Dress your line! The guide is right!
(The sounds of battle rise to a crescendo then fade to the silence of the woods)
FOURTH VOICE
(That of an elderly farmer)
Pray God they never march again
Across my farm, tearing the land to bits,—
Wheeling their guns and leaving broken men
Blasted and burned wherever shell-fire hits!
I have the papers now about the fight
That rolled across my orchard, ridge and hill!