The years intervening between the Battle of Shiloh and the present have softened the harshness of the engagement and wrapped it in a shroud of sentimental romanticism. Most twentieth-century writers are content to view the battle from that perspective. Occasionally a realist, such as Shelby Foote in his historical novel, “Shiloh,” penetrates the rosy glow and brings forth interesting and all-but-forgotten facts. Dr. Merrick F. McCarthy, another twentieth-century writer, presents an accurate and vivid picture of the battle in the following poem: FOUR VOICES FROM SHILOH[2] _Stern Johnston came in April from the South To spread the Shiloh fields with threatening Gray! Hard Sherman set his unrelenting mouth, And Grant knew not the season or the day, Though spring had come! A turmoil held the Land In vast confusion, out of which these three Came on, with purpose clear, with sword in hand, To meet on Shiloh Field their destiny!_ _Where their lines struck live now but squirrel and bird! Calm April has her way with flower and tree,— But there are lasting voices to be heard At Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee!_ FIRST VOICE (That of a young man from the North) _If Grant and Sherman push on through, We’ll cut the Southern States in two! It’s not a question of white or black,— But when States leave, we’ll bring them back! They talk and talk in Washington, While in the South they’re training men! We had ’em whipped at Donelson,— But now they’re ready to fight again!_ _When the brood mare foals, I’ll be away,— I always spaded the garden in spring! And what of the oats, the wheat and the hay? Who will shock as the reapers swing? Or mend the roads in thicket and copse, Or boil the syrup from maple drops?_ _Timber to fell, fires to make,— Ice to cut on the frozen lake! I wonder if Dad will be able to plow,— And whether Mother is living now?_ _Why do we stay on Shiloh hill, With our backs to the muddy river; With Rebels to fight and Rebels to kill, Why camp in the woods and shiver? We drilled with Sherman in Ohio, And now by the Tennessee! Where do the Southern pickets go That fire on you and me? I reckon to Corinth to drill in the mud,— But we have drilled a few Who stained the Michie hill with blood To remember me and you!_ SECOND VOICE (That of a young Southern man)