BIJAH. Right from Oldtown, Polly, chuck full of patriotism and peace. POLLY. Seems to me those two words don't jine well, Bijah. Patriotism and fight make the best partnership. BIJAH. The fighting is all wrong, Polly. Do you see that flag? You bet, I'm proud of it. I've made a big wager that I can carry that flag from Oldtown to New Orleans. POLLY. How do you get along? BIJAH. Thus far, swimmingly; from Oldtown to Baltimore has been a triumphant march, but just here I've struck something. POLLY. From the looks of that eye, and the mud on that coat, I should say something had struck you. Bijah, you're a crank. Your peace and flag won't stir anything down this way. If you are not both suspended from a tree before you reach New Orleans, you may think yourself lucky. If your wits were as sharp and dazzling as your name, you would shoulder your gun and join that regiment. BIJAH. Oh, Polly, you're way off. No such work for me. I am the Standard Bearer. (_Takes flag._) Think of the glory that will shine like a halo about my name. When posterity shall gently drop a tear for memory's sake, and in the language of the poet thus speak of one you knew so well: There was a youth named Bijah Bright, Who gloriously did lead the fight. No sword or musket carried he To shed life's blood on land or sea; His honest arm the flag did wave, And urging on the soldiers brave, The cause was won: a noble fight, And thanks are due to Bijah Bright. POLLY (_beaming with admiration_). I declare, Bijah, jest as much of a poet as ever. Do you remember some of your poetry at the exhibition of the Oldtown School? BIJAH. Indeed I do. When old Deacon Sasafrass visited the school he always wanted something original; so, one day, thought I'd give it to him. Let me think—yes, I have it. (_Recites with awkward gestures._) Our yaller hen has broke her leg, Oh, never more she'll lay an egg. The brindle cow has gone plumb dry, And sister Sue has spoiled a pie. Thus earth is full of sin and sorrow, We're here to-day and gone to-morrow. Ha, ha, Polly! Those were good times in Oldtown. Do you remember them? POLLY. Do I? Don't I? BIJAH. When I thought you were the purtiest girl in town; when the sight of you in your best bib and tucker made me feel as though there were an ice-cream factory in full operation on one side, and a hot air furnace on the other. POLLY. Oh, Bijah! BIJAH. But times are changed. The girls are changed, but you, Polly, are still a purty— POLLY. Oh, Bijah! BIJAH. Old girl. POLLY (_indignantly_). Bijah!