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' home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown, a-singin' Glory to ye! Jest look down: thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge: don't say ye disremember them! And thar's the colors. Look, he's picked 'em up--the sergeant's blood splotched 'em some--but thar they be, still flyin'! Link done that: Link--the spry boy, what they call Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step, have ye? (_Again he cries out, beseechingly_) My God, why do You keep on marchin' and leave him settin' here? (_To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing the words of "John Brown's Body." At the sound,_ LINK'S _face becomes transformed with emotion, his body shakes, and his shoulders heave and straighten._) No!--I--_won't_--set! (_Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands._) Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line. Them voices--Lord, I guess you've brought along Your Sunday choir of young angel folks to help the boys out. (_Following the music with swaying arms_) Glory!--Never mind me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm goin' t' jine in, or bust! (_Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps--his one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as to unseen hands, that draw him--he totters toward the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where the children's are singing it._) "--a-mould'rin' in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave. John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave, But his soul goes--" (_Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries aloud, astounded_) Lord, Lord, my legs! Whar did Ye git my legs? (_Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously._) I'm comin', boys! Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap. (_With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the woodpile._) Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge! Jine in, jine in! (_Swinging the flag_) Hooray!--Hooray!--Hooray! (_Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and children sing martially to the brass music._