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. Hancock--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 God-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 grasshoppers:
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 hell-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 shell with thunder!
(_In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial
music of a brass band begins. Again_ LINK'S _face
twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment
on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly
growing louder, permeates the scene._)
POLLY
Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow
the created world to act that awful?
LINK
Now,
I wonder!--Cast your eye along this hoe:
(_He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron._)
Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see
yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?--That's the boy
I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link,"
they call him, 'cause his legs is spry's a squirrel's.--
Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes
like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day,
keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.
(_Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe_)
If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you.
But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein'
them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps
o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized
Link as his livin' image, and so kep' him
to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs,
and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs,
list'nin' to bugles--bugles--bugles, callin'.
(LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music
draws nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly.)
POLLY
Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind'em.
LINK
(_relaxing under her touch_)
No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct--
onct we was boys, onct we was boys--with legs.
But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle.
_Onct_, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin'
outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin'
outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds
a-blowin' _Glory Hallelujahs_, like
brass music, from his mouth.--But never mind!
'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now.
Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin'
gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.
(_With smouldering fire_)