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 h.e.l.l, 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 G.o.d"s life a-snortin"
outn his nostrils, and h.e.l.l"s mischief laughin"
outn his eyes, and all the mornin" winds ablowin" _Glory Hallelujahs_, like bra.s.s music, from his mouth.--But never mind!
"T ain"t nothin": boys in blue ain"t bugles now.
Old bra.s.s gits rusty, and old underpinnin"
gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.
[_With smoldering fire._]
But jest the same--
[_His face convulses and he cries out, terribly--straining in his chair to rise._]
--for holy G.o.d, that band!
Why don"t they stop that band!
POLLY [_going_].
I"ll run and tell them.
Sit quiet, dear. I"ll be right back.
[_Glancing back anxiously, POLLY disappears outside. The approaching band begins to play "John Brown"s Body." LINK sits motionless, gripping his chair._]
LINK. _Set quiet!_ Dead folks don"t set, and livin" folks kin stand, and Link--he kin set quiet.--G.o.da"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-mold"rin" in the grave, John Brown"s body lies a-mold"rin" in the grave, John Brown"s body lies a-mold"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!"
[THE CURTAIN.]
WURZEL-FLUMMERY[34]
_A COMEDY IN ONE ACT_