Part 13

The one-act play has shown no tendency, however, to rival the short-story in the matter of local color. Kentucky, California, Iowa, Louisiana, to name but a few of the favored states which have served as rich backgrounds for many finely flavored narratives of American life, have been neglected as sources of dramatic material. But though Percy MacKaye may perhaps be matched with Mary Wilkins, there is no writer who has made notable use in the one-act play of localities, associated, for example, with the art of George W. Cable, Bret Harte, James Lane Allen, or Hamlin Garland. One of the paths of glory for the American dramatist lies undoubtedly in this direction.

GETTYSBURG

CHARACTERS

LINK TADBOURNE, _ox-yoke maker_. POLLY, _his grandniece_.

_The Place is country New Hampshire, at the present time._

_SCENE.--A woodshed, in the ell of a farm house._

_The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the apertures being slightly arched at the top. [In bad weather, these presumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand open now--swung back outward beyond sight.] Thus the nearer opening is the proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looks through the shed to the background--a grassy yard, a road with great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams._

_On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the house kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn. In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. On this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a small oil stove, with steaming kettle upon it._

_Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply is stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stove-wood and kindlings mixed with small chips on the floor, which is piled deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust._

_Not far from this mounded pile, at right center of the scene, stands a wooden arm-chair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in his shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white hair cropped close, and gray mustache of a faded black hue at the outer edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled round by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke and collar. Near him is a chopping-block._

_In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum and floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmurs in his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again. From the door, right, comes POLLY--a sweet-faced girl of seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. In one hand, she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat; over the other arm, a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing him asleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the chopping-block, goes to the bench and trims the wick of the oil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands near LINK, surveying the shed._

_On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certain order in its chaos: some of the splittings have been piled in irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust and chips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise like miniature valleys and hills.[33]_

[Footnote 33: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field annexed to the volume by Capt. R. K. Beecham, entitled _Gettysburg_, A. C. McClurg, 1911.]

_Taking up a hoe, POLLY--with careful steps--moves among the hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping and smoothing the little mounds with the hoe._

_As she does so, from far away, a bugle sounds._

LINK [_snapping his eyes wide open, sits up_]. Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly?

POLLY. Just a kitten-nap, I guess.

[_Laying the hoe down, she approaches._]

The yoke done?

LINK [_giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong_]. Thar! When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug, I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to--

[_Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the two with expert eye._]

and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip at birch, for ox-yokes.--Polly, are ye thar?

POLLY. Yes, Uncle Link.

LINK. What's that I used to sing ye? "Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on--" [_Chuckling._] We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!

POLLY. The kettle's boilin'.

LINK. Wall, then, steep him good.

[_POLLY takes from LINK the collar-thong, carries it to the work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box, which she then closes tight and connects--by a piece of hose--to the spout of the kettle. At the further end of the box, steam then emerges through a small hole._]

POLLY. You're feelin' smart to-day.

LINK. Smart!--Wall, if I could git a hull man to swap legs with me, mebbe I'd arn my keep. But this here settin' dead an' alive, without no legs, day in, day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats.

POLLY [_cheerfully_]. I guess you'll soon be walkin' round.

LINK. Not if that doctor feller has his say: He says I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan; and looks like he's 'bout right.--Nine months to-morrer, Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke.

POLLY [_pointing to the ox-yoke_]. You're fitter sittin' than most folks standin'.

LINK [_briskly_]. Oh, they can't keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's my second natur' sence I was a boy.

[_Again in the distance a bugle sounds. LINK starts._]

What's that?

POLLY. Why, that's the army veterans down to the graveyard. This is Decoration mornin': you ain't forgot?

LINK. So 'tis, so 'tis. Roger, your young man--ha! [_Chuckling._] He come and axed me was I agoin' to the cemetery. "Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?"

POLLY He meant--to decorate the graves.

LINK. O' course; but I must take my little laugh. I told him I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble anyhow, my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'. I don't jest like t' talk about my legs.-- Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks, Polly?

POLLY. Dear no! I told my boys and girls to march up this way with the band. I said I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how to keep school in the woodpile here with you.

LINK [_looking up at her proudly_]. Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye!

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.

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!

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'?

POLLY. At sunset, July second, Sixty-three.

LINK [_nodding, reminiscent_]. The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun: she set a dozen times that afternoon, red-yeller as a punkin jacko'lantern, rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke till she clean busted, like the other bombs, behind the hills.

POLLY. My! Wa'n't you never scart and wished you'd stayed t' home?

LINK. Scart? Wall, I wonder! Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars. I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,-- a dressy mister, span-new from the city-- layin' the law down: "All this _stars and stripes_," says he, "and _red and white and blue_ is rubbish, mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!" "I wan't t' know!" says I. "In Sixty-three, I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown I met him stumblin'--with two dead men's muskets for crutches--towards a bucket, full of ink-- water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell, he tuk the rest to wash his bullet holes.-- Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick, with _red and white and blue_, tore 'most t' tatters, a-danglin' from it." "Be you color sergeant?" says I. "Not me," says Link; "the sergeant's dead, but when he fell, he handed me this bit o' _rubbish_--red and white and blue." And Link he laughed. "What be you laughin' for?" says I. "Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!" says Link.

POLLY. What did the span-new mister say to that?

LINK. I didn't stop to listen. Them as never heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't guess what they be. [_Sitting up and blinking hard._] But this ain't keepin' school!

