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funny. She shuddered, remembering what she had read aloud to Homer on the long drive south, the whole story of the march across the valley by the rebel army, straight into the massed rifles and artillery fire of the Yankees behind the stone wall and the brutal raking bombardment of the guns on Cemetery Hill and Little Round Top.
    But today there was no gunfire, nothing but the buzz of insects in the grass and the fluting whistle of a bird overhead. The sky was blue and the sun was warm. They climbed over the stone wall and settled down to eat the last of their sandwiches.
    Then for a while they wandered here and there among the monuments. The inscriptions recorded the courageous actions of regiments of the seven corps of the Army of the Potomac on the first, second and third days of July in 1863. Moving from one to another, taking in the immensity of the sacrifice, Mary and Homer could think of nothing to say, until Homer groaned that he was still hungry.
    â€œThere’ll be restaurants in the town,” said Mary. “And bookstores. We could find some more books about the battle.”
    Slowly they walked back across the field. At the rise on the other side they headed for the bronze landmark of Robert E. Lee, still gazing magnificently past them at some vision of his brave regiments moving gloriously up the hill.
    The car was parked along the road, in the shade of the trees. Here behind the stone wall there was another reminder of the battle, an endless line of artillery looking silently away from the road toward the gentle rise of Cemetery Ridge.
    â€œThey’re beautiful,” said Homer.
    â€œStrangely beautiful, yes,” said Mary. “It’s odd to say so, but it’s true”.

THE SHOP

    T hey ate an early supper in a jolly pub near a large square in the center of town. Then they wandered along the streets of Gettysburg to explore the shops selling books and Civil War memorabilia.
    In one they bought a map of the town, and then, exhausted, they went back to the car, meaning to drive straight to the motel and go to bed. It was somewhere out of town, but where?
    Mary turned the map this way and that, but it was no use. Folding it again, she said, “We’ll have to ask.” At the edge of town, they stopped at a store called Bart’s Battle Flag Books to inquire the way—and then, of course, there was no harm in looking around.
    Bart’s was an antiquarian bookstore. A regimental flag hung in the window, a yellow banner with crossed cannon and the embroidered words Seventh N. Y. Heavy Art . The inside of the shop was dark and interesting.
    â€œIt’s like Gwen’s attic,” murmured Mary. “I mean the way it used to be.”
    â€œYou mean before Ebenezer came along.”
    They began with the books. “Surely,” said Mary, “they can’t all be about the Civil War.”
    â€œWell, they are. Look at this— Gettysburg the First Day, Gettysburg the Second Day, Gettysburg Day Three .”
    â€œAnd look, Homer, every general has his own biography. I mean, it’s not just Grant and Lee. Who’s this handsome general?”
    â€œJohn Gordon,” said Homer. “One of the best of the Confederates.”
    â€œI must say, I like good-looking generals. This one must be a Yankee, Winfield Scott Hancock. Yes, I remember Hancock. Wasn’t he in this battle?”
    â€œWas Hancock at Gettysburg?” Homer snorted. “The only thing Hancock did at Gettysburg was win the battle almost single-handed. No kidding. He was everywhere, moving troops around in a hurry and filling gaps in the line.”
    â€œBut why are there so many books about the Civil War? Why such a fascination with this one little piece of history?”
    Homer stared at the crowded shelves. “It’s because the stakes were so high. So much bloodshed, so many terrible battles. Every human emotion ratcheted up to its highest point. The normal laws of