LINK. My, how we fit the Johnnies thar, the fust mornin'! Jest behind them willers, acrost the Run, that's whar we captur'd Archer.

My, my!

POLLY. Over there--that's Seminary Ridge.

[_She points to different heights and depressions, as LINK nods his approval._]

Peach Orchard, Devil's Den, Round Top, the Wheatfield--

LINK.

Lord, Lord, the Wheatfield!

POLLY [_continuing_].

Cemetery Hill, Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here is Cemetery Ridge.

LINK [_pointing to the little flag_].

And colors flyin'!

We _kep_ 'em flyin' thar, too, all three days, from start to finish.

POLLY. Have I learned 'em right?

LINK.

_A_ number One, chick! Wait a mite: Culp's Hill: I don't jest spy Culp's Hill.

POLLY. There wa'n't enough kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay east there, towards the kitchen.

LINK. Let it go!

That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep it thar, too, till he got it squoze off by old Sloc.u.m.

Let Culp's Hill lay for now.--Lend me your marker.

[_POLLY hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches with it and digs in the chips._]

Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So: smooth off them chips.

[_POLLY does so with her foot._]

You better guess 't was deep as h.e.l.l, that second day, come sundown.--Here,

[_He hands back the hoe to her._]

flat down the Wheatfield yonder.

[_POLLY does so._]

G.o.da'mighty!

that Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter than any pancake what you ever cooked, Polly; and 't wan't no maple syrup neither was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black all over it, that nightfall.

POLLY. Here's the road to Emmetsburg.

LINK. No, 'tain't: this here's the pike to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin', after an all-night march, jest in the nick to save our second day. The Emmetsburg road's thar.--Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'?

POLLY.

At sunset, July second, Sixty-three.

LINK [_nodding, reminiscent_].

The b.l.o.o.d.y Sundown! G.o.d, that crazy sun: she set a dozen times that afternoon, red-yeller as a punkin jacko'lantern, rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke till she clean busted, like the other bombs, behind the hills.

POLLY. My! Wa'n't you never scart and wished you'd stayed t' home?

LINK. Scart? Wall, I wonder!

Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars.

I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,-- a dressy mister, span-new from the city-- layin' the law down: "All this _stars and stripes_,"

says he, "and _red and white and blue_ is rubbish, mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!"

"I wan't t' know!" says I. "In Sixty-three, I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown I met him stumblin'--with two dead men's muskets for crutches--towards a bucket, full of ink-- water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell, he tuk the rest to wash his bullet holes.-- Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick, with _red and white and blue_, tore 'most t' tatters, a-danglin' from it." "Be you color sergeant?"

says I. "Not me," says Link; "the sergeant's dead, but when he fell, he handed me this bit o' _rubbish_--red and white and blue." And Link he laughed. "What be you laughin' for?" says I.

"Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!" says Link.

POLLY.

What did the span-new mister say to that?

LINK.

I didn't stop to listen. Them as never heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't guess what they be. [_Sitting up and blinking hard._]

But this ain't keepin' school!

POLLY [_quietly_].

I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link.

LINK.

The second day, 'fore sunset.

[_He takes the hoe and points with it._]

Yon's the Wheatfield.

Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels.

Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge behind 'em. Hanc.o.c.k--he's our general-- he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose the Ridge, and lose the Ridge--lose G.o.d-and-all!-- Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington, Abe Lincoln and the White House in one bite!-- So the Union, Polly,--me and you and Roger, your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam--is all thar--growin' in that Wheatfield.

POLLY [_smiling proudly_].

And they're growin'

still!

LINK.

Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls, thar comes the Johnnies, thick as gra.s.shoppers: gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat tops.

And now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat, thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces, and grapplin' with h.e.l.l-devils, and stink o' smoke, and stingin' smother, and--up thar through the dark-- that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon lopsided, crackin' her red sh.e.l.l with thunder!

[_In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial music of a bra.s.s band begins. Again LINK's face twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment on, the sound and emotion of the bra.s.s music, slowly growing louder, permeates the scene._]

POLLY.

Oh! What was G.o.d a-thinkin' of, t' allow the created world to act that awful?