(_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._)