Polly [goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming].
Uncle Link,
you want that I should steam this longer?
Link [absently].
Oh,
A kittleful, a kittleful.
Polly [coming over to him].
Now, then,
I'm ready for school.—I hope I've drawed the map all right.
Link.
Map? Oh, the map!
[Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods.]
Yes, thar she be:
old Gettysburg!
Polly.
I know the places—most.
Link.
So, do ye? Good, now: whar's your marker?
Polly [taking up the hoe].
Here.
Link.
Willoughby Run: whar's that?
Polly [points with the hoe toward the left of the woodpile].
That's farthest over next the barn door.
Link. My, how we fit the Johnnies
thar, the fust mornin'! Jest behind them willers,
acrost the Run, that's whar we captur'd Archer.
My, my!