Polly, you tell your young folks, when they study
the books, that we was nothin' else but boys
jest fallin' in love, with best gals left t' home--
the same as you; and when the shot was singin',
we pulled their picters out, and prayed to them
'most morn'n the Almighty.

(LINK _looks up suddenly--a strange light in his face.
Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds._)

Thar she blows
Agin!

POLLY
They're marchin' to the graves with flowers.

LINK
My Godfrey!'t ain't so much thinkin' o' flowers
and the young folks, their faces, and the blue
line of old fellers marchin'--it's the music!
that old brass voice a-callin'! Seems as though,
legs or no legs, I'd have to up and foller
to God-knows-whar, and holler--holler back
to guns roarin' in the dark. No; durn it, no!
I jest can't stan' the music.

POLLY
(_goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming_)

Uncle Link,
you want that I should steam this longer?

LINK
(_absently_)

Oh,
A kittleful, a kittleful.

POLLY
(_coming over to him_)

Now, then,
I'm ready for school.--I hope I've drawed the map
all right.

LINK
Map? Oh, the map!

(_Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods._)

Yes, thar she be:
old Gettysburg!

POLLY
I know the places--most.

LINK
So, _do_ ye? Good, now: whar's your marker?

POLLY
(_taking up the hoe_)

Here.

LINK
Willoughby Run: whar's that?

POLLY
(_pointing with the hoe toward the left of the woodpile_)

That's farthest over
next the barn door.

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.

(_Sh