POLLY [_quietly_]. I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link.

LINK. The second day, 'fore sunset.

[_He takes the hoe and points with it._]

Yon's the Wheatfield. Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels. Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge behind 'em. Hancock--he's our general-- he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose the Ridge, and lose the Ridge--lose God-and-all!-- Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington, Abe Lincoln and the White House in one bite!-- So the Union, Polly,--me and you and Roger, your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam--is all thar--growin' in that Wheatfield.

POLLY [_smiling proudly_]. And they're growin' still!

LINK. Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls, thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers: gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat tops. And now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat, thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces, and grapplin' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke, and stingin' smother, and--up thar through the dark-- that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder!

[_In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial music of a brass band begins. Again LINK's face twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly growing louder, permeates the scene._]

POLLY. Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow the created world to act that awful?

LINK. Now, I wonder!--Cast your eye along this hoe:

[_He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron._]

Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?--That's the boy I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link," they call him, 'cause his legs is spry 's a squirrel's.-- Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day, keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.

[_Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe._]

If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you. But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein' them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized Link as his livin' image, and so kep him to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs, and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs, list'nin' to bugles--bugles--bugles, callin'.

[_LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music draws nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly._]

POLLY. Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind 'em.

LINK [_relaxing under her touch_]. No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct-- onct we was boys, onct we was boys--with legs. But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle. _Onct_, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin' outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin' outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds ablowin' _Glory Hallelujahs_, like brass music, from his mouth.--But never mind! 'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now. Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin' gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.

[_With smoldering fire._]

But jest the same--

[_His face convulses and he cries out, terribly--straining in his chair to rise._]

--for holy God, that band! Why don't they stop that band!

POLLY [_going_]. I'll run and tell them. Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back.

[_Glancing back anxiously, POLLY disappears outside. The approaching band begins to play "John Brown's Body." LINK sits motionless, gripping his chair._]

LINK. _Set quiet!_ Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand, and Link--he kin set quiet.--Goda'mighty, how _kin_ he set, and them a-marchin' thar with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin' home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown, a-singin' _Glory_ to ye! Jest look down: thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge: don't say ye disremember _them_! And thar's the colors: Look, he's picked 'em up--the sergeant's blood splotched 'em some--but thar they be, still flyin'! Link done that: Link--the spry boy, what they call Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step, have ye? [_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-mold'rin' in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mold'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._]

I'm comin', boys! Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap.

[_With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the woodpile._]

Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge! Jine in, jine in!

[_Swinging the flag._]

Hooray!--Hooray!--Hooray!

[_Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and children sing martially to the brass music._

_With his final cheer, LINK stumbles down from the mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked voice, jubilant, with the singers:_]

"--ry hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah, His truth is marchin' on!"

[THE CURTAIN.]

WURZEL-FLUMMERY[34]

_A COMEDY IN ONE ACT_

By A. A. MILNE

[Footnote 34: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States, and no one is allowed to produce this play without first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 28 West 28 Street, New York.]

Alan Alexander Milne was born January 18, 1882. He was a student at Westminster School, the library of which is familiar ground to every reader of Irving's _Sketch Book_. From there he proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge. On his graduation, he went into journalism in London. He was assistant editor of _Punch_ from 1906 to 1914. During the War he was a lieutenant in the Fourth Royal Warwickshire Regiment. In the introduction to his volume of _First Plays_, in which _Wurzel-Flummery_ appears, he gives the following whimsical account of his career as a dramatist: "These five plays [_The Lucky One_, _The Boy Comes Home_, _Belinda_, _The Red Feather_, _Wurzel-Flummery_] were written in the order in which they appear now, during the years 1916 and 1917. They would hardly have been written had it not been for the War, although only one of them is concerned with that subject. To his other responsibilities the Kaiser now adds this volume.

"For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but the recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing is a luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more expensive in time and money. When an article is written, the financial reward (and we may as well live as not) is a matter of certainty. A novelist, too, even if he is not in 'the front rank'--but I never heard of one who wasn't--can at least be sure of publication. But when a play is written, there is no certainty of anything save disillusionment.

"To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the morning. I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I could not afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the case was altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was soldiering, and my spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns played bridge and golf; that was one way of amusing oneself. Another way was--why not?--to write plays.

"So we began with _Wurzel-Flummery_. I say 'we,' because another is mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out for a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one could smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it was to discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in the next. We did not estimate the money or publicity which might come from this new venture; there has never been any serious thought of making money by my bridge-playing, nor desire for publicity when I am trying to play golf. But secretly, of course, we hoped. It was that which made it so much more exciting than any other game.

"Our hopes were realized to the following extent:

"Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in which form it was shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of 1917 I was offered the chance of production in a triple bill if I cut it down into a two-act play. To cut even a line is painful, but to cut thirty pages of one's first comedy, slaughtering whole characters on the way, has at least a certain morbid fascination. It appeared, therefore, in two acts; and one kindly critic embarrassed us by saying that a lesser artist would have written it in three acts, and most of the other critics annoyed us by saying that a greater artist would have written it in one act. However, I amused myself some months later by slaying another character--the office-boy, no less--thereby getting it down to one act, and was surprised to find that the one-act version was, after all, the best.... At least, I think it is.... At any rate, that is the version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am rather tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning to wonder if anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery at all. Possibly the whole thing is an invention."