(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.)