THE SPEAKER’S

Ideal Entertainments;

FOR

Home, Church and School.

CONSISTING OF

Recitals, Dialogues and Dramas.

WRITTEN AND EDITED BY

GEORGE M. VICKERS.

With Annotations, Hints upon Gesture
and Dramatic Poses, by

FRANCES E. PEIRCE,

PRINCIPAL OF MT. VERNON INSTITUTE
OF ELOCUTION AND LANGUAGES, PHILADELPHIA.

S. I. BELL & CO.

PHILADELPHIA AND CHICAGO.

Copyright, 1892, by S. I. Bell.

INTRODUCTION.

In preparing this work for the public it has been our aim to choose the very best, and every selection has been made with a special view to elocutionary merits. The “Speakers’ Ideal” is composed of carefully selected pieces from the writings of well known authors, and as a source of supply to the giver of dramatic entertainments, from which they may obtain at once a suitable subject for declamation, recital, dialogue and drama, this volume is without a peer.

The work contains many new pieces not found in any other book, and we have been able to secure a number of selections in the original manuscript, which are here published for the first time. Most of the recitations are accompanied by Annotations for Gesture, by which the amateur, as well as the elocutionist, may be guided in the necessary action, and by a method so extremely simple that the novice who has never had the privilege of instructions in the art of elocution will be enabled to give that indispensable accompaniment, without which, there can be neither natural, oratorical, nor dramatical delivery. This important feature has been carefully prepared by one who stands at the head of the profession as an instructor of elocution, and is found in no other “Speaker.”

Another of the chief characteristics of this work is the large number of full-page and exquisitely engraved half-toned plates, which have been taken from life and produced at large expense expressly for this book. The “Speakers’ Ideal” contains every characteristic of a complete book of elocution, and is, strictly speaking, the only “Speaker” ever published.

The unprecedented success that has attended the sale of the first editions, is proof that our hope to supply a long-felt want has been fully realized, and it is with entire confidence in its merits that we present this work to the public.

THE PUBLISHERS.

NOTATION OF GESTURE.

As a tree without leaves, so is recitation without gesture; but the most beautiful pieces are sometimes marred and burlesqued by awkward or inappropriate action. Our object, therefore, in presenting our system of notation is not to teach gesture—for that can only be acquired from a teacher—but to guide the reciter in a general way.

Gestures are divided, 1st, into front, oblique, lateral and backward; and 2d, into descending, horizontal and ascending; for instance, if the hand is thrown to the front, it must take a position on a level with the shoulder, or above, or below, which three divisions constitute the positions last named. The same applies to the oblique, which lies anywhere between the front and the lateral; to the lateral, which, as its name indicates, lies to the side; and to the backward. These positions are designated by the following letters: D. F., descending front; D. O., descending oblique; D. L., descending lateral; D. B., descending backward; H. F., horizontal front; H. O., horizontal oblique; H. L., horizontal lateral; H. B., horizontal backward; A. F., ascending front; A. O., ascending oblique; A. L., ascending lateral; A. B., ascending backward. b placed before the above combinations indicates that both hands are used. When not mentioned to the contrary, the supine hand, palm upwards, is used. P. represents prone hand, or palm downward; V. vertical, or palm outward; Ind., index finger as in pointing. This must be carefully distinguished from P. Ind., which means Prone Index or the back of the hand upward, and finger pointing. Cl., expresses clinched hand or fist. Par. expresses both arms parallel towards right or left. If a gesture is illustrative and cannot be expressed by any of the above letters, it will be called special and designated by Sp. All gestures of a bold, descriptive, or emphatic character should be made from the shoulder, whilst unimportant or conversational gestures proceed from the elbow. Good taste dictates that a few gestures, properly made, are preferable to a large number crudely constructed.

Let your gestures be so modulated, and so accord with the sentiment, that they may seem a part of a perfect whole.

FRANCES L. PEIRCE.

The Gallant Fifty-First.

Then came the memorable order from Burnside, which must have thrilled every member of the regiment: “Tell Sturgis to send the Fifty-first Pennsylvania to take the bridge.”

The Dead Letter.

Gestures.

• [1] Locate person spoken to, slightly to left of front
• [2] Left H. O.
• [3] P. H. F.
• [4] H. B.
• [5] H. F.
• [6] V. H. O.
• [7] H. B.
• [8] H. Sweep.
• [9] B. Par. V. H. O.
• [10] B. D. O.
• [11] P. H. F.
• [12] H. L.
• [13] B. A. O.
• [14] B. D. O.
• [15] H. O.
• [16] Hands over eyes.
• [17] H. O.
• [18] B. P. H. O.
• [19] Hand to head.
• [20] H. F.
• [21] D. F.
• [22] Left H. F.
• [23] B. H. F.
• [24] Hand to heart
• [25] Clasp hands.
• [26] B. A. O.

PA.

I’ve got one of the best Pa’s in this world. Pa is very fond of me, too; in fact, no one ever comes to our house when Pa’s home that he don’t commence to praise me before he even asks the guest to be seated. Pa’s not rich, so we often have to make both ends meet by resorting to novel expedients; and even then, the ends don’t stay together worth speaking of. Pa’s memory is none of the best; poor, dear man, I’ve known him to eat two soft-boiled eggs while trying to determine whether or not he had seasoned them. The other day Pa brought young Judson, the lawyer, home to dinner; we had codfish and potatoes with warmed-up coffee from breakfast. Ma almost fainted. Judson said he doted on cod-fish—but then he is a lawyer—Ma trod on my foot—said she in a whisper, “Tell your father not to ask him to have more coffee.” Pa caught the word coffee. “Why, yes,” yelled out Pa, “Judson, my boy, pass over your cup!” I never felt so mortified in my life; there wasn’t a single drop in the pot!

“You must pardon us,” stammered Ma. “Never mind excuses,” interrupted Pa, “Pour out the nectar, Matilda—why—why—”

“Yes, why,”—mother’s face was scarlet—“it is why—why have you not had the hole in the bottom of this pot mended? the coffee’s all leaked out.” Poor ma! how I pitied her.

Last night the Higgins girls called to know if we liked the style of their new silk dresses—such stuck-up mortals I never saw—their father used to mend Pa’s boots—owes his fortune to a judicious use of chalk and an old pump—and styles himself a retired milk dealer. Pa happened to be in the parlor when the Higgins girls floated in. “Hannah,” said Pa, “go upstairs and get the silk dress you’ve just finished.” “Why Pa, how you do talk,” said I, my heart almost ceasing to beat. “Don’t be so modest, Hannah,” he continued, “show the young ladies how handy you are.” “Oh, Pa!” I cried, trying to get his mind off the dress, “did you ever see such beautiful bonnets?” The fates were against me. “Ladies,” said Pa, “that girl is worth her weight in gold; she’s just finished trimming over a last season’s hat, and has just made the handsomest dress out of her Ma’s old silk frock that ever a human eye rested on!” The Higgins girls giggled, and I—I could have sunk through the floor.

One day Pa said he would take us to a matinee. It was on a Monday, but Ma said she’d put off the washing, although the washerwoman declared she’d never put up with such tomfoolery again. Pa came home later than usual, and almost hurried us to death. At last we arrived at the theatre, streaming with perspiration. A grand opera was to be given, and the entrance was crowded. Pa began searching for his tickets. He first dove into one pocket, then into another; meantime we were elbowed and jostled by the throng. “Strange,” groaned Pa, “I put them in my vest pocket.” Just at that moment Judson and his two sisters alighted from a hack. Pa turned white as chalk, then red as a canned lobster. “Come, quick,” he gasped, “this way.” We followed him to the corner. “What’s the matter, dearie?” asked Ma. “Why,” groaned Pa, “Judson’s got my tickets. I gave them to him last night, but forgot all about it until he just now jumped out of the hack.” So we lost that opera and a good washerwoman, too. Still, Pa’s awful nice.

—Geo. M. Vickers.

Dying to Win.

Gestures.

• [27] H. O.
• [28] Hand raised to listen.
• [29] H. O.
• [30] Clasp hands.
• [31] H. F.
• [32] B. V. H. F.
• [33] A. O.
• [34] H. O.
• [35] D. L.
• [36] P. Ind. H. O.
• [37] Ver. H. L.
• [38] Look up.
• [39] B. H. F.
• [40] Hand to brow.
• [41] B. H. F.
• [42] Shiver.
• [43] Ind. H. O.
• [44] B. H. F.
• [45] Kneel.
• [46] Clasp hands.
• [47] B. Par. H. O.
• [48] B. A. O.
• [49] H. O.
• [50] V. A. Sweep.

LITTLE BROWN EYES.

Many years ago there lived in a tiny cottage, a widow and her two children, Frank and Edith. The cottage stood by the roadside, not far from a village, and was almost hidden from view by the pretty roses and vines that clung to its sides.

One warm summer afternoon, when Frank was away to the village with his donkey and cart, and the widow was busy sewing in the back part of the cottage, little Edith, who had been weaving a wreath of flowers, lay fast asleep on the front porch, shaded from the rays of the sun by the arbor that covered the door. She lay there with her long golden hair partly hiding her pretty face, with the unfinished wreath still held in her hands, and her little straw hat filled with buds and sprays, upset at her side.

Now, the road that passed the cottage was much used by travelers, as it led in both directions to large cities; but on this particular afternoon not a human being, nor an animal, nor a vehicle of any sort could be seen on its white, gleaming surface; and save the drone of a passing bee, or an occasional chirp from a cricket under the porch, not a sound broke the deep stillness. Even the birds seemed to be dozing, so nap-inspiring was that sultry summer afternoon.

An hour later and Edith was still sleeping, when the distant rumble of wheels could be heard. They were yet a long way down the road, although from their peculiar rattle it was evident they belonged to a light wagon—perhaps some farmer returning from market. Presently a cloud of white dust rose above the trees and indicated the point reached by the wagon, but the latter could not yet be seen from the cottage on account of the intervening foliage that skirted the roadside. A few moments later an odd-looking, top-heavy vehicle, drawn by two lank horses, emerged into view. Behind the wagon, mounted on a mule, rode a dark-visaged man.

When the wagon arrived in front of the house it stopped, and the man on the mule advanced to the garden fence, dismounted, and threw his reins over the gate post. He then opened the gate, and was about to pass to the rear of the cottage when he spied little Edith. The slanting sunbeams had crept so close to her face that it was only a question of a few moments when the bright glare would end her sleep.

The man paused and glanced cautiously about him; then, taking another look at Edith, he stealthily moved on until he reached the back part of the house. The widow sat in a large arm-chair near the kitchen door, which was open. In her lap lay an old garment that she had been mending; the cool breeze that came through the door from the front of the house blew the pendant honey-suckle against her cheek, but she heeded it not, for she, too, like little Edith, had succumbed to the influence of the sleepy afternoon.

The dark-visaged man no sooner took in the situation than he quickly, but quietly, returned to the wagon and said some strange words to a big, stupid-looking fellow who was perched on the front seat of the odd-shaped vehicle, and from whose hands dangled the lines of the lank horses. The fellow stood up, and shading his eyes with his huge, brawny hand, peered toward the house: then fastening his lines to a hook in the wagon bow, he jumped lightly to the ground and followed his companion to where little Edith lay sleeping.

In the back portion of the wagon sat two persons; one was an old woman with a swarthy, wrinkled face, and the other was a beautiful little girl about ten years of age. Her hair was not black as was that of the old woman, it was of a rich chestnut hue, and her complexion, although darkened by the sun, was extremely fair; but her eyes! oh, they were the rarest of brown eyes! and as she turned them inquiringly towards the old crone, they seemed like pansies wet with dew; so velvety, so liquid. Without saying a word, she let her long silken lashes drop until her lovely eyes were fixed upon the blankets that lay at her feet. The old woman was restless and looked through the curtain windows towards the cottage.

Mean while the men had reached the porch. Their movements were noiseless and cat-like. The dark-visaged man drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and the stupid looking fellow held a stout cord in his right hand. In an instant they gagged and bound little Edith and rapidly bore her to the rear of the wagon, when, opening the leather door, they handed her struggling form to the old crone, who stood ready to receive her. Quickly shutting the wagon door, the stupid-looking fellow mounted his seat, the dark-visaged man leaped upon the back of his mule, and in a twinkling the gypsies had disappeared behind a bend in the road.

As soon as the little girl with brown eyes saw the men bring Edith to the wagon she trembled and began to weep. The old crone shook her finger at her and bade her to have a care what she did. Then turning to Edith she said, “I will remove the gag from your mouth if you promise not to make any noise.” Edith, who was almost frightened to death, nodded her head whereupon the old crone untied the handkerchief not from kindness, but fear that the child would suffocate. Poor Edith sobbed as though her heart would break, and more than once looked appealingly at the brown-eyed girl. The latter, whenever the crone turned her head, glanced at Edith and tried in every possible way to mutely assure her of her sympathy and friendship.

The gypsies drove very fast for several miles, when they suddenly left the main road and turned into a narrow lane that led through a dense forest. The horses were then allowed to slacken their speed. After an hour’s drive the party came upon a gypsy encampment in an open space. The forest trees formed a semi-circle about the sides and rear of the camp while the front was somewhat protected from view by the wagons, which were ranged on a line with the lane.

The lank horses neighed as they entered the clearing, and in a moment the wagon was surrounded by a swarm of tawny-skinned people, men, women and children. Without speaking a word to any one, save the crone, the dark-visaged man led Edith and the brown-eyed little girl to a tent which they entered. “Now,” said he, for the first time speaking to Edith, “if you are a good girl, you will be treated well, but if you are a cross and troublesome, look out! And you, Little Brown Eyes,” he: continued, “see that your mate eats her supper when it comes. That’s all.” He then left them.

Edith advanced to the little girl and was about to speak, when the latter raised her finger, shook her head, and pointed to the door. Edith looked in the direction indicated, and saw the old crone seated without, just in the act of lighting her pipe. “You can talk, but speak low; old Myra will try to hear what we say,” and the little brown-eyed girl kissed Edith on the forehead.

“Oh, I am so dreadfully frightened,” whispered Edith, “will they never take me home again?” “I cannot tell,” replied the child. “I, too, was taken from my home, a long, long time ago; but Myra and Ike—that was Ike who came with us to the tent—say they will take me home some day. My name is Mary, yet they call me Little Brown Eyes; maybe they’ll call you Little Blue Eyes.”

This conversation was cut short by the entrance of a gypsy boy, who brought two tin plates of chicken stew, some bread and a big bowl of milk. He said nothing, merely placing their supper on the ground, when he walked out again without so much as looking at them. Little Brown Eyes sat on one end of an empty sack and motioned Edith to sit on the other end; which she did.

She little girls, in spite of their low spirits, could not resist the savory smell of the stew, for they were very hungry, and in a short time nothing remained of what the gypsy boy brought them except the empty bowls and the two tin plates. All at once there was a great noise in the camp. The tramping of horses’ feet could be heard, and the voices of men shouting; what could it mean? The little girls looked at one another in utter wonderment. “Let us peep out,” said Little Brown Eyes, and raising one corner of the canvas they looked out. Everything was in confusion. A body of horsemen were pulling down the tents, some of the gypsies were fleeing to the woods, while others were opposing the horsemen with all their might. Just then the dark-visaged man and Myra entered the tent. “Come, quick,” yelled the man, “this way,” and taking hold of each little girl, he pulled them to the door. Edith uttered a scream. Immediately the horsemen galloped toward them. “My papa! my papa!” cried Little Brown Eyes. A fine looking gentleman leaped from his horse, and in a moment his daughter was clasped in his arms. “Take these people prisoners,” said he, “they shall pay dearly for kidnapping my daughter. Who is this?” he continued, looking at Edith. “This, papa, is a little girl Ike stole to-day, as she lay asleep on her front porch.” “Poor child, we must return her to her parents,” spoke Little Brown Eyes’ papa; “come, we will go away from here at once.” So the little girls were led away to the lane where stood waiting a splendid carriage. “Oh, see! there comes brother Frank in his donkey-cart,” and clapping her hands with joy, Edith pointed down the lane, where, sure enough, her brother came jogging along as complacently as if nothing had happened.

The rest of the horsemen rode up to the carriage, and were about to start, when one of their number said, “Look! we have fixed the gypsies.” All looked toward the camp. It was in a blaze; both tents and wagons were being devoured by the red-tongued flames. “Why, Edith,” shouted Frank, who had just reached the carriage, “what on earth are you doing here?” The heat from the burning camp became so intense that Edith’s face was almost scorched, “Edith,” shouted Frank, louder than before. Edith looked at her brother, rubbed her eyes, and then looked again. “Where are the gypsies?” she asked—“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Frank, “you have been dreaming; you are almost baked by the sun.”

—Geo. M. Vickers.

The Last Salute.

Studying For The Contest.

Oh dear! If ever I try to learn another piece I hope to be swallowed by a whale ten times the size of the one that lunched on Jonah. Here I’ve been three weeks trying to get “The Flight of the Hottentots” by heart, and to-morrow night I am to recite at the contest; but I’m bound that that squint-eyed Caddy Screech shall not out-do me this time. Well, here it goes again: [Reads from the book without gesture.]

Oh, grief! now for the gestures: [With hesitation as though forgetting lines.]

Confound[52] the gestures! they bother me worse than anything else. Why didn’t the fool that wrote the piece say which way they stole, up[53] a hill, down[54] a hill, or across[55] the road? Well, I’ll try the next two lines.

They must have been acrobats to get over the ground in that shape; I’m desperate, I am!

No; I mustn’t put my finger up like that.[60] Why should a person when alone be required to do it? Am I to warn myself to listen when I have ears? or if at all necessary, why not do it effectually and hold up both fingers, thus?[61] I’ll skip that part.

Now this is a puzzler.

Was it a whoop, a yell, a shriek, a halloo—but fiddle! Who ever heard a sentry cry? Why soldiers are brave men, and never weep. That is unquestionably a poetical li-cence.

What on earth were the drums rolled for? It looks to me as though the Hottentots were drummed out of camp.

I don’t believe there was a flight of the Hottentots. What authority[63] is there for the flight? What made them fly anyhow? Well, I must move on:

That’s better. The Principal could not beat that, particularly the Behold, and the s-w-i-f-t. Next comes the climax—a long respiration, and—and—

Now I object to this vague style of literature. The poet is silent as to how they reached it. With their hands, thus![69] or with their feet, thus![70] or on horseback, with a whoa![71] whoa! Dobbin? How am I to gesticulate correctly, not knowing the facts? I’ll do the poem to suit myself, and if I fail to win the prize, it will be through the stupidity of the judges, so there!

Geo. M. Vickers.

Gestures.

• [51] Uncertain motions of hand.
• [52] D. F.
• [53] A. O.
• [54] D. O.
• [55] H. F.
• [56] P. D. F.
• [57] B. to imitate leaping.
• [58] H. O.
• [59] Index finger raised to listen.
• [60] Turn finger round and look at it.
• [61] Raise index finger of both hands.
• [62] D. L.
• [63] H. F.
• [64] Left H. O.
• [65] H. O.
• [66] Left H. O.
• [67] H. O.
• [68] B. V. Par. H. O.
• [69] Special.
• [70] Run.
• [71] H. F. B. draw back.

Crazy Nell.

“Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon us!”

Sir Rupert’s Wife.

Civilization.

As Discovered by Professor Peekwell, Samuel Searcher And Philip Deadlight.

Professor.—Civilization is the science of discontent.

Searcher.—How do you make that out?

Professor.—Gentlemen, allow me to explain. In the first place, all that man requires on this terrestrial ball can be expressed in three words, namely: food, shelter and raiment.

Searcher.—How about a wife?

Deadlight.—And segars?

Professor.—I use the term man as including the human race.

Searcher.—Well, go on.

Deadlight.—I’m ashamed of you, Professor; would you have us go back to savage life?

Professor.—Yes, but only in fancy, for the purpose of illustration. Let us drop down on a remote island in the Indian Ocean. It is night-fall. The last rosy tints of sunset are fading from the western sky. The murmur of the distant surf mingles with the soft lullaby of the Indian mother who soothes her babe to sleep.

Searcher.—Why didn’t the goose use soothing syrup?

Deadlight.—Or a cradle?

Professor.—Beneath a tall palm, circled about the embers of a dying fire, sit the tawny natives. They are listening to the words that fall from the lips of an aged chief. With rapture they hang upon the oft-told legend of the isle. In their hearts they wonder at the old man’s wisdom. As he dilates upon their by-gone deeds, and their present might, their eyes involuntarily wander toward the rich foliage that gently sways on yonder high hill top; now they glance at the bright stars that peep forth from the upper blue, and now at the dim ocean that stretches away on either hand like a desert waste. Contentment almost perfect sits on every brow. Each savage has his spear, his hut of twigs: thus the Great Creator hath set them to fulfill their mission; and yet the spear and hut are the initial steps in the march of civilization; only luxury lies beyond them; comparative luxury is the acme of civilization.

Searcher.—You’re a crank!

Deadlight.—No, he’s a philosopher. Think of the blessings of savage life! No creditors to ring your door bell, and make you leap out of your chair with consternation.

Searcher.—That is a point.

Deadlight.—Then there’s no fashion to ruin a man every time the seasons change. Look at that bonnet yonder! I’ll wager it cost thirty dollars.

Searcher.—And that dude’s coat, to say nothing of his monstrous collar.

Professor.—Hold on——

Deadlight.—And there’s no bank cashier to skip away with your limited balance.

Professor.—Hold on, I say. Civilization is good; it elevates mankind; but the higher our civilization the greater our wants; therefore civilization is the science of discontent.

Searcher.—Humph!

Deadlight.—Ahem!

Professor.—We will now adjourn.

Geo. M. Vickers.

Getting Ready.

Characters.

Nicholas Neverslip, a modern husband.

Patrick Dolan, an Irish lad.

Matilda, Neverslip’s wife.

Miss Spyall, a gossip.

Biddy Crogan, a domestic.

Scene:—A drawing room. Time, evening. Table and two chairs, C. Nicholas discovered standing near L. E. with cane and gloves in his hands: he calls to his wife, who is supposed to be up stairs dressing for the opera.

Nicholas.—My dear, it is half-past seven; do hurry; I am sure we will be late.

Matilda.—I am coming—be with you in one minute. Has Biddy fastened the back gate?

Nicholas (aside).—I know we’ll be late (calls), Biddy! (crosses to R. E.)

Biddy.—I’m here, sur. [Enter Biddy R. E.] What do you want wid me, sur?

Nicholas.—Biddy, is the back gate fastened?

Biddy.—I’ll see, sur, (turns to go).

Nicholas.—Biddy!

Biddy.—Sur!

Nicholas.—Biddy, I am going to the opera; that is, we are, Mrs. Neverslip and myself.

Matilda (calls).—Nicholas!

Nicholas.—Well, what’s the matter?

Matilda.—Where did you lay my fan?

Nicholas.—I never touched your fan. (looks at his watch.) It is twenty minutes to eight; I declare we will be late.

Biddy (aside).—I wonder if he manes to keep me shtandin’ here all night?

Nicholas (to Matilda).—I am going!

Matilda.—Here I come.

Nicholas.—It is time you were coming.

Matilda.—Oh, dear!

Nicholas.—What’s the matter?

Matilda.—Oh, you’ve hurried me so that I’ve gone and dressed without my fichu; I can never go without it.

Nicholas (aside).—Confound her fish-hook. (aloud) Snails and turtles! are you never coming?

Biddy (aside).—I’m nather a gate post nur a clothes prop. (aloud) Mr. Neverslip, I’ll be goin’ to the kitchen; I lift the banes on the sthove; I think they’re burnin’. [Exit Biddy R. E.]

Nicholas.—For mercy sake do come.

Matilda (singing).—I am coming, darling, coming——

Nicholas.—How provokingly cool you are. [Enter Matilda L. E.]

Matilda.—Now, my dear, we’ll be off. [Both start toward L. E.] Why, where’s your hat?

Nicholas (feels his head).—Good gracious! It is up stairs—Matilda, dear, will you get it for me?

Matilda.—You cruel man——(knock heard from without.)

Both.—Horrors! Some one at the door!

Nicholas.—Biddy!

Biddy.—Ay, sur! [Enter Biddy R. E.]

Nicholas.—Biddy, we’re out.

Biddy.—Yer what?

Nicholas.—We’re out; that is, we soon will be. We do not wish to see anyone—you comprehend?

