LINK
Not if
that doctor feller has his say: He says
I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan;
and looks like he's 'bout right.--Nine months to-morrer,
Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke.
POLLY
(_pointing to the ox-yoke_)
You're fitter
sittin' than most folks standin'.
LINK
(_briskly_)
Oh, they can't
keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's
my second natur' sence I was a boy.
(_Again in the distance a bugle sounds._ LINK _starts._)
What's that?
POLLY
Why, that's the army veterans
down to the graveyard. This is Decoration
mornin': you ain't forgot?
LINK
So't is, so't is.
Roger, your young man--ha! (_chuckling_) he come and axed me
was I a-goin' to the cemetery.
"Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?"
POLLY
He meant--to decorate the graves.
LINK
O' course;
but I must take my little laugh. I told him
I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble anyhow,
my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'.
I don't jest like t' talk about my legs.--
Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks,
Polly?
POLLY
Dear no! I told my boys and girls
to march up this way with the band. I said
I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how
to keep school in the woodpile here with you.
LINK
(_looking up at her proudly_)
Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye!
POLLY
(_caressing him_)
Schoolmaster, you, past seventy; that's smarter!
I tell 'em I learn from you, so's I can teach
my young folks what the study-books leave out.
LINK
Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'?
POLLY
No, _sir!_ We're goin' to celebrate right here,
and you're to teach me to keep school some more.
(_She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat._)
LINK
(_looking up_)
What's thar?
POLLY
Your teachin' rig.
(_She helps him on with it._)
LINK
The old blue coat!--
My, but I'd like to see the boys--(_gazing at the hat_) the Grand
Old Army Boys! (_dreamily_) Yes, we was boys: jest boys!
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.
(_She points to different heights and depressions, as_ LINK
_nods his approval._)