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 God, 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 brass 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!”