Another thousand of Maine's boys marching down into Dixie. Bless their dear hearts! If this keeps on much longer, there will be none left for the hopeful Down-East girls and full-blown spinsters, whose natural expectations are warm corners in the hearts of these brave heroes. What a queer lot of men. Some have left their sweethearts behind them, I suppose. Heigho! There's no one to leave me behind. When I think of the good times Down East, it just makes my mouth water. I'd give a week's wages to catch a glimpse of some familiar face. (_Coming down._) I wish I were a man. Nothing I'd like better than to join those ranks and march with them; but here I must stay and dust chairs (_dusts spitefully_) and tables. I know the military tic-tacs—no, that isn't right. I mean tactics. (_Executes manual with duster._) Present—arms—no—feathers. Order—feathers. Indeed, I'd like to, for my next winter's bonnet, if there were only some one to pay the bill. Right shoulder, feathers. (_Carries duster to left, in place of right._) Ha, ha, if any one could see me now, they would take me for a condensed, awkward squad. (_Music outside._ POLLY _marches up and down with duster at right shoulder_.) I can feel the military thrill down to the tips of my toes. Think of the excitement when the bugle calls, and you hear the cry, “Charge feathers—charge!” (_Charges with duster at door_ C., _into the face of_ BIJAH BRIGHT, _who appears with flag; he is bespattered with mud_.) BIJAH. Phew! pooh—ah, choh! (_Sneezes._) What are you trying to do, smother a fellow? Giving us the great Othello act, with me as Desdemona! (_Looks at_ POLLY.) Why, no!—yes, it is, Polly—Polly Primrose. POLLY. Bijah Bright! Well, I declare! BIJAH (_taking both of_ POLLY'S _hands_). Why, the sight of you is good for a pair of diseased optics. POLLY. But why are you here in this house? BIJAH. It must have been the magnetism of your bright eyes, Polly. When I was marching along, I felt so drawn towards this house, sez I to myself, sez I, here, Bijah, is the place to find rest for your weary bones, and rations for an aching void. And, behold, I find you, my long-lost treasure. (_Tries to embrace_ POLLY, _who steps aside_.) Ah, Polly Primrose, the way you've played tag with that vital organ of my being, the heart that beats for you alone, would frighten any other man, but I've jest made up my mind,— “A sweetheart's a sweetheart, As all the world knows, And Polly's my Polly, Wherever she goes.” POLLY. Don't be so sure of that, Mr. Bright. Don't flatter yourself that you are the only man that calls me, “My Polly.” BIJAH. Let me but find him. He'll wish he hadn't been born. POLLY (_laughing_). Same Bijah Bright. Don't be worried (_coquettishly_), for I think you will find me the same Polly. BIJAH (_taking both her hands_). Wal, now, that's something like. When the temperature of your society is at zero, it makes my very blood congeal. POLLY. Where did you come from?