(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)

But jest the same—­

(His face convulses and he cries out, terribly—­straining
in his chair to rise.)

—­for holy God, 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.—­God a’mighty,
how kin he set, and them a-marchin’ thar
with old John Brown?  Lord God, you ain’t forgot
the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin’