Link says
The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun:
she set a dozen times that afternoon,
red-yeller as a punkin jack-o’-lantern,
rairin’ and pitchin’ through the roarin’ smoke
till she clean busted, like the other bombs,
behind the hills. 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’ 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.