Postcard from the Past: All Found Their Way Home
Cows broke from pasture during the Battle of Gettysburg and reached place of safety
We had an old cow that had been in the family for years, and the morning of the first day of the fight we had put her in pasture as usual. This pasture was near the edge of town.
Of course, we saw nothing of her during the three days of fighting.
Often, one of us would say, “I wonder what has become of the old cow?”
The general opinion was we had seen the last of her.
On the morning of the fourth day, my father, brother and I took a walk over the field to see if we could find any trace of her. We saw many terrible sights. Dead soldiers were lying around thick, dead horses and many cow skins and heads.
From this last, we soon came to the conclusion our cow had been killed for food like the rest, so we gave her up.
As we were eating supper one evening a week or more after the battle, we heard a familiar bellowing in the street. Everybody sprang from the table and rushed out. There stood our dear old cow, looking at us happy as it is possible for a cow to look at being home again.
Next day, we discovered she had a bullet hole in her neck and one in her side. She was not severely hurt, however, and both bullets came out eventually.
We found out later all of the cows in that particular field had got out in some way the first day of the fight and had wandered off about 10 miles from town, beyond the firing line. After the battle, they all found their way back to town. – Albertus McCreary, in McClure’s.
This week’s Postcard from the Past was ripped from the pages of the May 24, 1917 issue of the Newcastle News Journal.
Mothers of the Armies
The mothers of the armies,
in churchyards old they sleep,
no more to wake and worry,
no more to watch and weep;
for rust has spiked the cannon,
and choked the bugle’s throat,
and hushed o’er hill and valley
the drum’s defiant note!
They sent them forth to battle,
from many a cottage door,
the sons they loved and cherished
and feared to see no more;
they sat by lonely hearthstones,
and waited, sick with dread,
to welcome the crippled,
or mourn the hero dead.
And when with fragrant blossoms
we deck the blue and gray,
oh, twine a dewy garland
upon Memorial Day –
a tribute to the mothers
who each with bleeding breast,
gave freely to her country
her dearest and her best.
– Minna Irving