Biddy (angrily).—Don’t want to see anyone I comprehend! Sur, I’m an honest Irish girl, and I niver comprehended anybody. (arms akimbo) Niver!

[Prolonged knock at the door.]

Nicholas.—Go to the door and say we’re out!

Biddy (aside).—The man is surely out of his head. [Exit Biddy L. E.]

Matilda.—Oh my! we’ll never get off.

Nicholas.—My dear it’s all your own fault.

Matilda (puts handkerchief to eyes).—Dear, dear! Nicholas. Hark!

Miss Spyall (from without).—Take this card to——

Biddy (from without).—They’re out, mum.

Miss Spyall.—Then I’ll just step in a moment and write a line or two.

Biddy.—But they’re out!

Matilda.—Oh grief! It is that awful Spyall; good-bye opera to-night.

Nicholas.—We might as well give up now.

[Enter Biddy L. E. walking backward followed by Miss Spyall.]

Miss Spyall (aside).—Out of the street; ah! I understand! (Extends hands to Nicholas and Matilda)—(aloud) How delighted I am to see you! What! going out?

Biddy.—Yis, out; they’re out—outward bound, I forgot part of the wurruds.

Nicholas.—Silence, Bridget!

Matilda.—We need you no longer, Biddy.

Biddy.—Indade, ye’ll give me two wakes’ notice. I’ll not lave now.

Matilda.—I mean we do not need you here. You may go to the kitchen. Oh, bother! My hair is coming down. Biddy get me a hair-pin, quick! [Exit Biddy R. E.]

Miss Spyall.—What a beautiful dress; is it all silk?

Nicholas.—Part muslin, Miss.

Matilda.—Nicholas, you shock me.

Nicholas (Pulls out watch and starts to go).—Oh, oh, oh!

Miss Spyall.—Going to church?

Nicholas.—No, not to church.

Miss Spyall.—Oh, I see; the museum.

Nicholas.—We have an engagement.

Miss Spyall.—A wedding? That’s it! I know. Who is it? Do tell me if it is Nancy Beadle? I thought she and John——

Matilda.—My husband and I are about going down town on important business, it is time we were there now.

Miss Spyall.—Anything important? You know I can be trusted.

Nicholas.—Gone! gone! gone!

Miss Spyall.—Hey?

Matilda.—Miss Spyall, you will please excuse me this evening, we must go at once.

[Enter Biddy R. E. with, clothes-pins in each hand.]

Nicholas (pointing to watch).—We’ve lost our seats. (Matilda and Miss Spyall take seats.)

Biddy (to Nicholas).—Niver moind me; still, I’ll bring two chairs from the dining-room if ye insist. (To Matilda) Here’s the puns, mum.

Matilda.—Stupid girl, these are clothes-pins.

Miss Spyall.—What a silly creature.

Biddy (aside).—The spalpeen!

Nicholas.—Excuse me. I must get my hat. [Exit L. E.]

Matilda.—Oh, he’s a darling man!

Miss Spyall.—Spe-len-did!(A crash heard.)

Matilda.—What have you done?

Nicholas (groans).—Broken my shins, smashed my hat and upset your toilet stand!

Matilda.—You wretch-edly unfortunate man.

[Enter Nicholas L. E. limping with smashed hat in hand.]

Miss Spyall.—I must be going.

Matilda.—We are going to the opera.

Nicholas.—To hear the final chorus.

Miss Spyall.—How delightful!

Matilda.—Biddy, keep a sharp look out.

[Exit all except Biddy L. E.]

Biddy.—Yis, I’ll kape a sharp look out. I’ll first take a look at the back gate. Poor Pat’s been waitin’ at that same gate for a whole hour; faith he’s stharved wid the cold (starts and listens) Arrah, what’s that? Sure some one’s in the kitchen. I hear a brogan on the stairs—the saints protect me. [Enter Pat R. E., looking around cautiously.] Oh, Pat Dolan! How dare ye frighten me loike that? How did ye enter the house?—What if the folks had been in?

Pat.—Whist, me darlin’; I saw them lave by the front door, and in the wink of an eye, its meself that lepped over the fince; I thried the back door, it was unlatched, and here I am, Biddy dear!

Biddy.—Niver do the loikes of that again. You might be shot for a burglar or a dynamiter.

Pat. (sitting at table).—Niver fear, Biddy dear; go ye and bring a crust of bread and sup of—of something stronger than tay, if yer have it; sure I’ve room here for a loaf, and I’m thrimblin’ wid wakeness——

Biddy.—I’ll see what’s lift in the pantry. Be aisy till I come back. (Starts to go.)

Pat.—Biddy!

Biddy.—What, darlint? (Pauses.)

Pat.—Do ye hear anything?

Biddy.—Its the Niverslips! Run for your life!

Pat.—Be aisy; it’s me poor heart beatin’; and nothin’ more. It always bates whin I see that face.

Biddy (Looks over her shoulder).—What face? I see no face!

Pat.—Don’t be a greenhorn. I mane your own lovely countenance.

Biddy.—Oh, ye blarney! [Exit R. E.]

Pat. (Rises from chair and walks up and down the stage).—Humph! this is a very foine house. It lacks the comforts of a home, howiver, for there’s not the sign of a pipe or a ’bacca bowl about the room. They’re evidently mane people.

[Enter Biddy R. E. carrying tray, on which are loaf of bread, a knife, a black bottle and two glasses.]

Look at that now! If that isn’t the tip of hospitality my name’s not Patrick Dolan.

Biddy (places tray on table).—Now, Pat, ye must not thrifle over the sup, (fills glass from bottle) but drink it at once. It would niver do to have the folks foind ye here.

Pat (takes glass).—Here’s to our wedding day, (drinks) Oh! ah! (jumps to his feet and runs about stage holding his throat) I’m pizened, I’m kilt.

Biddy (following him about).—Shpeak, shpeak, me darlint Pat.

Pat (gasping and pointing to bottle).—Look—look—look at that! What’s in the bottle?

Biddy.—Sure I can’t read. (Hands bottle to Pat.)

Pat.—Saint Patrick defind me! (reads) “Pure Jamaica Ginger,” Oh! its atin me up! (Noise heard without.)

Biddy.—Hark! (Both listen.)

Nicholas (from without).—We should have taken an umbrella; hurry in or we shall be drowned with the rain.

Pat (agitated).—Put me away! hide me! cover me up!

Biddy.—Run! No—shtop—they’re here! get under the table.

Pat (crawls under table).—Bad luck to the rain!

Biddy.—Arrah! What shall I do? He’s opening the door wid the noight key. Kape shtill, Pat.

Nicholas.—Walk in Miss Spyall; it is only a shower.

[Enter Neverslip, Matilda and Miss Spyall L. E.]

Miss Spyall (aside).—Refreshments, as I live! (Aloud) I feel real chilly! If I were home I’d have a bowl of hot tea, or something warm.

Biddy.—I was thinkin’ mum, that ye might be cold.

Matilda.—What’s that, Biddy?

Biddy.—I thought ye’d need a warrum drink and a bite, so I’ve the bottle and bread handy for yez. (Points to bottle.)

Nicholas (takes bottle).—Jamaica Ginger.

Matilda.—The idea! Bread and ginger. Why, Biddy, you are certainly becoming insane.

Miss Spyall (aside).—I thought they were too mean to have cake and wine, I thought it was a pound cake. How disappointed and hungry I feel. (Aloud) I wonder if it still rains?

Nicholas.—Be seated, ladies. Biddy, go to the door, and see if it has stopped raining.—(Matilda and Miss Spyall take seats at table).

I will see if I can find an umbrella for Miss Spyall. [Exit L. E.]

Pat.—(Pat’s head rises slowly from behind table).

Miss Spyall.—Does Mr. Neverslip smoke much?

Matilda.—Never at all. Why do you ask?

Miss Spyall.—I thought I detected a strong odor of an old pipe.

Pat.—(aside) Ye spalpeen! (Pulls her ear and stoops behind table).

Miss Spyall.—Oh! (indignantly).—Don’t do that again. I dislike such familiarity.

Matilda (astonished).—Why, what’s the matter with you?

Miss Spyall.—I guess if I were to pull your ear you would know how it feels. There! (They turn their backs to each other angrily).

(Pat peeps from under table and pulls Matilda’s ear).

Matilda (springing to her feet).—You impudent gossip! How dare you? (rubs her ear) If you want exercise, try pedestrianism; I will excuse your presence. (Points to door).

Miss Spyall (rising and backing off).—I am shocked beyond expression. (aside) If I only get out—the woman’s surely mad.

[Enter Nicholas L. E. with umbrella.]

Matilda.—My dear, give Miss Spyall the umbrella; she is surely ill and should get home with all possible speed.

Miss Spyall.—Not at all, not at all, sir; it is your insolent wife who needs your attention.

Nicholas.—What is the meaning of such singular language? (picks up bottle) You have not been tampering with this?

[Enters Biddy R. E. holding shawl in her hands.]

Biddy.—Look at me shplendid shawl! An illigant present that oi’ve just received. (unfolds shawl and advances towards rear of table.)

Nicholas.—Some other time, Biddy; we are engaged at present.

Miss Spyall (aside).—The whole family are certainly crazy.

Matilda.—I’m in no humor to look at shawls; I prefer taking a dissolving view of somebody’s back. (looks at Miss Spyall.)

Biddy (holds up shawl with both hands).—Pat, get behind the shawl.

Pat.—(crawls behind the shawl, screens himself from view, and moves off with Biddy).

Biddy. (backing towards the door)—It shows better at a distance, mum.

Nicholas. (advancing to Biddy).—This must cease.

Biddy.—Don’t come too close; ye’ll shpoil the effect.

Matilda.—Take the shawl from her.

Nicholas.—Let me have it. (pulls shawl from Biddy, exposing Pat to view).

Pat (bowing).—Yez’ll pardon me, but I was always bashful.

Nicholas.—Explain yourself, at once!

Matilda.—Look after the teaspoons!

Miss Spyall (aside).—Here’s a nut to crack! Here’s a scandal.

Biddy (crying and holding apron to eyes).—I’ll tell yez the truth. Patsy and meself are engaged to be married, and seein’ as I was to be lift alone in this big barn of a house, an’ bein’ timid, the poor man jist happened in to kape me company for a few minutes.

Pat.—What she says is intirely true, your honors; it’s meself that can bring a reference the lingth of me arrum.

Nicholas.—Enough. Biddy is too good a girl to be guilty of even a wrong thought. Our spoons are safe, and I (all advancing to front) have but one suggestion to make, that in future you entertain him in the kitchen, where you will not be likely to be disturbed by unwelcome visitors.

Matilda.—If I thought I would be free from unwelcome visitors (looking at Miss Spyall) I’d go to the kitchen too.

Pat.—The nixt kitchen we mate in will be the kitchen of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Dolan; how do ye loike that?

Miss Spyall (aside).—Well I’m supplied with a lot of fresh news anyhow. (All take positions.)

NICHOLAS.—And as there appears to be a wedding near at hand, we must prepare for it; so we’ll say good night—and dream of getting ready.

[CURTAIN.]

Geo. M. Vickers.

The Humors of Elocution

Sitting in our Library some few weeks ago we were startled by a resounding knock upon the door, and in answer to our summons, “Come in,” a large woman entered, followed by a bouncing girl of seventeen or thereabouts. The costumes of both bespoke them to be just from the rural districts. After a courtesy from the woman, followed by a fac-simile from the girl, the former said: “We’ve heard that you was a good hand at learnin’ people fur to speak pieces, and Samanthy here hez to spout at the next meetin’ of our Lyceum, and she wants you fur to larn her somethin’ funny. You see, all the young folks down our way has gone just cracked over speakin’ pieces, and the school ma’am has been coachin’ ’em, but Samanthy wants to do better nor the rest, and wants to hev it to say that she has took lessons from a reg’lar purfessor, so I thought if you would find her a piece and coach her on it, I wouldn’t begrudge a quarter of a dollar, even if I has to save it out of my egg-money, then if she’ll hold on to what she larns she can go ahead of the hull caboodle of ’em.” Seeing in the credulous face of the old woman a rich chance for some fun at her expense we said: “Is it howld on ye say? An’ didn’t I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke intoirely, an’ me wastin’ that thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands.” “Oh, law!” exclaimed the old woman, “is elocution so bad on you as that, but you don’t seem to look the wuss for it now.” “Seems! madam, nay, it is! I know not seems! Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.” “Oh, I catch your meanin’ now. You mean you was thin and then you got fleshy. That’s just like my husband’s sister’s son’s wife. You see she was always kind o’ sickly, but she was such a shrew.”—“Oh, yes, ’tis about twenty years since Abel-Law, a short, round-favored, merry old soldier of the Revolutionary war was wedded to a most abominable shrew.” “No marm, you’re mistaken, her husband’s name was Timothy Titcomb, and he never was a soldier, but he was jest like a rollin’ stone, he never made nothin’—” “Off a rollin’ shtone vas der root of all efil, und a settin’ hens vould catch der early vorm by chance der usual vay, alzo der early bird vould not got fat on moss ofer he don’t had vorms, ain’t it?” The girl who had been standing at one side with her mouth wide open, here pulled her mother’s sleeve and whimpered, “Mom, let’s go. I’m afeared! I think that woman’s mad.” We turned upon her with—

Samantha subsided and flew behind her mother like a chicken behind an old hen. The old woman laid her hand tenderly on our shoulder, and said sympathizingly: “Poor creetur she’s lost a child; I think I’d go crazy, too, if I lost Samanthy. Poor lamb!”

