Cemetery Hill, Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here is Cemetery Ridge. LINK (_pointing to the little flag_) And colors flyin'! We _kep_ 'em flyin' thar, too, all three days, From start to finish. POLLY Have I learned 'em right? LINK _A_ number One, chick! Wait a mite: Culp's Hill: I don't jest spy Culp's Hill. POLLY There wa'n't enough kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay east there, towards the kitchen. LINK Let it go! That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep' it thar, too, till he got it squoze off by old Slocum. Let Culp's Hill lay for now.--Lend me your marker. (POLLY _hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches with it and digs in the chips._) Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So: smooth off them chips. (POLLY _does so with her foot._) You better guess't was deep As hell, that second day, come sundown.--Here, (_He hands back the hoe to her._) flat down the Wheatfield yonder. (POLLY _does so._) God a'mighty! That Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter than any pancake what you ever cooked, Polly; and't wa'n't no maple syrup neither was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black, all over it, that nightfall. POLLY Here's the road to Emmetsburg. LINK No,'t 'ain't: this here's the pike to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin', after an all-night march, jest in the nick to save our second day. The Emmetsburg road's thar.--Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'? POLLY At sunset, July second, sixty-three. LINK (_nodding, reminiscent_) The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun: she set a dozen times that afternoon, red-yeller as a punkin jack-o'-lantern, rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke till she clean busted, like the other bombs, behind the hills. POLLY My! Wa'n't you never scart and wished you'd stayed t' home?