Polly. Over there—that's Seminary Ridge.
[She points to different heights and depressions, as Link nods his approval.]
Peach Orchard, Devil's Den, Round Top, the Wheatfield—
Link.
Lord, Lord, the Wheatfield!
Polly [continuing].
Cemetery Hill,
Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here
is Cemetery Ridge.
Link [pointing to the little flag].
And colors flyin'!
We kep 'em flyin' thar, too, all three days,
from start to finish.
Polly. Have I learned 'em right?
Link.
A number One, chick! Wait a mite: Culp's Hill:
I don't jest spy Culp's Hill.
Polly. There wa'n't enough
kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay
east there, towards the kitchen.
Link. Let it go!
That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar
and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep it thar,
too, till he got it squoze off by old Slocum.
Let Culp's Hill lay for now.—Lend me your marker.
[Polly hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches with it and digs in the chips.]
Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So:
smooth off them chips.
[Polly does so with her foot.]
You better guess 't was deep
as hell, that second day, come sundown.—Here,
[He hands back the hoe to her.]
flat down the Wheatfield yonder.
[Polly does so.]
Goda'mighty!
that Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter
than any pancake what you ever cooked,
Polly; and 't wan't no maple syrup neither
was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black
all over it, that nightfall.
Polly. Here's the road
to Emmetsburg.
Link. No, 'tain't: this here's the pike
to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin',
after an all-night march, jest in the nick
to save our second day. The Emmetsburg
road's thar.—Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'?