“Massy sakes!” cried the woman, “what do you call yourself, Dutch, Irish or American?” “My father and mother are Irish, and I am Irish too.” “Mon dieu, madame, vat you please.”

The woman then said, “Samanthy, I think it is time we was takin’ the train. I don’t think I could trust you to come here alone. Good day, marm, we must be goin’. I would like to send you some of my yarb tea. Its powerful soothin’ to the nerves.”

By this time she had the door shut, but she went to some of the neighbors and asked if our place was not a private lunatic asylum.

F. Lizzie Peirce.

The Reason Why.

Can anybody tell why, when Eve was manufactured from one of Adam’s ribs, a hired girl wasn’t made at the same time to wait on her?

We can, easily. Because Adam never came whining to Eve with a ragged stocking to be darned, a collar button to be sewed on, or a glove to be mended “right away quick now.” Because he never read the newspaper until the sun got down behind the palm trees, and then stretched himself, yawning out, “Ain’t supper most ready, my dear.” Not he. He made the fire and hung over it the tea-kettle himself we’ll venture, and pulled the radishes and peeled the bananas, and did everything else that he ought to. He milked the cows and fed the chickens and looked after the pigs himself. He never brought home half a dozen friends to dinner when Eve hadn’t any fresh pomegranates and the mango season was over. He never stayed out until 11 o’clock to a ward meeting, hurrahing for the out-and-out candidate, and then scolded because poor Eve was sitting up and crying inside the gates. To be sure he acted rather cowardly about the apple-gathering time, but that don’t depreciate his general helpfulness about the garden! He never played billiards, nor drove fast horses, nor choked Eve with cigar-smoke. He never loafed around corner groceries while solitary Eve was rocking little Cain’s cradle at home. In short, he did not think she was specially created for the purpose of waiting on him, and wasn’t under the impression that it disgraced a man to lighten his wife’s cares a little. That is the reason that Eve did not need a hired girl, and we wish it was the reason that none of her descendants did.

—Anon.

Nothing to Wear.

Echo and the Ferry.

Roderick Lee.

Gestures.

• [72] Left A. O.
• [73] Left ind. A. O.
• [74] Point to head.
• [75] H. sweep.
• [76] H. L.
• [77] H. F.
• [78] H. L.
• [79] H. F.
• [80] Ind. H. F.
• [81] H. O.
• [82] Left H. O.
• [83] A. O.
• [84] Left A. O.
• [85] H. O.
• [86] H. F.
• [87] H. O.
• [88] Left H. O.
• [89] Shake head.
• [90] Glance up.
• [91] H. F.
• [92] Ver. H. sweep.
• [93] Let hand fall.
• [94] H. O.
• [95] H. F.
• [96] Raise hand to listen.
• [97] Bow head.
• [98] H. F.
• [99] Hand to mouth.
• [100] A. F.
• [101] A. sweep.
• [102] b. H. O.
• [103] A. B.
• [104] H. F.
• [105] Clasp hands.
• [106] b. hands raised V. and head turned away.
• [107] H. F.
• [108] H. F.
• [109] Clasp hands.
• [110] b. H. F.
• [111] b. D. F.
• [112] b. D. F.
• [113] P. ind. D. F.
• [114] D. F.
• [115] H. O.
• [116] P. D. F.

Holding a Baby.

Yesterday, while waiting on the corner for a street-car, a woman, laden with an umbrella, a bandbox and a baby, accosted me with “Say, mister, can I git to Market street on these yer cars?” “You can,” I replied. “How long must I wait?” “Madam,” said I, noticing the string slipping from her bandbox, “may I hold your umbrella and bandbox until the car arrives? See, here it comes!” “I’d rather you’d hold Berthy, if you will, mister, ’cause this darned string’s a slippin’ off—quick!—ketch it! Land o’ misery! There be all my things scattered over the bricks! Do hold Berthy while I pick ’em up.” Here was a dilemma. The car was not forty yards off, while the sidewalk was strewn with every conceivable article, from a broken hair brush to a pair of old worsted slippers. “Hurry up, then, madam,” cried I, as I reached for the child, “I have an appointment and must take this car.” Just as I took her from the woman’s arms, Berthy set up a yell that would have paralyzed a huckster. Before the woman had gathered up half the articles the car was upon us. Leaving her bandbox, she ran to the crossing, and with a “Hold on there, you!” signaled the driver to stop. The latter, taking in the situation, kept on, but a fat man standing on the platform pulled the bell and the car stopped, about half a dozen yards beyond the flag-stones. The conductor, who was inside, collecting fares, ran out, and, grasping the bell-strap with one hand and beckoning with the other, screeched: “If you want to ride down, come on; I ain’t a-goin’ to anchor here all day!” As soon as the woman took up her bandbox and umbrella, I started for the car. “Tell your wife to come,” yelled the conductor. I looked back and there stood the woman on the corner. “Do you think I’m a-goin’ to wade through that mud?” screamed the woman, “for if you do, you’re mistaken. Just back that ve-he-cle to me, right quick, too!” I had reached the platform with Berthy in my arms, but the woman, looking cyclones, still refused to move an inch. I shrieked out, “Walk along the pavement and get on here!” A cross old maid looking through the window at my elbow remarked aloud: “Hear him abuse his poor wife!” The fat man suggested that I should manage the freight and let my wife take the baby. The woman slowly picked her way through the mire and stepped on the car. The conductor gave the bell a wicked snap, and with a jerk that almost threw us over the dasher, the car started down the street like a ten-penny nail from a slap-jack. “Here, madam,” said I, in desperation, “take the child, I have forgotten my pocket book.” She dropped into a seat and took her baby. Just as I was rushing from the car the word “scoundrel!” was hissed into my ear. Turning quickly, my horrified eyes beheld the stony gaze of my wife. “Go!” she muttered. Well, I did go! Friends do you see this bald spot on my head? Well, that reminds me never to fool with other people’s babies.

—Geo. M. Vickers.

The Spanish Mother.

[Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.]

Gestures.

• [117] H. O.
• [118] H. O.
• [119] Left H. O.
• [120] D. F.
• [121] b. H. O.
• [122] H. O. sweep.
• [123] D. O.
• [124] V. H. O.
• [125] b. V. par. H. O.
• [126] H. O.
• [127] P. H. O.
• [128] H. L.
• [129] Left ind. A. O.
• [130] H. O.
• [131] H. O.
• [132] V. D. O.
• [133] Sp.
• [134] b. Cl. H. O. as though tearing apart.
• [135] Raise hand P.
• [136] Look to left.
• [137] D. O.
• [138] Left H. L.
• [139] H. F.
• [140] H. O.
• [141] Ind. D. O.
• [142] P. D. sweep.
• [143] D. O.
• [144] Look to D. O.
• [145] Look to left.
• [146] H. F.
• [147] H. L.
• [148] b. H. O.
• [149] - [150] Impulses.
• [151] H. sweep.
• [152] Sp.
• [153] Left D. O.
• [154] Inclination of head to D. O.
• [155] B. H. O.
• [156] Hand to head.
• [157] D. F.
• [158] Point up.
• [159] H. F.
• [160] D. O.
• [161] Ind. D. O.
• [162] Left H. L.
• [163] H. sweep.
• [164] D. O.
• [165] P. D. O.
• [166] Sp.
• [167] H. Sw.
• [168] H. F.

An Engineer’s Ride on a Piano.

Bill Jones is my fireman; we have run together on old “thirty-six” for more than twenty years. One night when we were off duty, said Bill, “Jim, let’s take in a show.” “Where?” I replied, at the same time scanning the bill-board at the end of the depot. “See!” cried Bill, “Mons. De Froglimb, the great French piano virtuoso—” “That’s enough, Bill,” said I, “we’ll go”—and we did. He was a Frenchman; looked like an animated switch-signal. I am an old engineer, and have often whistled through the wind, but that virtuoso!—Well, as soon as he sat down on the stool I knew by the way he handled himself that he understood the machine he was running. He tapped the keys away up one end, just as if they were gauges and he wanted to see if he had water enough. Then he looked up as if he wanted to know how much steam he was carrying, and the next moment he pulled open the throttle and sailed out on the main line as if he was a half an hour late.

“You could hear her thunder over culverts and bridges, and getting faster and faster, until the fellow rocked about in his seat like a cradle. Somehow I thought it was old ‘thirty-six’ pulling a passenger train and getting out of the way of a ‘special.’ The fellow worked his keys on the middle division like lightning, and then he flew along the north end of the line until the drivers went around like a buzz-saw, and I got excited. About the time I was fixing to tell him to cut her off a little, he kicked the dampers under the machine wide open, pulled the throttle away back in the tender, and, Jerusalem jumpers! how he did run! I couldn’t stand it any longer, and yelled to him that she was ‘pounding’ on the left side, and if he wasn’t careful he’d drop his ashpan.

“But he didn’t hear me. No one heard me. Everything was flying and whizzing. Telegraph poles on the side of the track looked like a row of cornstalks, the trees appeared to be a mud bank, and all the time the exhaust of the old machine sounded like the hum of a bumblebee. I tried to yell out, but my tongue wouldn’t move. He went around the curves like a bullet, slipped an eccentric, blew out his soft plug, went down grades fifty feet to the mile, and not a confounded brake set. She went by the meeting point at a mile and a half a minute and calling for more steam. My hair stood up like a cat’s tail, because I knew the game was up.

“Sure enough, dead ahead of us was the head-light of the ‘special.’ In a daze I heard the crash as they struck, and I saw cars shivered into atoms, people mashed and mangled, and bleeding, and gasping for water. I heard another crash as the French professor struck the deep keys away down on the lower end of the southern division, and then I came to my senses. There he was, at a dead standstill, with the door of the fire-box of the machine open, wiping the perspiration off his face, and bowing at the people before him. If I live to be a thousand years old I’ll never forget the ride that Frenchman gave me on a piano.”

The World’s Hero.

[Recited by F. Lizzie Peirce at the Annual Re-union of the Independent Literary Society, August 8th, 1885.]

The Coquette.

Experience with a Refractory Cow.

[This piece is very effective given in costume.]

We used to keep a cow when we lived in the country, and sich a cow! Law sakes! Why, she used to come to be milked as reg’lar as clock-work. She’d knock at the gate with her horns, jest as sensible as any other human critter.

Her name was Rose. I never knowed how she got that name, for she was black as a kittle.

Well, one day Rose got sick, and wouldn’t eat nothing, poor thing! and a day or so arter she died. I raly do believe I cried when that poor critter was gone. Well, we went for a little spell without a cow, but I told Mr. Scruggins it wouldn’t do, no way nor no how; and he gin in. Whenever I said must Mr. Scruggins knowed I meant it. Well, a few days arter, he come home with the finest cow and young calf you ever seed. He gin thirty dollars for her and the calf, and two levies to a man to help bring her home. Well, they drove her into the back yard, and Mr. Scruggins told me to come out and see her, and I did; and I went up to her jest as I used to did to Rose, and when I said “Poor Sukey,” would you believe it? the nasty brute kicked me right in the fore part of my back; her foot catched into my dress—bran-new dress, too—cost two levies a yard, and she took a levy’s-worth right out as clean as the back of my hand.

