. There's a covered bridge near the Eisenhower Farm, on the edge of the battleground, that's been rebuilt from a flood. Come sit on that bridge, look down on the muddy water and picture the tired, bedraggled men who sat for a few minutes quenching a long thirst after marching for miles and miles. Trees hang down over the water at Marsh Creek; some say there's a frew trout there but I know many a parched belly was filled there 150 years ago in early July. It's an eerie feeling you get and it stays with you and although you realize these fields and hills have been reborn with new grass and new hands a-tillin', the blood of the dead and maimed emerges in the topsoil ever retelling the tradgedies of mens greed and intolerance.