LINK _Set quiet!_ Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand, and Link--he kin set quiet.--G.o.d a'mighty, how kin he set, and them a-marchin' thar with old John Brown? Lord G.o.d, you ain't forgot the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin'

home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown, a-singin' Glory to ye! Jest look down: thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge: don't say ye disremember them! And thar's the colors. Look, he's picked 'em up--the sergeant's blood splotched 'em some--but thar they be, still flyin'!

Link done that: Link--the spry boy, what they call Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step, have ye?

(_Again he cries out, beseechingly_)

My G.o.d, why do You keep on marchin'

and leave him settin' here?

(_To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing the words of "John Brown's Body." At the sound,_ LINK'S _face becomes transformed with emotion, his body shakes, and his shoulders heave and straighten._) No!--I--_won't_--set!

(_Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands._)

Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line.

Them voices--Lord, I guess you've brought along Your Sunday choir of young angel folks to help the boys out.

(_Following the music with swaying arms_)

Glory!--Never mind me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm goin' t' jine in, or bust!

(_Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps--his one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as to unseen hands, that draw him--he totters toward the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where the children's are singing it._)

"--a-mould'rin' in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave.

John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave, But his soul goes--"

(_Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries aloud, astounded_) Lord, Lord, my legs!

Whar did Ye git my legs?

(_Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously._)

I'm comin', boys!

Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap.

(_With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the woodpile._)

Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge!

Jine in, jine in!

(_Swinging the flag_)

Hooray!--Hooray!--Hooray!

(_Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and children sing martially to the bra.s.s music._

_With his final cheer_, LINK _stumbles down from the mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked voice, jubilant, with the singers:_)

"--ry hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah, His truth is marchin" on!"

[CURTAIN]

LONESOME-LIKE[1]

Harold Brighouse

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the author and of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow.]

CHARACTERS

SAKAH ORMEHOD, An old woman EMMA BRIERLEY, A young woman THE REV. FRANK ALLEYNE, A curate SAM HORROCKS, A young man

THE SCENE _represents the interior of a cottage in a Lancashire village. Through the window at the back the gray row of cottages opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to the window.

Door left. As regards furniture the room is very bare. The suggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped room. For example, there are several square patches where the distemper of the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indicating the places once occupied by pictures. There is an uncovered deal the left wall is a dresser and a plate-rack above it containing a few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils upon it. A blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking-range, but the room contains only the barest necessities. The floor is uncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard of cheap muslin is fastened across the window, not coming, however, high enough to prevent a pa.s.ser-by from looking in, should he wish to do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tin trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door left is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned beaded bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises the room is empty. Immediately, however, the door left opens and SARAH ORMEROD, an old woman, enters, carrying clumsily in her arms a couple of pink flannelette nightdresses, folded neatly. Her black stuff dress is well worn, and her wedding-ring is her only ornament. She wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather short skirt shows a pair of gray worsted stockings. A small plaid shawl covers her shoulders. SARAH crosses and puts the nightdresses on the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There is a knock at the outside door and she looks up._

SARAH. Who's theer?

EMMA (_without_). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierley.

SARAH. Eh, coom in, Emma, la.s.s.

(_Enter_ EMMA BRIERLEY. _She is a young weaver, and, having just left her work, she wears a dark skirt, a blouse of some indeterminate blue-gray shade made of cotton, and a large shawl over her head and shoulders in place of a jacket and hat. A colored cotton ap.r.o.n covers her skirt below the waist, and the short skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She wears clogs, and the clothes--except the shawl--are covered with ends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even her hair has not escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her waist._)

SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think o'

coomin' to see an ould woman like me.

EMMA (_by door_). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th' mill's just loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were pa.s.sin' and see 'ow tha was feeling like.

SARAH (_crossing to box_). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a weaver's no manner o' good to n.o.body without th' use o' 'er'ands. A'm all reeght in masel'. That's worst of it.

EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as A can do for thee?

SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma.

EMMA (_taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on a peg in the door_). Well, A knaws better. What wert doin' when A coom in? Packin' yon box?

SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer's a two three things as A canna bear thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw if they'll let me tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna have 'em sold wi' rest of stuff.

EMMA (_crosses below SARAH to box, going on her knees_). Let me help yo'.

SARAH. Tha's a good la.s.s, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee.

EMMA. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as they'd carry safe that road.

SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands, tha sees, as mak's it difficult for me.

(_Sits on chair._)