I screeched right out and Mr. Scruggins kotched me jest as I was dropping, and he carried me to the door, and I went in and sot down. I felt kind o’ faintish, I was so abominable skeered.

Mr. Scruggins said he would larn her better manners, so he picked up the poker and went out, but I had hardly began to get a leetle strengthened up afore in rushed my dear husband a-flourishing the poker, and that vicious cow arter him like all mad. Mr. Scruggins jumped into the room, and, afore he had time to turn round and shut the door, that desperate brute was in, too.

Mr. Scruggins got up on the dining-room table, and I run into the parlor. I thought I’d be safe there, but I was skeered so bad that I forgot to shut the door, and, sakes alive! after hooking over the dining-room table and rolling Mr. Scruggins off, in she walked into the parlor, shaking her head as much as to say: “I’ll give you a touch now.” I jumped on a chair, but thinking that warn’t high enough, I got one foot on the brass knob of the Franklin stove, and put the other on the mantel-piece. You ought to ha’ seen that cow in our parlor; she looked all round as if she was ’mazed; at last she looked in the looking-glass, and thought she seed another cow exhibiting anger like herself; she shuck her head and pawed the carpet, and so did her reflection, and—would you believe it?—that awful brute went right into my looking-glass.

Then I boo-hoo’d right out. All this while I was getting agonized; the brass knob on the stove got so hot that I had to sit on the narrer mantel-piece and hold on to nothing. I dussent move for fear I’d slip off.

Mr. Scruggins came round to the front door, but it was locked, and then he come to the window and opened it. I jumped down and run for the window, and hadn’t more’n got my head out afore I heard that critter a-coming after me. Gracious! but I was in a hurry; more haste, less speed, always; for the more I tried to climb quick the longer it took, and just as I got ready to jump down, that brute of a cow kotched me in the back and turned me over and over out of the window.

Well, when I got right side up, I looked at the window and there stood that cow, with her head between the white and red curtains, and another piece of my dress dangling on her horns.

Well, my husband and me was jest starting for the little alley that runs alongside of the house, when the cow give a bawl, and out of the window she come, whisking her tail, which had kotched fire on the Franklin stove, and it served her right.

Mr. Scruggins and me run into the alley in such haste we got wedged fast. Husband tried to get ahead, but I’d been in the rear long enough, and I wouldn’t let him. That dreadful cow no sooner seen us in the alley, than she made a dash, but thank goodness! she stuck fast, too.

Husband tried the gate, but that was fast, and there wasn’t nobody inside the house to open it. Mr. Scruggins wanted to climb over and unbolt it, but I wouldn’t let him. I wasn’t going to be left alone again with that desperate cow, even if she was fast; so I made him help me over the gate. Oh, dear, climbing a high gate when you’re skeered by a cow is a dreadful thing, and I know it!

Well, I got over, let husband in, and then it took him and me and four other neighbors to get that dreadful critter out of the alley. She bellered and kicked, and her calf bellered to her, and she bawled back again; but we got her out at last, and such a time! I’d had enough of her; husband sold her for twenty dollars next day. It cost him seventy-five cents to get her to market, and when he tried to pass off one of the five dollar bills he got, it turned out to be a counterfeit.

Mr. Scruggins said to his dying day that he believed the brother of the man that sold him the cow bought it back again. I believe it helped to worry my poor husband into his grave. Ah, my friends, you better believe I know what a cow is.

Mary, Queen of Scots.

[First Honor at Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages, 1885.]

Gestures.

• [169] H. F.
• [170] P. D. O.
• [171] H. O.
• [172] b. H. O.
• [173] Left H. O.
• [174] Hand raised to listen.
• [175] H. O.
• [176] A. O.
• [177] H. sweep.
• [178] b. A. O.
• [179] b. H. O.
• [180] H. O.
• [181] b. H. O.
• [182] H. O.
• [183] H. O. sustained with slight impulses from the wrist upon each clause.
• [184] H. L.
• [185] H. B.
• [186] D. F.
• [187] P. F.
• [188] A. O.
• [189] H. B.
• [190] H. F.
• [191] b. V. H. O.
• [192] Sweep from face to H. B. (must be graceful or leave out).
• [193] A. F.
• [194] Incline head to listen.
• [195] H. F.
• [196] H. O.
• [197] Left H. L.
• [198] P. H. sweep.
• [199] Raise hand to listen.
• [200] H. F.
• [201] D. L.
• [202] P. ind. D. F.
• [203] Special.
• [204] Cli. raised.
• [205] H. L.
• [206] Left H. O.
• [207] H. O.
• [208] b. H. O.
• [209] A. F.
• [210] b. H. O.
• [211] H. sweep.
• [212] H. L.
• [213] b. H. O.
• [214] H. L.
• [215] D. L.
• [216] Left H. L.
• [217] H. F.
• [218] Left H. O.
• [219] b. P. H. O.
• [220] Left H. O.
• [221] H. O.
• [222] Listen.
• [223] H. O.
• [224] Ind. A. O.
• [225] A. sweep.
• [226] H. F.
• [227] A. F.
• [228] H. F.
• [229] D. F.
• [230] Ind. H. F.
• [231] D. O.
• [232] A. O.

The Yankee Still Ahead.

A Yankee, visiting London, and passing along one of the principal thoroughfares of trade and travel, stopped to look at some beautiful specimens of writing paper exposed for sale in a shop window; he gazed long and earnestly at the gorgeous display, when presently he turned and encountered the proprietor of the establishment standing at the door. The Yankee politely said:

“Will ye tell me what ye du with them nice bits of paper?”

“Yes, we keep them to tie up gape-seed in,” was the snappish response.

“Oh, ye du, du ye?” said Jonathan, with a sly twinkle in his eye, as he walked on. Passing down the street a short distance our indignant Yankee accosted another merchant, to whom he said: “Mister, can ye tell me what that feller duz for a livin’ what keeps them nice bits o’ paper in his winder?”

“Yes, sir; he writes letters for persons who desire his assistance.”

“Du ye think he’d write a letter for me if I’d pay him fur it?”

“Certainly he would, and be glad of the chance.”

Our bright-eyed hero thanked him, and turned abruptly away, walking briskly in the direction from which he came. The shop was soon reached, and, fortunately, the same individual stood on the door-step. The Yankee lost no time in addressing the cockney, and thus at once began:

“I say, mister, I heerd that ye write letters fur folks what can’t write; what’ll ye tax me to write a letter to my uncle Peter?”

“I will charge you five shillings,” he said, in such a changed tone of voice that the Yankee had to look again to see that he had not mistaken the person.

“Will ye write jest what I tell ye tu, and spell all the words right?”

“To be sure I will.”

“And if ye don’t, I won’t pay ye; will ye agree to that?”

“As I understand my business thoroughly, of course I will agree to that.”

“Wall, then, ye may commence.”

The scribe arranged his paper, ink and pen, and pronounced himself ready.

“My dear uncle Peter:—ready fur more?”

“Yes.”

“‘Rived here in London last week,—have ye got that deown?”

“Yes, go on.”

“Thought I’d take a stroll through the woods,—got that deown and spelt right?”

“Yes, yes; go on, and do not bother me so.”

“I pay ye five shillings by-and-bye, don’t I?”

“Yes, but you have no need to detain me so if you do.”

“Wall, I walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and—”

“What’s the use of saying it over so many times?”

“None o’ your business,—I pay ye five shillings,—and walked and walked and walked—”

“See here, this page is full of the words ‘and walked.’”

“Turn over then,—and walked and walked, and I couldn’t find any woods. Have ye got all that deown and spelt right?”

“Yes, but why don’t you go on.”

“Jest then I stopped to think what I should du, or where to go,—got that all deown?”

(Snappishly) “Yes.”

“Wall, then I seen a sign, and on it wuz: ‘Teams to hire,’ so I went up and told the man to give me a fust-rate team with a hoss I could easy manage myself. My! but you write fast. Is all that deown?” (Surprised).

“It is, and I would like to have the rest of your letter, sir.”

“Wall, that hoss started off all right, but in less than two minutes she got stubborner than any mule; and I hed to get eout, and lick her and kick her and prick her and lick her and kick her and prick her, (continue to repeat these words very rapidly), and she wouldn’t go. Is that all deown, and spelt right?”

“You are only losing time, sir, in repeating that last phrase.”

“That’s my business,—When I see’d she wouldn’t go fur lickin’, I tried to coax her, and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed, but she wouldn’t go; then I got crosslike and went—” (here the Yankee makes a chirruping sound which bids defiance to orthography).

“I can’t spell that,” said the Englishman.

“Oh, ye can’t spell that, can’t ye? Then ye needn’t write any more for me.”

“Need not write any more!”

“No more,” was the composed reply of the Yankee, as he laid his hand over his fat pocket and said:

“I ’spose ye remember our agreement?”

“Yes, I do, but what’s to be done with all this paper?”

“Keep it to tie up gape-seed in. Good bye, sir!” and the Yankee made a speedy exit.

Arranged by S. Anna Gesemyer.

Tommy’s Deathbed.

Going to Market.

Oh, dear! these are dull times. What is a body to do? Bills cannot be collected, the season for business is over, and prospects for relief look decidedly blue. How can a woman buy a Saturday’s marketing for eight persons with only five dollars? The idea is preposterous! I could cry my eyes out with perplexity, but what’s the use?

Moses Flint is a good husband; he dotes on me, I know; yet he has no more idea of the cost of a shoulder of mutton than a Kickapoo Indian has of a sewing machine. Well, there’s no use of standing here talking about it; it must be done, but how? Oh, my poor head!

One pound of butter, fifty cents; observe—sixteen ounces of butter for eight persons, just two ounces apiece, to last until Monday morning. Why, Moses himself eats two ounces at a meal! The thought distracts me. Butter, fifty; potatoes, twenty-five; onions, fifteen; he will have onions on Sunday; won’t eat ’em through the week; says they interfere with his business; but it makes no difference the day he spends with me. I wonder if my nostrils are better adapted to smell onions than those of his customers? Men are strange mortals, anyhow; my Moses will get shaved and polish his boots to go to the lodge, but let me ask him to go with me to the dressmakers, or to the Muggins’, and he won’t even put on a clean collar. The lodge must be a very particular place.

Cabbage for slaw, ten; there is a dollar gone already. A pair of chickens, one dollar and fifty cents; rabbits would be cheaper, but he insists on chickens. It provokes me so. Last Sunday every blessed one wanted a drum-stick; of course two fowls have but four drum-sticks, therefore, as intimated before, only four got the four, which left the other four to envy the lucky four who got the four drum-sticks, and to content themselves with breasts and wings. For my part, I got only a neck and a gizzard. Well, I’ll do the best I can, but I’ll manage to squeeze out enough for two yards of that cherry-colored ribbon at Jones’, dinner or no dinner, or my name isn’t Sarah Flint.

—Geo. M. Vickers.

The Merry Sunflower.

With a little ingenuity and with six musical voices this piece may be made a very pleasing and attractive feature in an evening’s entertainment. Procure a piece of sheeting at least six feet in length by five in width. Fasten the lower lengthwise edge to the floor of the stage, and the upper edge, by means of cords or other fastenings, to the ceiling. Cut three holes about the height of a person’s face in standing and of the shape and size of the face, and three others at kneeling height; then around these holes paint or paste on paper to represent the petals of immense sunflowers, with stalks attached. The singer’s faces occupy the holes, and the words are sung to the air of “The Little Brown Jug.”

Hints on Expression.

Expression consists in so modulating the voice by means of the different degrees of pitch, force, rate, and rhetorical pause, as to perfectly convey every shade of meaning contained in the sentiment; in other words, it is painting with sound. As perfect a picture can be conveyed to the ear by means of voice as to the eye through color; and in order to utilize this life-coloring of modulation in reading, you must first acquire a thorough conception of the meaning of the author; try to place yourself in sympathy with the sentiments you are to utter, adopt them and put them into your own words, notice how you express them, what degrees of force come natural to them, what pitch and slides, degrees of rate, what pauses between words and upon words best bring out their meaning, and then take up again the author’s words, and try to give them as nearly as possible like your own; you will find the battle is half won. One of the greatest obstacles in the way of giving true expression is the presence of the printed page before the eye. The words are repeated one after the other mechanically, while the thoughts are perhaps upon another subject. An artist cannot paint a picture without first drawing it in his mind; so we cannot paint a word picture unless its impression is made upon the brain; hence the key to expression consists in understanding what you read.

A future number will contain directions for the remedy of unmanageable voices.

—F. Lizzie Peirce.

The Crowning of the Sunday-School Angel.

MUSICAL DIALOGUE WITH TABLEAU.

CHARACTERS.

Preparations.—A large Gothic chair raised one step or more from the floor of the pulpit for a throne. A crown (made of pasteboard and covered with gold paper will answer), placed on the top of the chair. A scepter is needed. The ladies taking the parts should be dressed in white; they may each wear a long flowing veil of illusion or other light material, with star on the forehead. The veil should not cover the face, but fall back over the shoulders.

The Guard should wear a Knight Templar or other suitable uniform, and should take charge of and guard the throne before ORDER presents herself.

The Angel of Order (comes up the aisle, with a bell or some emblem of order in her hand, and ascending the pulpit advances towards the throne and addresses the Guard as follows):

I am the Angel of Order; “Order is heaven’s first law,”—a glorious law, seen in those beauteous isles of light that come and go, as circling months fulfil their high behest. Nor less on earth discerned mid rocks snow-clad or wastes of herbless sand.

Throughout all climes, beneath all varying skies, fixing for e’en the smallest flower that blooms, its place of growth.

I am the child of beauty and wisdom. My attendants are comfort, neatness, and activity. I come to be the angel of the Sunday-school. Let me occupy this throne and issue my decrees, and confusion will be unknown; officers, teachers and scholars shall be under my control.

All the regulations essential to a proper conducting of the school shall be enforced. Punctuality in attendance, propriety in behavior, attention to instruction, and obedience to rules shall be insisted upon. I will have a place for everything, and everything shall be in its place.

Guard (replies).—Angel of Order, I welcome thee; what thou hast said is true; what would this universe be without thy mighty presence? Were thy power abolished but for a moment, “the war of elements, the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds” would be the immediate and inevitable result. Thou art needed everywhere, and we must have thee in our school, but thou canst not be the Supreme Angel of the school. Stand here upon the right of the throne (conducts her to the right of the throne).

The Angel of Literature (comes up the aisle with books, papers and tracts in her hand, ascending the pulpit, advances toward the throne, and addresses the Guard as follows):

I am the Angel of Literature. The written thoughts and emotions of men constitute my domain. The pen and the press are the instruments of my progress, and are mightier than the sword. I, too, am an applicant for this throne. Give me authority and I will supply the school with books and papers, with leaves and tracts,—of these there shall be no lack. The library shall be replenished from time to time with entertaining, instructive and religious volumes,—well bound and beautiful. And all will be glad for my presence and rejoice in my power (advances toward the throne).

Guard (replies).—Angel of Literature, I greet thee also with pleasure. Thy sphere is a noble one, and thy mission worthy. The mind must be stored with knowledge and stimulated with truth. It is thine to impart information and administer culture,—to aid in the education of our race. We give thee a place in our school, but cannot crown thee as its Ruling Angel. Stand here upon the left (leads her to the left of the throne).

The Angel of Music (comes up the aisle starting from the vestibule of the church, having in her hand a harp, or other instrument, and a roll of music, singing):

[Listen to Music]

The Angel of Music (advances toward the Guard, and addresses him as follows):

I am the Angel of Music. Melody and Harmony are my children. I open my mouth in song and my voice trembles with sweet sounds. I touch the keys of the instrument and the air is full of delightful strains. I give strength to the weak; encourage the wavering; cheer the sick, and assist in the triumph of the dying. I make heaven jubilant with anthems of praise. My voice is heard on earth in the lullabys of the nursery, in the songs of childhood, in the hymns of the sanctuary and in the ballads of the nation. My power is felt by the refined and the savage.

Let me be the ruling angel of the Sunday-school. I will furnish each department with an organ. I will teach all to sing. The tunes and the time shall be perfect, and no discord shall be heard amid the blended notes. Books of music shall be in abundance and all hearts shall thrill with gladness.

[Listen to Music]

Guard (replies).—Angel of Music, I have listened to thy song, and its sweetness has captivated my soul. Surely thy work is sublime and thy influence great.

We cheerfully assign thee a place in our midst, but thou canst not be the Supreme Angel of the school (leads her to the right of the throne).

The Angel of Love (comes up the aisle leading a little boy and girl, each wearing a loose, ragged garment that can be easily thrown off. She advances toward the Guard and addresses him as follows):

I am the Angel of Love. I dwell in the bosom of God and in the hearts of men. Heaven is the scene of my highest manifestation, but I breathe benedictions on the earth. I relieve the needy and cheer the disconsolate with words and deeds of sympathy. The light of my smile kindles a radiance in many dark places of sorrow. My scepter subdues the hardest heart, and my speech often wins the prodigal back to his father’s house. I make home happy and bless the church with prosperity. I am a candidate for this throne. Give me place, and I will cause with magic power springs of happiness to rise, and flowers of social delight to bloom in the pathway of all; the aged and the young shall alike rejoice, and the entire school shall witness how good and pleasant it is to dwell together in unity. Besides this, I will go out into the highways and hedges, into the lanes and alleys; visit the abodes of the poor and the haunts of ignorance, and will gather the children in that they may be enriched with the treasures of grace, and made wise unto salvation.

[Listen to Music]

Guard.—Angel of Love, fairest daughter of the skies, thy smile is radiant with blessing, and thy coming is ever a benediction. Without thee, this world would be a wilderness, drear and cold, where naught but cruelty and sorrow would abound. Truly thou art welcome. Let thy voice be heard and thy power be felt among us. Bind our hearts together with a threefold cord which cannot be broken, and may the glory of thy presence surround us ever as with a halo; but to thee, as to all who have preceded thee, I am compelled to say, thy place is not upon the throne, as the ruling angel of the Sunday-school. Guard (leads her to the left, beside the Angel of Literature; the boy and girl during the singing having thrown off their ragged garments, take their places one on each side of her).

The Angel of the Word of God (comes up the aisle, carrying a Bible in her arms, and advancing toward the Guard, addresses him as follows):

I am the Angel of the Word of God; Order is indispensible, Literature is needed, Music is to be desired, Love must ever abide. Each has her place and her work, but higher than all, and the inspirer of all, is the Bible. I come as the lamp of truth to a benighted world; the bearer of intelligence from the throne of God—a revelation to men of duty and destiny. I come as the chart and compass to guide men safely over the sea of life to the desired haven. My mission is to instruct both adults and children in the way of holiness that leads to heaven. I teach the sublime truths of faith and salvation—of God and immortality.

Wherever I go, the wilderness and solitary places are glad for me, and the deserts rejoice and blossom as the rose.

If all would heed my words and partake of my spirit, the whole world would soon recover the charms of Eden.

Instead of sin and misery, there would be everywhere purity and bliss. I come to train these children and youth in the ways of piety, and develop in them the elements of true manhood and womanhood; to qualify them for usefulness here, and blessedness hereafter. I wish to be crowned the angel of the Sunday-school.

Guard.—Angel of the Word of God, All Hail! A thousand welcomes. For thee we have waited long and rejoice in thy coming. Thou hast said well—Order is indispensible. Literature is needed. Music is to be desired. Love must ever abide. These are thy handmaids and shall remain with us, but thou shalt be supreme. Ascend the throne (she takes her place on the throne). On thy head I put this crown. In thy hand I place this scepter. Rule thou over us. Fill our minds with thy wisdom, our hearts with thy spirit, that our lives may show forth the praise of Him who created us, and redeemed us by the blood of His Son. Order, Literature, Music, Love, these shall assist thee, and our School shall be a Bible School. Thou art the Angel of the Sunday-school!

TABLEAU.

The Guard.—(Standing immediately in front of the throne, will sheath his sword, take off his hat, and say):

Order, Literature, Music, Love, let us bow in token of our submission to the Word of God. (They all kneel and the Angel of the Word of God holds the Bible out on her hand while the school rises and sings):

[Listen to Music]

CURTAIN.

Rev. D. W. Gordon.

[233]The Calls of the Bells.

[Represent bell tones with the voice upon the italicized words.]

• [233] Published by special permission from the author.

Dorothy Clyde;

OR,

The Squire’s Daughter.

A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS.

CHARACTERS:

• Barton Clyde, a country squire.
• Leslie Raymore, a clerk.
• Morley Dingle, a rich man’s son.
• Caleb Weatherspout, an old bachelor.
• Dorothy, the Squire’s daughter.
• Mrs. Felton, a poor widow.
• Em’ly, her only child.
• Parthenia Philp, an heiress.
• Mercy, her maid.

MASQUERADERS.

• Scene: A Pennsylvania village.
• Time: The present.

Act I. Interior of widow’s cottage.

Act II. The masquerade.

Costumes: For first act—modern. For second act—Squire, sailor; Raymore, Chinese; Dingle, knight; Weatherspout, monk; Dorothy, gypsy; Mrs. Felton, ghost; Em’ly, peasant; Miss Philp, duchess; Mercy, French maid. Masqueraders to suit fancy.

Act I.

Scene: Interior of widow Felton’s cottage. Table, C. Rocking-chair, L. C. Door Pract. in F., windows, etc. Time, morning. Mrs. Felton discovered seated in rocking-chair; Em’ly standing R. facing L.

Em’ly.—Mother, I was never so insulted in my life; she threw the dress on her toilet stand, and fairly ground her teeth with rage.

Mrs. Felton.—Dear! dear! dear! what shall we do! I depended on the money for making that dress to pay at least a month’s rent. Did you explain our distressed condition to Miss Philp?

Em’ly.—Mother, dear, I did my best to reason with her, but she only stamped her foot, and bade me hold my saucy tongue. She said the dress was ruined.

Mrs. Felton.—Our lot is indeed hard. What a dreadful misfortune my sickness has proved to be.

Em’ly.—Dorothy Clyde stopped me on the road opposite the mill; she saw that my eyes were red, and pressed me so hard that I made a clean breast of the whole matter. She said she would be over about ten o’clock with her father, the Squire.

Mrs. Felton.—Oh, if your poor, dear papa had only lived, how different our lot would be to-day. Alas! I fear we shall soon be homeless.

Em’ly (Kneels at her side).—Do not give way to such gloomy thoughts; God has promised to care for the widow and the fatherless; let us trust in His goodness.

Mrs. Felton.—My child, your mother is justly rebuked. We will trust in the Lord, come what may.

[Knock at the door.]

Em’ly (Rises and opens door).—Oh! walk in, Miss Philp.

(Enter Miss Philp and Mercy, the latter bearing a bundle.)

Miss Philp.—Walk in! Do you suppose I would run in, crawl in or creep in? Walk in! Of course I’ll walk in, and when I am ready, I shall walk out again. Humph!

Mrs. Felton.—Em’ly, dear, give the lady a chair. Pray be seated, Miss Philp.

Miss Philp (Dusts the chair with her handkerchief).—I think I shall stand.

Em’ly.—The chairs are perfectly clean, Miss Philp; I carefully dusted them early this morning.

Miss Philp.—I prefer to stand, however.

Mrs. Felton (To Mercy).—Sit down, Mercy.

Mercy.—Thank you. (Attempts to sit on chair.)

Miss Philp.—Stop! how dare you sit when your mistress is standing! Place that bundle on the table; such brazen conduct is intolerable. And as for you, madam, you have not only ruined my robe, but you have prevented my attendance at the ball to-night.

Mrs. Felton.—Mercy!

Mercy (starts).—Eh?

Mrs. Felton.—It was merely an ejaculation. (To Miss Philp).—I deeply regret having incurred your displeasure.

Em’ly.—Perhaps we can remedy the defect if it is but trifling; it is yet early in the day.

Mercy (Places bundle on table).—Why yes; I will open it (Begins to untie bundle).

Mrs. Felton.—That’s it; how stupid we are.

Miss Philp.—Don’t include me; I am not willing to be classified with dolts.

Em’ly.—Oh, dear, no!

Mrs. Felton.—I meant no offense.

Mercy (Takes dress from paper).—Look at it, Mrs. Felton.

Miss Philp.—Silence! Stop talking all together like quacking ducks; your din will drive me distracted. Have you no refinement, no breeding? How I dislike to mingle with vulgar persons. Young woman, ah, that is, Em’ly, hold up that dress.

Em’ly (Takes up dress).—Yes, miss.

Miss Philp.—Just try it on, so that I may show your mother her stupid work.

Mrs. Felton.—Pardon me, but—

Miss Philp.—Silence! I am talking.

Mercy (Aside).—Shame upon you, you spitfire!

Em’ly (Putting on dress).—I am sure we can fix it in time for this evening.

Mercy (Assisting Em’ly).—How well you become fine clothes; you were intended to be a lady. Just see what a graceful figure.

Miss Philp.—Ridiculous; the idea! Why the girl looks like a jointed doll.

Mrs. Felton.—Em’ly, dear, hold still.

Em’ly (Raises dress to her eyes).—Mother—

Miss Philp.—Here, don’t wipe your eyes on that dress, if you please.

Em’ly.—Mother, I do not think it womanly in Miss Philp to thus take advantage of our reverse in fortune.

Mrs. Felton.—There, there, Em’ly! Never mind, let me examine the dress. Where is the fault, Miss Philp?

Miss Philp.—The sleeves are too long, the neck is too small, and the skirt is too short.

Mrs. Felton.—Alas! I fear it is spoiled. My mind has been so burdened with trouble that I am beside myself.

Mercy.—It fits Em’ly to perfection.

Em’ly.—How can we ever pay you for the material? What shall we do?

Miss Philp.—Madam, what is your bill for making this dress?

Mrs. Felton.—I sent you the bill.

Miss Philp.—Ah, yes, I recollect. (Draws bill from pocket and reads.) “To making dress, twelve dollars.” Well, it is of no use to me; you may keep it—take the dress and receipt the bill.

Mrs. Felton.—But our rent—if we do not pay something to-day we may be turned out into the world, homeless.

Miss Philp.—I am not a charity visitor; you should study economy. Ahem! Mercy, follow me. [Exits door F. followed by Mercy.]

Mrs. Felton.—My child, my child! (They embrace and stand weeping.)

[Enter Squire and Dorothy; they pause and observe Mrs. Felton and Em’ly.]

Squire (Aside).—This is, indeed, a tableau. (Aloud) Ladies!

Mrs. Felton. and Em’ly.— (Start) Oh!

Dorothy (Taking their hands).—Why are you weeping? Papa will fix things all right. Do not worry.

Squire.—Mrs. Felton, your husband was a man whom I esteemed highly. He at one time rendered me a valuable service, and it is but common gratitude that I now befriend his family. Here is a check for double the amount of all arrears of rent due on your cottage. (Hands her check.) Accept it as a loan until you are able to return it.

Mrs. Felton.—I could not think of it.

Squire.—You must!

Dorothy.—Take it for my sake; do not refuse; take it and welcome.

Mrs. Felton.—Oh, what kindness!

Em’ly (Kisses Dorothy on forehead).—My own, dear Dorothy.

Squire.—Now for a little talk on another subject. Be seated. (All take chairs) Mrs. Felton, you are aware that I am agent for the Dingle estate, of which your cottage is a part. I have long acted in that capacity as a matter of courtesy to my old friend, Caspar Dingle. I shall look after his property no longer.

Mrs. Felton.—No doubt it is a great annoyance to you—

Squire.—Not at all. Listen. I am rich, and my friend Dingle, in order to augment his already immense estate, desires his son Morley to become the husband of my daughter.

Dorothy (Confused).—Oh, papa, how can you talk of that horrid young man! You know I detest his very name.

Squire.—My dear child, if you will allow me to talk, I can easily show you the necessity of taking these ladies into our confidence.

Dorothy.—Pardon me, papa, dear; although I have never met Mr. Morley Dingle, yet from your description of his interview with you, I am sure he is very rude and ill-bred.

Squire.—True. Now in order that he may have a pretext for visiting our village, he will in future collect his rents in person. He will be here to-day, perhaps may now be on his way to your cottage.

Mrs. Felton. and Em’ly.— Oh, horrors!

Squire.—You have my check.

Mrs. Felton.—True, true, kind sir; I had for the moment forgotten it.

Squire.—Morley Dingle knows that my daughter has a generous nature and abhors meanness in any guise; therefore, he would act his best were he introduced to her. I prefer Dorothy should see him in his ordinary character.

Dorothy.—And how can I, papa?

Squire.—He will call here for the rent. He knows Mrs. Felton is largely indebted. Ladies, my plan is this: You and I will take a walk in the grove back of the cottage. Dorothy will remain and represent herself to be Em’ly; she can promise the rent within a week; plead for time, anything, so that his manliness may be thoroughly tested.

Dorothy.—No, no, papa!

Squire.—Take off your hat, throw an old shawl over your shoulders. (Points through window.) See! there he comes. Let us be off.

Em’ly (Aside).—I wish I could stay and peep.

Mrs. Felton.—I hope he will not be cross to the dear child—

Squire.—Come, quick!

[Exit all except Dorothy.]

Dorothy (Hurriedly searching).—What can I get? (picks up apron) Ah, this will do! (removes hat) I hear his footstep on the gravel walk. (Listens.) Gracious, how my heart beats!

[Loud knock at the door.]

I wish papa was here.

[Prolonged knock.]

Well, he can’t eat me, anyhow. (Opens door.)

[Enter Dingle.]

Dingle (Surveying Dorothy through eye-glasses).—Ah! I presume you are the daughter of the, ah—

Dorothy.—Yes, sir; I am the daughter.

Dingle.—Is it possible!

Dorothy.—Sir, will you be seated?

Dingle (Aside).—What airs these poor creatures assume. (Aloud) Miss, (takes card from case) this will probably explain both who I am and the nature of my business.

Dorothy (Takes card and reads aloud).—“Morley Dingle, Dingleton, Dingle Township, Pennsylvania,” (aside) Dingle, dong, dingle—(Aloud) I am not prepared to pay you anything to-day, Mr. Dingle. There has been very little money earned in this house since the last payment was made.

Dingle (Sits on a chair and puts feet on table).—You must settle with me before I leave this village, or give up the house (pulls book from pocket). Let me see; yes, here it is—Felton—March, April, May, June—twelve dollars a month, just forty-eight dollars. What do you take me for?

Dorothy (Aside).—How I would like to tell you. (Aloud.) O sir, if you but knew the sufferings of the poor I am sure your sympathy would guide your action.

Dingle.—Not a bit of it. The laws of this State protect the defenseless landlord more effectively than any other government on the globe—except Ireland. I’m proud that I am a Pennsylvanian.

Dorothy.—Surely, sir, you would not invoke the law to distress a poor widow and her child?

Dingle.—John Felton signed a lease giving me the right to sell all his effects for any arrears of rent due upon this house.

Dorothy.—Does not the law exempt a certain amount of household chattels?

Dingle.—John Felton waived the benefit of the exemption law.

Dorothy.—But he is dead.

Dingle.—Young woman, his family must suffer the consequences of his act.

Dorothy (Indignantly).—This is unjust; it is contrary to the letter and spirit of the law.

Dingle (Looking through eyeglass).—You talk like a member of the bar; that is, a country member—a squire.

Dorothy.—The exemption law was enacted as a merciful barrier against the sweeping tide of adversity—a life-boat for helpless castaways: how then dare any man’s hand thwart the law and defeat its purpose? To waive that law repeals it: is this an absolute monarchy?

Dingle.—This government is run upon a solid cash basis: if you have cash, you can smile at waivers. The remedy, young woman, is cash. That’s my prescription for landlords’ warrants; it’s a powerful antidote. (Taps his pocket and laughs).

Dorothy.—You shock me, sir; you fill me with alarm; would you strip us of these poor household necessities.

Dingle.—I am a benefactor to women. If I see they have no possibility of keeping house I resort to heroic measures—I sell ’em out. What’s the result? They get situations, get plenty to eat and comfortable quarters.

Dorothy.—And the little children?

Dingle (Pulls out watch).—It is time to end this nonsense. Have the rent by to-night. Good morning. [Exit door F.]

Dorothy (Sits in chair).—So that’s the suitor for my heart and hand! Whew!

[Enter Squire, followed by Mrs. Felton and Em’ly].

Squire (Pointing with cane).—There he goes! Look at him; see how pompously he struts; observe the elevation of his nose! [All look towards window]. Take care! down he goes! [All laugh boisterously].

Dorothy.—Poor fellow, I wonder if he is hurt!

Em’ly.—His hat is completely demolished.

Mrs. Felton.—Rather a bad fall.

Squire.—Off he starts again. There goes the strut—up goes the nose—the lesson is lost. (To Mrs. Felton) Madam, now that we have arranged for the masquerade, banish your sorrows: forget the trials of the day in the pleasures of the evening. Your daughter knows her part well; she will personate Dorothy in her conversation with Dingle, until all unmask.

Dorothy.—And my voice will convince him that I am his delinquent tenant.

Em’ly.—Dorothy, dear, do you really think Miss Philp will not recognize this dress?

Dorothy.—She will be too eager to be seen by Morley Dingle, Esquire, to even waste a thought on the toilet of any one save her precious self. [All listen.]

Weatherspout (From without).—This way, Leslie, this way; I’ve not forgotten the art of climbing rail fences, even if I am seventy-five.

Squire.—My old friend Weatherspout, as I live!

[Enter Weatherspout].

Weatherspout (Pausing on the threshold). I—I—beg pardon!

Squire.—Come in, my long-tried friend.

Weatherspout.—The door was open and it seemed kind o’ natural to walk right in—so Leslie and—(turning to door) why, I thought he came in! We have just helped ourselves to a draught of your delicious spring water.

Em’ly (Goes to door).—Come in, Leslie.

[Enter Leslie Raymore.]

Leslie.—Pardon my intrusion, ladies; I assure you I had no idea you were engaged.

Mrs. Felton.—You are welcome.

Dorothy. and Em’ly.—No apology is necessary.

Weatherspout.—Ladies, Mr. Raymore has been in my employment for a number of years; in fact, since his boyhood. I have every confidence in his honor and integrity.

Squire.—We all know Leslie, and every one is acquainted with you, Mr. Weatherspout: and it is exceedingly gratifying to hear of the cordial relations which exist between two such worthy men—but you were about to say—

Weatherspout.—I was about to remark that I have come here solely for the purpose of attending the masquerade ball to-night.

Leslie.—Mr. Weatherspout has stated the fact. I showed him the invitation from Squire Clyde, and he gave me permission to accept only on condition that I would allow him to accompany me.

Squire.—Which I take as a high compliment to myself, and shall do all in my power to make you remember the hospitalities of Clyde Hall. [All make show of conversing.]

Dorothy (To Leslie).—I am so glad you have come.

Leslie.—I am more than glad; I cannot express my happiness.

Dorothy.—And papa wrote his consent—were you not surprised?

Leslie.—No, Dorothy, love; your father is sensible, and judges a man by his personal worth rather than by the weight of his purse.

Dorothy.—You have told no one?

Leslie.—Only my employer.

Dorothy.—You rogue! No wonder he came with you.

Squire.—Yes, yes; that is so, we had better go to the mansion. Mrs. Felton, we will depart. Recollect, Em’ly, until we unmask you are Dorothy Clyde—that is, to Morley Dingle. Good day, ladies.

[All exit except Mrs. Felton and Em’ly.]

Mrs. Felton.—Em’ly, my child, God is good. Something seems to tell me that there are better days in store for us.

Em’ly.—Let us hope, mother; (takes her hand) my heart, too, seems lighter.

Mrs. Felton.—We will hope.

[CURTAIN.]
End of the first act.

Act II.

Scene: Interior of Clyde Hall. Seats arranged at wings. Door pract. in Flat, through which flowers are visible. Em’ly and Dingle discovered standing C. Both are masked.

Dingle.—By yonder fair moon whose radiance is reflected in a thousand dewy gems; by the glorious splendors of this summer night, I adjure you to remove that mask.

Em’ly.—Sir Knight, if eloquence could tempt me to reveal my face before the proper time, then your words would win your wish. I am not what you think I am. Knights woo not poor peasant maids, and I am poor, and humble, too.

Dingle.—The wealth of those bright eyes would make one rich though he were a beggar.

Em’ly.—Flattery from friends is at best embarrassing; from strangers it is wholly out of place.

Dingle (Aside).—There’s no humbleness in that remark. (Aloud) I crave your forgiveness; I am the last man in the world who would do an ungallant act.

Em’ly (Aside).—You are among the latest who did. (Aloud) Are you always mindful of a woman’s feelings? Do you treat them all with gentle courtesy?

Dingle (Aside).—There’s a little sarcasm in that; I wonder what she means? (Aloud) Certainly! I would scorn, loathe, abhor a man who could forget his duty in that regard.

Em’ly.—Even though she owed him money?

Dingle.—Eh! (Aside) What is she driving at? (Aloud) Miss Clyde, you are severe.

Em’ly.—If any one designated me as Miss Clyde they erred. Once more I repeat that I am not Dorothy Clyde.

Dingle (Laughs).—We will not discuss that point. I have danced with you twice to-night, and I have danced with no one else; and yet I have had the honor of twice dancing with the lady whose name you mentioned.

Em’ly.—The music has ceased. The guests will come this way. Excuse me.

[Exits hastily L.]

Dingle (Looking L).—O Jupiter, what a beauty! How lightly she trips across the hall. Sweet Dorothy, thou hast won my heart.

[Enter Dorothy R.]

But why does she persist in denying her identity? A servant volunteered to point out both her and the Felton girl; she evidently desires to—

Dorothy (Coughs).

Dingle (Aside).—The tenant’s daughter. I would recognize that haughty minx though she were doubly masked.

Dorothy.—Pardon me, sir; I would inquire the way to the banquet room.

Dingle (Aside).—It will never do to let her recognize my voice; I will assume a falsetto tone. (Aloud) You had better find a servant, Miss Gypsy Queen; I am not posted in the commissary department.

Dorothy.—I perceive that all knights are not Quixotes in gallantry. Thanks, however, for your suggestion.

Dingle (Sarcastic bow).—Don’t mention it, fair fortune-teller.

Dorothy.—If you knew me you would try to be more courteous; thus have you unmasked your nature, though your face is still unseen.

[Exit L.]

Dingle.—The saucy beggar! Well, in some natures poverty serves to intensify pride; I will seek the Squire.

[Exits R.]

(Enter Weatherspout and Miss Philp, Door F.; she leans upon his arm.)

Weatherspout.—The night is lovely; years and years ago it was my delight to wander forth beneath the moon’s soft rays—

Miss Philp.—Years and years ago! There! you talk like a sexagenarian. I will wager you what you will that you are under twenty-five! Aye, that I know your name!

Weatherspout.—In a few minutes the guests will assemble and unmask; if you guess my name I will anticipate that ceremony. Can you not detect the tremor of age in my voice?

Miss Philp (Aside).—The servant volunteered to tell me this man’s name. He is merely assuming the ancient quaver. His form is as straight as a pin oak. (Aloud) My eyes are not deceived, Mr. Morley Dingle.

Weatherspout.—Not knowing the party for whom you take me, I am unable to rate the value of your compliment.

Miss Philp (Aside).—It is Dingle, sure! (Aloud) Then, holy Monk, be my father confessor and learn that Mr. Morley Dingle is a perfect Adonis, a gentleman of rare attainments, one whose name any woman would be proud to—to—that is—include among her list of friends.

Weatherspout.—Or read upon her teaspoons—I comprehend.

Miss Philp.—Of course I speak from hearsay only; I have not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the gentleman; although I think I have enjoyed his company this evening.

Weatherspout.—My child, you are mistaken; I am not Dingle. I am glad for your sake that you are deceived. You will also be satisfied when you have reflected upon the matter.

Miss Philp (Angrily).—Do you know to whom you are talking?

Weatherspout.—Candidly, I do not.

Miss Philp (Aside).—I see; he fears I will penetrate his disguise. (Aloud) Oh, you are deep, very deep.

Weatherspout (Offering his arm).—Permit me to escort you to the drawing-room.

Miss Philp (Takes his arm).—What a dreamy, soul-inspiring night.

Weatherspout (Yawning).—Very.

[They exit L.]

Squire (From without).—I will tell you. Step this way. (Enter Squire and Leslie R., each holding mask in hand) Knowing that Dingle was anxious to identify my daughter, and that Miss Philp was dying to meet Dingle, I instructed a trusty servant to mislead them by making certain remarks within their hearing. The thing has worked like a charm, and the most ludicrous blunders have resulted.

Leslie.—I thought that Dorothy was unusually interested in the movements of certain couples. So the little rogue is a party to your conspiracy!

Squire.—The motive justifies the means; I desire to reclaim an arrogant young man and a silly woman; both are difficult cases, yet I hope to succeed.

Leslie.—Some one is calling—hark!

Mercy (Without).—Quick! quick! Squire, quick! (Enters L. running) Oh! oh! oh—!

Squire.—Speak, girl, what is amiss?

Mercy.—Oh, sir, you wouldn’t joke if you knew the trouble. It may end in bloodshed!

Squire.—Who’s joking?

Mercy.—You asked me a conundrum.

Squire.—Never!

Mercy.—You asked me what is a miss—every girl knows what a miss is.

[Exits R. running.]

Leslie.—The girl is mixed. [Leslie and Squire mask.]

Dingle (Without).—You shall apologize or fight. (Enter L.) Ah, here are gentlemen who will see fair play. Come on, sir, come on!

[Enter Weatherspout L.]

Weatherspout.—Silence! Give me a chance to explain.

Dingle (Drawing sword).—Retract, sir! Eat your words! (Flourishes sword) Feast upon them! Swallow them!

Weatherspout.—Gentlemen, hear him! His tongue would madden an auctioneer with envy.

Dingle.—Ha! more insults! Hold me back! (Makes a pass at Weatherspout.) Let me dissect him!

[Squire and Leslie take hold of Dingle.]

Squire.—Remember where you are!

Leslie.—Do nothing rash, sir!

Weatherspout.—Release him; I fear his jargon, not his blade; let me explain, and if he then insists on satisfaction, I will thrash him with my staff.

Dingle.—My honor! (Flourishes his sword) must I submit to this!

Squire.—Let the monk speak.

Weatherspout.—While standing on the porch enjoying the cool breeze, my companion, a lady, playfully called me Dingle. I replied that the air was filled with Dingles, whereupon this fellow sprang from behind a bush, and would have throttled me, had I not sneezed in his face.

Dingle.—What right had he to mention my name?

Squire.—You are a masked knight—how should he know you are the champion of one Dingle?

Dingle (Aside).—What a donkey I have made of myself. (Aloud) Gentlemen, there is a blunder here. Mr. Monk, I ask your pardon (Sheathes his sword). I apologize.

[Enter Mrs. Felton D. F. She pauses C.]

Squire.—Gentlemen, you’ve raised the dead with your noise. Look!

Weatherspout.—Beg pardon, sir?

Leslie.—Were you addressing me?

Dingle.—What did you observe, sir?

Squire.—I say it is a shame when even spirits cannot rest.

[All look at each other for explanation.]

Dingle.—My dear sir, you’ve indulged too freely in lobster salad; you’ve got the nightmare.

Squire (Points at Mrs. Felton).—Brave Sir Knight, look over your shoulder.

Dingle (Turns slowly, sees Mrs. F., and runs off L.)

Weatherspout (Same business).

Leslie.—Well, gentlemen—(Turns and sees Mrs. F.) Ugh! (Runs off R.)

Mrs. Felton (Removing pillow case from head).—Is it possible that I am such a hideous object that priests, soldiers and brigands flee from my presence?

Squire (Removes mask).—My dear Mrs. Felton, they were frightened almost to death before you came; they were longing to disperse, and you furnished the excuse.

Mrs. Felton.—This has been a night of excitement and pleasure to the young folks; to me it has proved a season of consternation. One man was so terrified on meeting me in the hall that he fell into a tub of egg flip; another individual dropped the arm of his lady-love and ran howling into the midst of the dancers.

Squire.—When the guests behold your face, their fears will turn to admiration.

Mrs. Felton.—Oh, now, really, Squire!

Squire.—I have long sympathized with you in your bereavement; I have observed your trials and sorrows with positive pain; sympathy often ends in love—

Mrs. Felton (Aside).—Is he going to propose? (Aloud) Don’t, don’t, Squire.

Squire.—I repeat, sympathy often ends in love; Dorothy loves you well.

Mrs. Felton (Aside).—Dorothy! (Aloud) She does, I am sure. Ahem!

Squire (Falls on his knee).—And so does her father.

[Enter Mercy L.; she pauses unobserved.]

Mrs. Felton (Takes his hand).—This is indeed an honor.

Squire.—A true woman is an honor beyond price. I am the honored one (Look bashfully at each other).

Mercy (Aside).—Well, if this isn’t the spooniest collection of humans I ever was thrown among, then my name’s not Mercy. (Aloud) Excuse me.

Squire.— (Start) Eh!

Mrs. Felton.— (Start) Oh, my!

Mercy.—I’ve lost my mistress and I want to find her. It’s time to go home.

Squire.—The masqueraders are coming; (Mrs. Felton and Squire mask) you will soon see your mistress. (Waltz music in distance, to continue until masqueraders enter, when change to march.) They are now dancing the last waltz.

Mrs. Felton.—How sweetly the strains of music fall upon the ear.

Squire (Extending his arms).—Do you waltz, my dear madam?

Mercy.—The idea!

Mrs. Felton (Retreating).—Oh, no, no, no.

Mercy.—Here they come!

(Squire and Mrs. Felton take position C. Mercy L. E.)

Squire.—They come, my dear Mrs. Felton.

Mrs. Felton.—Yes, they come.

Squire.—My dear madam, let them come.

[Enter Dingle and Em’ly, Leslie and Dorothy, Weatherspout and Miss Philp, 2 L. E., followed by masqueraders; all countermarch to music, and take final positions as follows: Dingle and Em’ly R. C., Leslie and Dorothy L. C., Weatherspout and Miss Philp R., masqueraders form semi-circle in rear.]

Squire (Removing mask).—As your host I bid you each and all unmask.

(All unmask.)

Miss Philp (Astonished).—Only look! (Aside) Old as sin!

Squire.—I will first present my daughter.

Dingle (Bows to Em’ly).

Squire.—Ladies and gentlemen (takes Dorothy’s hand), this is Miss Dorothy Clyde (all bow).

Dingle (Aside).—The widow’s daughter! (Aloud to Em’ly) Surely, this is a joke; are you not Miss Clyde?

Dorothy.—No, sir; my name is Dorothy Clyde, and the young lady at your side is the one who did not hear your gallant views on the subject of arrears of rent.

Dingle.—Do you mean to say—?

Em’ly.—She means to say that I am Em’ly Felton.

Squire.—And that you are by no means a stranger to Dorothy.

Miss Philp.—And Mr. Dingle, pray what has become of him?

Squire.—The ladies first. This is Miss Philp, my friends; this is Miss Felton, and last, but not least, this is my esteemed—ah—that is—my very esteemed friend, her mother. Now, Miss Philp, allow me to introduce to your kind consideration Mr. Morley Dingle, of Dingleton, Dingle Township, Pennsylvania.

Dorothy (Aside).—Dingle, dong, dingle.

Dingle.—I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss.

Miss Philp.—It is such a pleasure to place your name—

Weatherspout (Aside).—On your teaspoons, if you could.

Miss Philp.—Among those of my chosen friends.

Squire.—Perhaps it would give Mr. Dingle exquisite pleasure to escort you home.

Dingle.—I have already a lady.

Dorothy (To Dingle).—Are you going to distrain the household chattels?

Dingle.—Not with such good collateral security. I was wrong. I deeply regret my action.

Dorothy.—Then the court has reversed its decision?

Dingle.—Completely! The waiver is a fraud.

Squire.—Ladies and gentlemen, this is my old chum, Caleb Weatherspout, and this is my future son-in-law, Leslie Raymore.

Weatherspout.—Of the firm of Weatherspout & Raymore.

Miss Philp.—Mercy, get my wrap, quick.

Mercy.—Must you go home alone?

Weatherspout.—Not by any means. I shall see you both safely home.

Miss Philp (Aside).—He don’t look so aged after all. (Aloud) How kind, sir.

Squire.—Now that we have thrown off our masks, let us keep them off.

Mrs. Felton.—And let us clasp hands in the light of a perfect understanding.

(All join hands.)

Leslie.—This is mainly due to Dorothy Clyde—

Em’ly (Nods to Dorothy).—The Squire’s Daughter.

[Curtain.]

—Geo. M. Vickers.