Polly [caressing him].
School-master, you, past seventy; that's smarter! I tell 'em I learn from you, so's I can teach my young folks what the study-books leave out.
Link.
Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'?
Polly.
No Sir! We're goin' to celebrate right here, and you're to teach me to keep school some more.
[She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat.]
Link [looking up].
What's thar?
Polly. Your teachin' rig.
[She helps him on with it.]
Link. The old blue coat!—
My, but I'd like to see the boys: [Gazing at the hat.] the Grand Old Army Boys! [Dreamily.] Yes, we was boys: jest boys!
Polly, you tell your young folks, when they study the books, that we was nothin' else but boys jest fallin' in love, with best gals left t' home— the same as you; and when the shot was singin', we pulled their pictur's out, and prayed to them 'most more 'n the Allmighty.
[Link looks up suddenly—a strange light in his face. Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds.]
Thar she blows
Agin!
Polly.
They're marchin' to the graves with flowers.
Link.
My Godfrey! 't ain't so much thinkin' o' flowers and the young folks, their faces, and the blue line of old fellers marchin'—it's the music! that old brass voice a-callin'! Seems as though, legs or no legs, I'd have to up and foller to God-knows-whar, and holler—holler back to guns roarin' in the dark. No; durn it, no! I jest can't stan' the music.