ACT I.

[Frontispiece: “Hush thy babble, O fountain! Let me listen, let me

listen!”]

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.”

Along the valley’s narrow gorge

The morning mist outspread,

While rifle-pit and breast-work strong

Frowned grimly overhead.

The sluggish stream that only served

To slake the thirst of kine,

Was soon to see a drearier sight

With men drawn up in line.

Along the crest a flash of fire

Breaks red against the sky,

Along the hillside’s narrow slope

Comes back the quick reply.

Ferraro dashes up in haste,

His countenance aflame,

“The Fifty-first must storm the bridge,”

’Twas thus the order came.

“Fix bayonets!” over Hartranft’s face

A strange smile sent its beam;

The red blood flushed, his dusky cheek――

His dark eyes all agleam.

Sturgis and Cook in vain essayed,

And others yet may try,

But now the gallant Fifty-first

Must storm the bridge or die.

Bright flashed the sword their leader drew――

“Charge!” Like a simoon’s blast,

The Fifty-first, mid shot and shell,

Dashed on――the bridge is passed;

The beaten foe in wild retreat

Is flying o’er the bridge,

Huzza! huzza! The Fifty-first

Has stormed Antietam’s bridge!

Oh, men of Pennsylvania,

Along your bloody route

Lies many a comrade, dull of ear,

Who may not have heard you shout;

But o’er your country’s wide domain

A pæan grand shall burst;

A nation’s accolade be thine――

O gallant Fifty-first!

The Dead Letter.

There, now! I’ve read your letter through

Three times; I’ll read it once again

If you say so; it rests with you.[2]

What? loan you paper, ink and pen?

Why, man you’re weaker than a child.

To-morrow I will gladly write

Whate’er you wish. Be reconciled,[3]

Compose yourself and rest to-night.

You think we nuns are good to tend

The sick, to count our beads, and pray,

But that we do not comprehend

How worldly people dread delay

In getting word from those they love:

Why, sir, you know not what you say――

Ah! this dark robe too well doth prove

The sorrow of that by-gone[4] day――

No, no; I fully understand

What you would say. There’s no offence;

Naught to forgive. There take[5] my hand.

We now are friends. In confidence

The story of a broken life,

Before the doctor comes, I’ll tell:

Of how I shunned[6] the cold world’s strife

And sought a quiet convent cell.

Far back[7] in life I loved a man,

A gen’rous, noble heart and true:

And he loved me as only can,

As only gallant natures do.

Our days passed by so quietly,

Love’s dream so rosy-hued had grown

That seasons glided by[8] ere we

Would note that e’en a month had flown.

Thus ran my girlhood and his youth,

Till came the naming of the happy day――

Our wedding day――that would in truth

Have made us man and wife for aye,

When, like a blow from one we love,

There came an unexpected woe;

In vain ’gainst[9] fate we madly strove;

Each cherished hope lay scattered[10] low.

A crime had been committed in

The village where lived he and I;

And ’mid the first wild, senseless din

That marked the people’s hue and cry,

Suspicion on him[11] fell, and so,

To ’scape the frenzied, ‘vengeful mob,

He, innocent, resolved to go

Away[12]――and I to stay and sob.

Then, bending low, said he, “This thing

Will only for a season last,

A moment full relief may bring;

At most our grief will soon be past;

But, darling, should it not be so,

Write” (he whispered a fictitious name),

“And I will by your letter know

That in your eyes I bear no shame.”

The rain fell from a dark’ning sky,[13]

The apple blossoms scattered[14] lay,

The chill wind moaned, and night drew nigh,

As with a sigh he turned away[15]――

I watched[16] his form till lost in gloom,

And, save the dripping of the rain,[17]

There fell a stillness[18] of the tomb――

A lull that seemed to daze my brain.[19]

The morning after that sad night

The guilty one was found; and I,

With woman’s haste, sat down to write,

And wrote in joyous ecstasy;

The letter mailed, each moment seemed

An age; but days and weeks passed by――

With visions dread my fancy teemed――

But came he not, nor made reply.

One day, when hope had almost fled,

The post-man thrust it in my hand:

“This is from Washington,”[20] he said,

“Dead-letter office, understand?”

With throbbing heart I broke the seal,

My face grew whiter than a sheet,

The dreadful blunder made me reel

And drop[21] the letter at my feet.

Instead of the fictitious name

He gave, it bore his _own_,

Which knowing not, he could not claim――

To him my lines were never known――

In loneliness he died: and here

I nurse the sick; but I have done――

And, sir[22] no longer have a fear

To trust me, though I’m but a nun.

You’ve heard a portion of my tale

Before? From whom? Oh, tell[23] me quick!

From my lost love? You both set sail

In the same ship? My heart[24] grows sick――

What? Still alive?[25] Oh, God be praised!

Oh, joy![26] Oh, joy! And I will write?

Now that my dead to life is raised――

Will I? Yes, now――this very night.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

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.

[Illustration: “Nathan said unto David, ‘Thou art the man.’”]

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.

Fierce blows the gale and cold,

Loudly the windows[27] rattle;

Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.

Hark![28] ’Twas a bell that tolled――

There, again! must I battle

Through another dreadful winter night?

Better by far to die.

Who[29] in this mighty city

Wastes a thought on such a wretched life?

Who heeds my weary sigh?

Who sheds a tear in pity?

All alone I wage[30] the bitter strife.

Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]

Gay sound the reckless voices;

And how tempting warm the red grate glows!

No![32] rather perish here――

Ah, no――my soul rejoices,[33]

For I triumph spite of all my woes.

Now, that I’ve made my vow,

Who[34] comes to help me keep it?

Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?

Ripe is the harvest now,

Yet comes there none to reap it.

Not a cent![35] no home; no crust of bread.

Fie,[36] upon hearts so cold!

Not one will deign to aid me;

And my own sex turn[37] me off with scorn;

Sneer at me; call me bold;

Taunt me, and then upbraid me――

O, my God,[38] how can I wait till morn?

Mother, is that you[39] there?

Surely,[40] I must be dreaming――

Do not leave me, mother;[41] take me home!

Oh, how keen[42] bites the air!

Yonder[43] the dawn is gleaming.

It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44] come!

Sleepy, indeed, am I――

Wait till I kneel[45] down, mother――

Now[46] I lay me down to sleep――keep off――[47]

Help! help! help! I shall die――

Give me some air――I smother!

I am saved![48] Now let the cold world scoff.

* * * * *

Fierce blows the gale and cold,

Loudly the windows[49] rattle,

And the stars are paling[50] out with fright:

Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:

Done is the hard-fought battle――

And a weary soul has said good-night.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

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.

The 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._

[Illustration: “When, lo! from out the lake arose a horrid monster

form.”]

The Last Salute.

Yes, the ranks are growing smaller

With the coming of each May,

And the beards and locks once raven

Now are mingled thick with gray;

Soon the hands that strew the flowers

Will be folded still and cold,

And our story of devotion

Will forever have been told.

Years and years have passed by, comrades,

Though it seems but yesterday

Since the Blue-garbed Northern legions

Marched to meet the Southern Gray――

But a day since Massachusetts

Bade her soldier boys good-bye――

But a day since Alabama

Heard her brave sons’ farewell cry.

Those are days we all remember,

In our hearts we hold them yet;

And the kiss we got at parting,

Who can ever that forget?

And it may have been a mother,

A fond father, or a wife,

Or a maid whose love was dearer

To the soldier’s heart than life.

Then the silent midnight marches,

And the fierce-fought battle’s roar,

And the sailor’s lonely watches,

Gone, please God, forevermore:

Though these ne’er can be forgotten

While the dew our graves shall wet,

Yet the color of our jackets

Let each gallant heart forget;

For the ranks are growing smaller,

And though decked in blue or gray,

Soon both armies will be sleeping

In their shelter-tents of clay.

But the loud reverberation

Of the last salute shall be

Oft re-echoed through the ages

As the tocsin of the free!

For we both but did our duty,

In the Great Jehovah’s plan,

And the world has learned a lesson

That all men may read who can;

And when gathered for the muster

On the last and dreadful day,

May that God extend His mercy

Sweet, alike to Blue and Gray.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

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._]

The swarthy forms steal one by one

Like shadows past the guard;

Now soft they creep, now leap, now run,

From tyrants base and hard;

But hark! what sound is that which comes

Across the sandy plain?

The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums!

Alas! their flight is vain.

Behold! a thousand torches flash

Like meteors into view!

While swift the Pagans onward dash

The bold dragoons pursue!

See! now the captives reach a stream,

A rushing torrent wild;

They cannot pass――[_Throws book on floor._]

Oh, grief! now for the gestures: [_With hesitation as though

forgetting lines._]

The swarthy forms steal[51] one by one

Like shadows past the guard――

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.

Now soft they creep,[56] now leap,[57] now run[58]

From tyrants base and hard――

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

desperate, I am!

But hark![59] what sound is that which comes

Across the sandy plain?

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.

The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums,

Alas! their flight is vain[62]――

Now this is a puzzler.

The sentry’s cry――

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.

――the roll of drums.

What on earth were the drums rolled for? It looks to me as though the

Hottentots were drummed out of camp.

Alas! their flight is vain――

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:

Behold![64] a thousand torches flash

Like meteors into view!

While swift the Pagans onward[65] dash

The bold dragoons[66] pursue!

That’s better. The Principal could not beat that, particularly the

_Be_hold, and the s-w-i-f-t. Next comes the climax――a long

respiration, and――and――

See![67] the captives pass a stream,

A rushing torrent[68] wild,

They cannot pass――

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.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and, looked

Out on the road that passed my window wide,

And saw a woman and a fair-haired child

That knelt and picked the daisies at the side.

The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,

And, laughing, held it high above its head;

A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,

And in that light a mother’s love I read.

She took the little hand, and both passed on;

The prattle of the child I still could hear,

Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,

That came in loving words upon my ear.

“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,

But yet had left the recollection of that scene――

The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt

And picked the daisies on the roadside green.

I looked. The old familiar road was there――

A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;

And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare

That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child

Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh

To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.

“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road

The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;

Caressing tones――not mixed with prattle now,

But full of loving words――I still could hear.

I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;

He told the story――all there was to tell:

A little mound the village churchyard bore;

And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.

――_Joseph Whitton._

[Illustration: “Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the

mountains are upon us!”]

Sir Rupert’s Wife.

You see where the cliffs frown yonder in a line of dingy red?――

That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert’s Head:

It’s five hundred feet and over from the brow to the sea below,

And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago.

There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh;

He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free.

He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks,

And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox.

Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless line

Who had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and

wine.

He wasn’t so bad as they were――he was more of a hunting squire,

And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.

His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,

And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch.

When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest,

For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest.

One winter he went to London――he then was about forty-three;

His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see.

’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall;

There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call.

He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends,

But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends.

Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench,

Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and

French.

She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,

That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.

She sang in a minor play-house――in opera, so they say――

And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.

He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,

So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,

He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced

skill,

Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.

They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome――

Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home.

The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack,

But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances

back.

They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain,

And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain.

They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew,

Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew.

Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone,

And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone――

Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead,

But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed.

To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skies

That his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes.

No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side――

’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won

bride.

She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life――

She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife.

Sir Rupert must ask a party――not of bumpkins, but folks from the town;

He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down?

They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more,

And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;

He had learned from an idle whisper――a whisper not meant for him――

A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart

limb.

He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:

’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,

A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum――

He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.

Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,

And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;

He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;

He said at the time he knew her――’twas a planned and plotted thing!

And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away;

She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,――with him she was kind and gay.

She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife――

She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life.

She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie――

Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!”

One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out:

Two horses were gone from the stable――’twas a settled thing, no doubt.

Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crew

And cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!――who dares to say its true?”

Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mare

And made straight for the Red Cliff roadway――he guessed they had

gone by there,

For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post,

And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged

coast.

If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow――

Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now.

He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep,

’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and

deep;

But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head

he spied

A horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side;

And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see,

Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be;

And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow,

While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below.

A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate,

But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland

straight.

They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned,

And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned.

Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice

reared,

And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she

feared.

For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cry

Went over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.

For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,

While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;

Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,

And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.

And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,

Something his eyes detected――a heap on a narrow ledge;

It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched

wife,

And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty

life.

He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a

hold,

And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold.

The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die,

But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-by

Then the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands,

And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands.

Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat,

And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet.

The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life,

But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife,

Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope,

Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her,

“Darling――hope!”

Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night,

He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height.

A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand,

And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand.

Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road!

There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless

load.

Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and

gushed;

And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were

crushed.

No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown:

Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone.

He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms,

And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms.

For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life――

’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife――

And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed,

A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed.

But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place,

And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face.

It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care:

And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair.

For many a year she lingered――’twas up at the Hall she died,

And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side.

She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love,

And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above.

There stands the great bluff headland――there swells the sea below――

And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago,

Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of red

But thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.”

_George R. Sims._

[Illustration: “And one sly maiden spake aside,

‘The little witch is evil-eyed.’”]

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._

[Illustration: “I hate him, for he is a Christian.”]

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――

“I’m mad, I’m mad, I _know_ I’m mad,

Enough to drive one mad,

Stark, raving, howling, crazy mad,

It is to lose one’s child.”

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!”

“Mary haf got a leetle lambs already,

Dose wool vas vite like shnow,

Und efery times dot Mary did vend oud,

Dot lambs vent oud vid Mary.”

“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.”

“Is this a dagger which I see before me, its handle toward my hand?

Come, let me clutch thee, I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.

What light is this which surrounds me and seems to set fire to my

brain?

What whistle that, yelling so shrilly? Ah! I know now, ’tis the

train.”

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.”

“Be that word our sign of parting,

Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore;

Leave no black plume as a token of that he thy soul has spoken,

Leave my loneliness unbroken.”

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._

[Illustration: “Ha, ha! take that! and that! and that!”]

Nothing to Wear.

Toby Simpson, a dealer most worthy and just,

Slowly wended his way through the rattle and dust

Of the city. He mused on the cholera scare,

On his relative chance as a wheat or a tare

In the prophesied raid. Then he mumbled a prayer,

And each mud hole he eyed seemed a villainous snare,

While his conscience said, solemnly, “Simpson, beware!”

On the strength of a limited balance in cash

He had planned for himself and his family a dash

To the mountains, the seaside, it mattered not where;

To delay any longer was more than he dare;

Some relief must be had from the terrible flare

Of the midsummer sun, which would surely impair

The good health of Dame Simpson, now cross as a bear.

’Twas quite late in July and old Sol was aglow,

All the people had gone who had money to go

From the city to seek a few sniffs of fresh air,

And forgot for a season their burdens of care;

Then no wonder Dame Simpson was heard to declare

That the Joneses looked up with an insolent stare,

As she stood at her window exposed to the glare.

But her husband that ev’ning when rising from tea,

With his hands full of tickets and heart full of glee,

Quite as proud as a lion could be in its lair,

Shouted out: “To the Capes, yes, to-morrow, prepare,

I’ve engaged jolly quarters and paid all the fare!”

To which mother and daughters, with mock debonair,

Chorused forth: “Why, dear papa, we’ve nothing to wear!”

With a look most bewildered he clutched at a tray,

For his mercantile courage was oozing away,

And his features were grim ’neath his carroty hair;

Twenty bills he had paid for goods costly and rare

For those females! and now could not possibly spare

An additional stamp. Unaccustomed to swear,

It was startling to hear him say: “Darned if it’s fair!”

In an eight by ten office, half sweltered with heat,

Sat T. Simpson, the jobber. He gazed at his feet

Which reposed on a desk, just in front of his chair,

While his face was dejected and full of despair;

And he owed not a cent; his accounts were all square――

No, not that, but the problem of Nothing to Wear

Was just why the poor fellow sat pondering there.

_George M. Vickers._

Echo and the Ferry.

Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;

He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood

They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven!

A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh! a girl was no good!”

So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.

It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl――only seven!

At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.

The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about,

And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?

I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven――eleven!

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,

And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered;

And under and over the branches those little birds twittered,

While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven.

A pity――a very great pity. One should be eleven.

But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,

And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.

Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold.

Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;

And then some one else――oh! how softly!――came after, came after

With laughter――with laughter came after.

And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call,

That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.

But this was the country――perhaps it was close under heaven;

Oh! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.

I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this

Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all.

Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:

She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small,

Then flashed down her hole like a dart――like a dart from the quiver.

And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss.

――So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver

And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall

White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall――

A little low wall――and looked over, and there was the river,

The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river,

Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow;

But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,

And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft――very low.

“The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river,

“To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river――the river.

I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,

The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.

But at last――in a day or two namely――Eleven and I

Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.

He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of bee

That had learned how to laugh; could it laugh in one’s ear and then

fly,

And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”――he whispered it low――

“Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see.

And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he;

But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder.

Yet I that had money――a shilling, a whole silver shilling――

We might cross if I thought I could spend it.” “Oh! yes, I was

willing”――

And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry,

And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry

When they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very――was very

Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried,

“Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry――the ferry!”

By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide――she replied,

And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, “You man of the ferry,

You man of――you man of the ferry!”

“Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling;

Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast.

Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassed

All measure her doubling――so close, then so far away falling,

Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware,

And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was

there),

Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair.

We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead;

In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead;

By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown;

Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown.

So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.

The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall.

Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy mound

And looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round

Might have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak-carven seat

Was empty. We saw the great Bible――old, old, very old.

And the parson’s great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat

Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold

Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and play

On the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said,

“Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed

She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;

And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small

Seven:

“Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”

All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven;

“You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never

Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers――because it was old

And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,

Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.

Neither heard nor beheld, but about us――in whispers we spoke.

Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,

While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land.

And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry,

“O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see,

The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”――“by the tree.”

“By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and

merry;

“Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”――“the ferry.”

“You man of the ferry――”

“You man of――you man of――the ferry.”

Ay, here――it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;

All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.

Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white

To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon?

Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over――passed on?

Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing light

I hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry,

Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!”

“And, Katie.” “And, Katie.” “Art out with the glow-worms to-night,

My Katie?” “My Katie!” For gladness I break into laughter

And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;

Again, some one else――oh, how softly!――with laughter comes after,

Comes after――with laughter comes after.

――_Jean Ingelow._

Roderick Lee.

This is a wild, lone valley, and the road that threads it through

Is the loneliest road I know of, and I’ve traveled not a few;

Those hills on the left[72] so barren, and yon[73] towering, rocky

ridge,

Look down on a sluggish river that is spanned by a moss-grown bridge――

And nigh to the bridge like a sentry, a tall, gray chimney stands,

’Mid the wreck that time has buried ’neath the tangled weeds and

sands.

In this valley three ruins moulder that were once three happy homes,

And where once fond voices mingled, now the sly fox fearless roams;

Then these locks[74] were thick and glossy, that are now so sparse

and gray;

Then I’d clamber these rocks as willing by night as I would by day――

But, if a royal scepter, if the world[75] were promised mine

To cross again this valley, I would shudder and decline.

Roderick Lee was a miller, and as grist was hard to find

Down in his old New Hampshire,[76] he had little or naught to grind;

So, with his young wife blooming and his brown-eyed daughter Nell,

Together with two young farmers, he came to this[77] place to dwell:

And many’s the mile of prairie, and many’s the forest drear,

That lay ’twixt the far-off Merrimack[78] and the stream[79] that

ripples here.

Yet with a heart as buoyant and as brave as it was true,

Young Lee, ’mid the cheers at parting, bade his native town adieu;

Then came the weeks of toiling, aye, months, ere the scorching plain

Was crossed, and his eyes were greeted by the distant mountain chain;

But the white-topped, dusty wagons at last made their final stand,

And he knelt to breathe thanksgiving with his little pilgrim band.

Stay! even now in fancy, I can see their forms once more,

I can see their peaceful faces and the look of hope they wore――

Poor Kate and Nell and Edith, young Harry, Mag and Joe――

’Neath that oak[80] I see them kneeling, tho’ ’tis thirty years ago!

And long ere the hazy autumn had mellowed another year,

Our huts were built in the clearing, and our corn hung ripe in the

ear.

Joe was a model husband, as fair Edith, his wife, well knew,

And Mag and her raw-boned Harry, lived as loving couples do;

But, as their homes were childless, very natural-like it fell

That these kind and worthy people thought the world of little Nell.

Many a time they kept her whole days ’gainst her mother’s will,

First in the hut by the river[81], then in the hut by the hill[82].

Once in the chill November, when the slender moon[83] hung low,

And the barren hill tops yonder[84] were clad in a gauze of snow;

Kate with a gleam of mischief in her bright and twinkling eye,

Started across the river[85] to the hut of Joe, hard by;

And Roderick sat by the window, watching her out of sight,

Dreamily watching the shadows of that chill November night.

Ere it had seemed a moment she again stood by his chair;

She had called at their neighbor’s cabin, but Nellie had not been

there.

Roderick slowly rising took his rifle from the rack,

For the road was wild and lonely and led through a forest tract;

Over the ruts and boulders, chatting, they strode[86] along

Till the voice of raw-boned Harry was heard in a merry song.

“Singing for Nell’s amusement,” said the wife, as she hurried on;

“Pity,” she added, musing, “that they have no child of their own.”

Soon with a hearty greeting they were met at the cabin door,

“And where is your little daughter?” asked Mag, as she scanned them

o’er.

“Question your good man, Harry[87], for I’ll venture that he can

tell,”

Said Kate, then smiling added, “we must stop lending little Nell.”

Mag, with a playful gesture drew the bed-room screen[88] aside,

“See!” she exclaimed, “she’s not here; now I hope you are satisfied.”

“Come, Maggie, come, don’t trifle, for the hour is growing late;

I know that the child is hiding; would you have us longer wait?”

Thus queried Kate, half pleading, when a look akin to fear

Stole over the face of Harry as he said, “she is not here!”[89]

“Not here! O God[90] protect her!” with a gasp young Roderick cried,

And his pale wife like a statue, mute with fright, stood at his side.

’Twas but a single moment, yet it seemed like an age to wait

Ere Mag and Kate with their husbands filed out[91] through the open

gate;

Dark[92] was the night as a dungeon, for the moon had sunk away[93],

And the far-off cries of a panther[94] filled each breast with dread

dismay.

On[95] through the gloomy forest like a band of ghosts they sped,

Silently, save when the mother sobbed, or a twig snapped ’neath their

tread;

“Hark[96]!” whispered tall, gaunt Harry, and they stood with heads[97]

bent low,

While faint on the air of midnight came shrieks[98] of pain and woe.

“Hello! hello[99]!” cried Harry; but they heard no voice reply――

“Heavens! what means that crimson, that glow[100] on the fleecy sky?

See how it spreads[101] and deepens! Look! our cabins are ablaze!”

Then Roderick paused in terror at the sight that met his gaze.

Light grew the wood about[102] them; their shadows fell before,

For behind[103] them on the hillside leaped the flames from Harry’s

door:

“On[104] for your lives!” screamed Harry, “on for little Nell!”

Then, like an answering challenge, rose the distant Indians’ yell.

Bang! bang! “That’s Joe replying; he’ll fight ’em game and well,”

Were the words that Harry uttered; “God[105] spare my darling Nell!”

This from the pallid mother; and the settlers fairly flew

O’er the matted brush and boulders till the clearing came in view.

Oh, such a sight[106] of ruin! oh, such a ghastly scene!

Stark, dead,[107] lay Joe and Edith on the charred and trampled green.

Crouching down ’mid the bushes they watched the painted fiends,

Watched with the strange, grim calmness that despair so often lends;

“My child! my child!” then springing from the group like astartled

deer,

Kate rushed[108] o’er the red-lit clearing ere one could interfere――

The hideous, screeching cut-throats had captured little Nell;

But, when they saw her mother, they stood bound, as by a spell.

“Spare![109] oh, spare my darling! Here, pierce me,[110] strike me

dead![111]

Give back my child, my Nellie!” the frantic woman said;

Then on her panting bosom her daughter’s head she laid,

Then both sank[112] down in silence, looked up and mutely prayed;

That was the fatal signal, for on, like a sweeping hell[113]

They came with knife and hatchet, with rifle-shot and yell.

Bravely they fought, yet vainly, that fated settler band,

Clubbing their empty rifles, meeting them hand to hand;

Roderick reeled and staggered, then fell[114] ’neath a crushing blow,

And a whoop of fiendish malice told the triumph of the foe;

Then like a flash they vanished[115] and Roderick bleeding lay,

Hearing their yells grow fainter, till at last they died away.

Gray dawned the wintry morning on that awful scene of death,

And five cold brows of marble were kissed[116] by its chilling

breath――

God in his wisdom took them――save Nellie, who ne’er was found;

And all of them sleep in this valley, each ’neath a grassy mound.

Poor little Nell may be living, but if living she’s dead to me;

Yes, the tale is indeed a true one――and my name?――is Roderick Lee.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

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.

[Illustration: “Cursed, thrice cursed may you be evermore, and as my

people on Mount Ebal spoke, so speak I thrice, Amen! Amen! Amen!”]

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.]

Yes! I have served that[117] noble chief throughout his proud career,

And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near――

Amidst Italian flowers,[118] below the dark pines of the north,[119]

Where’er the Emperor willed[120] to pour his clouds of battle forth.

’Twas _then_ a splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween,

How his vast spirit filled[121] and moved the wheels of the machine;

Wide sounding leagues[122] of sentient steel, and fires that lived

to kill,[123]

Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will.

But _now_ my heart is darkened with the shadows[124] that rise and

fall

Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall:

The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then,

But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men.

The German and the Englishman were each an open foe,

And open hatred hurled[125] us back from Russia’s blinding snow;

Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain

The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain.

I saw a village[126] in the hills, as silent[127] as a dream,

Naught stirring but the summer sound[128] of a merry mountain stream;

The evening star[129] just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver

eye,

And the chestnut woods[130] were still and calm beneath the deepening

sky.

But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found,

Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground;

Each roofless hut[131] was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing

vine,

Each path was foul[132] with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine.

We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way,

And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day,

The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more,

But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore.

We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay;

His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133] and wrenched

away;

They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim,

“Food, woman――food and wine, or else we tear[134] thee limb from

limb.”

The woman shaking off _his_ blood, rose,[135] raven-haired and tall,

And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all.

“Both food and wine,”[136] she said, “I have; I meant them for the

dead,[137]

But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead.”

The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,[138]

But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor’s face;

Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien,

Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene.

She glided here,[139] she glided there,[140] before our wondering

eyes,

Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise;

At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran,

And made us pale and silent as that[141] silent murdered man.

She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet;

Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled[142] red around our

feet.

On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine,

And we like marble statues glared――a chill, unmoving line.

All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,

A company of living things where all was still――but death;[143]

My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stood

And watched[144] the only thing that stirred――the rippling of the

blood.

That woman’s voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell,

And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell――

“Ho![145] slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak!

What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats[146] and life-bought wine ye

seek?

Feed, and begone![147] I wish to weep――I bring you out my store[148]――

Devour[149] it――waste[150] it all――and then――pass[151] and be seen

no more.

Poison! Is that your craven fear?” She snatched the goblet[152] up

And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup.

But our fierce leader grasped her wrist――“No, woman! No!” he said,

“A mother’s heart of love is deep――give it your child[153] instead.”

She only smiled a bitter smile――“Frenchmen, I do not shrink――

As pledge of my fidelity, behold[154] the infant drink!”

He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul;

But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl.

And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care,

Sat down[155] to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare.

The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light;

But _I_ was fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night;

I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain[156]

Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain.

Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,

To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.

“Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust again

A widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157] Spain.

Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158] Himself I swore

To treat you[159] as you treated _him_[160]――that[161] body on the

floor.

Yon secret place[162] I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,

The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.

A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,

But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still.

The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163] for her butchered love,[164]

the wife,

To tell you that an hour is all _my_ vintage leaves of life.

I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on,

Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165] a single stone;

I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by,

I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die.

But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey,

And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166] the quivering life

away――

Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain,

Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain.

And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild,

Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167] around the mother and her

child――

While she,[168] distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while,

And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile.

――_Sir Francis Hastings Doyle._

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.

[Illustration: “Come, let us within.”]

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.]

Go search the annals of the human race,

Go hear the legends that the heathen tell,

And learn that hist’ry, sacred or profane,

Records no hero like the mighty Grant.

Columbia proudly claims him as her own

And rears her monuments with love and pride;

But millions scattered o’er the face of earth,

And millions yet unborn, will share that claim:

Who serves mankind is deemed the friend of man,

And nations nationalize him in their hearts.

Since that first famous Battle of the Kings,

Of which we read in holy writ, no sword

E’er leaped from scabbard in a juster war

Than that which made our country free indeed,

Which, until then, was only free in name.

The bond of unity that Washington

To us bequeathed, Grant’s loyal arm maintained;

Emancipation of the dusky race

By Lincoln’s heaven-inspired pen, by Grant’s

Unsullied sword was made complete!

How well

He proved the potency of equal rights,

And how he dignified Democracy

The monarchs of the world have told, thrice told,

In homage, hospitality and love.

No land is free where dwells a slave: to-day

In all our land there dwells no slave, and we

Are free, forever free!

“_Let us have peace._”

Clasp hands across the ashes of the dead.

No, no; Grant is not dead, he cannot die;

The body is the worn-out coat of mail,

That with his sword and shield the warrior casts

Aside when life’s campaign is o’er, and home,

Eternal home, is reached.

He is not dead

Whose power still exists; and Grant will live

A life of immortality while yet

Our starry banner floats for liberty,

Which, thanks to God, will be forevermore.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

The Coquette.

Two girls sat in a gay saloon, nor mingled with the crowd;

The younger’s face was pale, and sad, the elder’s stern and proud.

“O Gertrude,” said the younger girl, “thou art a sad coquette;

Ah, many hearts have felt thy power, and thou art flirting yet.

There’s one who fills a foreign grave, who loved thee all too well,

Who breathed thy name forgivingly, as in the fray he fell;

And yet his fate was better far than that of poor Martelle,

Who lonely clanks his heavy chains――a madman――in his cell.”

“O Gertrude,” in a softer tone, “give up thy selfish arts,

Or hopeless love will be thy doom for blighting loving hearts.”

Thus far had Maud unchecked reproved when Gertrude coldly said:

“I care not for the living dupes, why blame me for the dead?

Thy lover, sure, is naught to me, so quell thy jealous fears;

When seeking game I ever strive to strike among my peers.”

“Tis not my lover,” Maud replied, while blushes bathed her brow,

“But brother Paul I fain would save――for him I’m pleading now.

Of kin, he’s all I have on earth――so noble, brave and pure――

Too good, alas, to sacrifice――defeat he’d ne’er endure.”

But Gertrude rose and took the hand that claimed her for the dance,

While Maud stole to the balcony――did Paul stand there by chance?

It seemed not so――anon there came a lass surpassing fair; Some

hurried words, a merry laugh――they seek the gaslight’s glare.

Soon Paul claims Gertrude for the waltz; she yields and softly

sighs,

Then off they whirl while glances dart from scores of jealous eyes.

* * * * *

The full round moon now rides on high; the fragrant air is cool,

The fountain’s spray, like flashing gems, darts in the limpid pool.

A rustic seat girts round an oak, and Paul leads Gertrude there,

She by his side, he takes her hand, so small, so soft and fair.

In accents low he thus began: “O Gertrude, till to-night

True happiness I never knew, and may it ne’er take flight.

Say, may I tell my tale, and hope to gain a smile from thee?

Approving words to ease a heart that is no longer free?

I’m lonely now, for sister Maud is soon to be a bride;

Then wonder not because I seek a refuge at thy side.”

She murmured half inaudibly: “Dear Paul, I long to hear;

Thou’lt get a smile for ev’ry smile, a tear for ev’ry tear.”

“Enough, kind Gertrude, listen then: for years I’ve roamed afar;

I’ve sailed beneath the Southern Cross, I’ve lost the Northern Star;

But now I once more breathe the air of home, I’ll never stray;

I only need a loving wife――why tremble, Gertrude, say?

But soon I’ll tell thee all I may; say, wilt thou share my joy?

God willing, this night, two weeks hence, I marry Kate LeRoy.”

Poor Gertrude heard no more that eve, nor saw she Paul again;

The rose-tints faded from her cheeks; at last she loved――in vain.

* * * * *

Her wasted form the church-yard holds; Ah! never this forget:

A woman’s love is woman’s life, e’en tho’ a gay coquette.

――_Geo. M. Vickers_.

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.

[Illustration: “Hark! ’tis the train; the mother’s ear leans to the

sound.”]

Mary, Queen of Scots.

[First Honor at Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of

Elocution and Languages, 1885.]

I looked far back[169] into other years, and lo! in bright array,

I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,

And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep[170]

falls;

And o’er the antique dial stone[171] the creeping shadow passed,

And all around,[172] the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast.

No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister[173] dim,

The tinkling[174] of the silver bell, or the sisters’ holy hymn.

And there[175] five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,

In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please;

And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers,

That Scotland knew no prouder[176] names, held none more dear than

theirs:

And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine,

Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line!

Calmly her happy days flew on,[177] uncounted in their flight,

And as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon,

And ’neath a thousand[178] silver lamps a thousand courtiers[179]

throng;

And proudly kindles Henry’s[180] eye――well pleased, I ween, to see

The land assemble all[181] its wealth of grace and chivalry;

But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune’s tide,

Effulgent in the light of youth, is she,[182] the new-made bride!

The homage of a thousand hearts――the fond deep love of one――

The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun――

They lighten up her chestnut eye,[183] they mantle o’er her cheek,

They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak;

Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant

hours,

She thought of that quiet convent’s calm, its sunshine and its

flowers?

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way,

And o’er its lee[184] the coast of France in the light of evening

lay;

And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes

Upon the fast-receding hills,[185] that dim and distant rise.

No marvel that the lady wept――there was no land on earth[186]

She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth;

It was her mother’s land, the land of childhood and of friends――

It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends――

The land where her dead husband slept――the land where she had known

The tranquil convent’s hushed repose,[187] and the splendors of a

throne[188];

No marvel that the lady wept――it was the land of France――

The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance!

The past was bright, like those fair hills[189] so far beyond her

bark;

The future[190], like the gathering night, was ominous and dark[191]!

One gaze again――one long, last gaze――“Adieu, fair France, to

thee!”[192]

The breeze comes forth――she is alone on the unconscious sea!

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood,

And in a turret chamber high[193] of ancient Holyrood

Sat Mary, listening[194] to the rain, and sighing with the winds,

That seemed to suit the stormy state of men’s uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanched her cheek,――her smile was sadder now,

The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow;

And traitors to her councils[195] came, and rebels to the field;[196]

The Stuart SCEPTER well she swayed, but the SWORD she could not wield.

She thought of all her blighted hopes――the dreams of youth’s brief

day,

And summoned Rizzio[197] with his lute, and bade the minstrel play

The songs she loved in early years――the songs of gay Nevarre,

The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar;

They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed[198] her into

smiles,

They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils;

But hark![199] the tramp of armèd men! the Douglas’ battle cry!

They come, they come![200]――and lo! the scowl of Ruthven’s hollow eye!

And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are

vain[201]――

The ruffian steel is in his heart[202]――the faithful Rizzio’s slain!

Then Mary dashed[203] aside the tears that trickling fell;

“Now for my father’s arm!”[204] she said, “my woman’s heart,

farewell!”[205]

The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle,

And there[206] within the prison-walls of its baronial pile,

Stern men stood menacing their Queen, till she should stoop to sign

The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ancestral line.

“My lords, my lords!” the captive said, “were I but once more free,

With ten good knights on yonder shore[207], to aid my cause and me,

That parchment would I scatter[208] wide to every breeze that blows,

And once more reign a Stuart Queen o’er my remorseless foes!”

A red spot burned upon her cheek――streamed her rich tresses down,

She wrote the words――she stood erect――a _QUEEN WITHOUT A CROWN_!

The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner[209] bore,

And the faithful of the land stood round[210] their smiling Queen

once more;

She stayed her steed upon a hill――she saw them marching by[211]――

She heard their shouts――she read success in every flashing eye.

The tumult of the strife begins――it roars――it dies away;[212]

And Mary’s troops and banners now, and courtiers――where are

they?[213]

Scattered and strown and flying[214] far, defenseless and

undone[215]――

Alas! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won!

――Away! away![216] thy gallant steed must act no laggard’s part;

Yet vain his speed――for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart!

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman[217]stood,

And gleamed the broad-axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood.

With slow and steady step there came a lady[218] through the hall,

And breathless silence[219] chained the lips and touched the hearts

of all.

I knew that queenly form[220] again, though blighted was its bloom――

I saw that grief had decked it out――an offering for the tomb!

I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone:

I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone.

I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold;

I knew that bounding grace of step――that symmetry of mould!

Even now I see[221] her far away, in that calm convent aisle,

I hear[222] her chant her vesper hymn, I mark her holy smile――

Even now I see[223] her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn,

A new star[224] in the firmament, to light and glory[225] born!

Alas! the change!――she placed her foot upon a triple throne,

And on the scaffold[226] now she stands――beside the block――ALONE!

The little dog that licks her hand――the last of all the crowd

That sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps

bowed!

――Her neck is bared――the blow is struck――the soul has passed[227]

away!

The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay![228]

The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it gurgles o’er,

Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor![229]

The blood of beauty, wealth and power――the heart blood[230] of a

Queen――

The noblest of the Stuart race――the fairest earth has seen――

Lapped by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone;

Then weigh against a grain[231] of sand the glories[232] of a throne!

_H. G. Bell._

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.

[Illustration: “Alas! poor soul, what woe is thine!”]

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.

But hush! the voice from the little bed,

And the watchful mother bent her head.

“Mammy, I know that I’m soon to die

And I want to wish them all good-bye.

I shouldn’t like any here to say,

‘He didn’t shake hands when he went away;

He was glad to be off to his harp and wings

And couldn’t remember his poor old things.’

In Heaven I never should feel content

If I hadn’t been kind before I went;

So let me take leave of them, great and small,

Animals, people and toys and all.”

So the word went forth, and in no great while

The servants entered in solemn file――

The stout old cook, and the housemaid, Rose,

And the aproned boy, with his smutted nose.

So each of the women, with streaming cheek,

Bent over and kissed him and could not speak;

But he said that they must not grieve and cry,

For they’d meet again in the happy sky.

’Twas longer and harder to deal with Jim――

The child grew grave as he looked at him,

For he thought to himself, “He bets and swears,

And I hardly believe that he says his prayers.

Oh, Jim, dear Jim, if you do such things

You’ll never be dressed in a harp and wings.”

He talked to the boy as a father should,

And begged him hard to be grave and good.

The lad lounged out with a brazen air

And whistled derisively down the stair.

But they found him hid in the hole for coal,

Sobbing and praying in grief of soul.

Old “Rover” came next, sedate and good,

And gazed at his master and understood;

Then up we carried, in order due,

“Maria,” the cat, and her kittens two.

Proud purred the mother, and arched her back,

And vaunted her kittens, one white, one black;

And the sweet white kitten was good and still,

But the black one played with his nightgown’s frill.

He stroked them all with his poor weak hand.

But he felt they could not understand.

He smiled, however, and was not vext,

And bade us bring him the rabbit next.

He welcomed “Punch” with a loving smile,

And hugged him close in his arms awhile;

And we knew (for the dear child’s eyes grew dim)

How grievous it was to part with him.

His mother he bade, with tearful cheek,

Give “Punch” his carrot three days a week,

With lettuce-leaves on a cautious plan,

And only just moisten his daily bran.

Then next we brought to him, one by one,

His drum and his trumpet, his sword and gun;

And we lifted up for his fondling hand

His good gray steed on the rocking-stand.

Then close to his feet we placed a tray,

And we set his armies in array;

And his eyes were bright with fire and dew

As we propped him up for his last review.

His ark came next, and pair by pair,

Passed beasts of the earth and fowls of the air;

He kissed good Japheth, and Ham, and Shem,

And waved his hands to the rest of them.

But we saw that his eyes had lost their fire,

And his dear little voice began to tire;

He lay quite still for a little while,

With eyes half-closed and a peaceful smile.

Then “Mammy,” he said, and never stirred,

And his mother bent for the whispered word;

“Give him his carrot each second day,”

Our Tommy murmured, and passed away.

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.”

1ST VOICE.

Oh, I’m a namesake of the Sun,

Prized and loved by every one.

2D VOICE.

Quite tall and stately here am I,

Oscar Wilde for me would sigh.

_Chorus._

Oh, proud the rose and pink may be,

Still they’re naught compared with me;

We look down on all the rest,

Thus of flowers we are the best.

3D VOICE.

Yes, you’re a beauty, so am I,

Sitting on my throne so high!

4TH VOICE.

Rich black and yellow, gold and brown,

Who’s not heard of my renown?

_Chorus._

5TH VOICE.

Mister Sol he flirts with me,

Tries his best my face to see!

6TH VOICE.

Here list’ning to the warbler’s song

Rock I all the summer long.

_Chorus._

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._

[Illustration: “Look at the fly on that man’s head! Look! another

fly.”]

The Crowning of the Sunday-School Angel.

MUSICAL DIALOGUE WITH TABLEAU.

CHARACTERS.

THE GUARD, _Gentleman_.

THE ANGEL OF ORDER, }

THE ANGEL OF LITERATURE, }

THE ANGEL OF MUSIC, } _Ladies_.

THE ANGEL OF LOVE, }

THE ANGEL OF THE WORD OF GOD. }

TWO RAGGED CHILDREN, } _A small boy_.

} _A little girl_.

A CHORUS OF SUNDAY-SCHOOL SCHOLARS.

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_):

[Illustration: [Music]

_Solo, by Angel of Music._

There are little children singing round the throne,

In that heav’nly land, In that heav’nly land,

They are singing round the bright eternal throne,

The great white throne of God.

_Chorus by the School._

We shall meet them in their bright eternal home,

We will sing with them around the great white throne,

We will sing of Him who died,

Of our Saviour crucified,

Round the great white throne of God.]

From the New Silver Song, by permission of W. W. WHITNEY.

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.

[Illustration: [Music]

_Chorus by the School._

We love to sing together, we love to sing together,

Our hearts and voices one;

To praise our heav’nly Father,

To praise our heav’nly Father,

And His eternal Son;

We love, we love, we love, we love,

We love to sing together,

We love, we love, we love, we love,

We love to sing together.

Copyrighted, 1859, in Oriola, by W. B. BRADBURY; used by permission

of BIGLOW & MAIN.]

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.

“Music the fierest grief can charm,

And fate’s severest rage disarm;

Music can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please;

Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the bliss above.”

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.

[Illustration: [music]

QUARTETTE.

Gather them in, gather them in,

Gather the children in.

v.1. {Gather them in from the broad highway, gather them in,

v.2. {Gather them in from the prairies vast, gather them in,

v.1. gather them in; Gather them in, in this gospel day,

v.2. gather them in; Gather them in of every cast,

v.1 gather, gather them in.}

v.2.gather, gather them in.}

[After v.1., repeat for v.2, above]

FULL CHORUS.

Gather them in, let the house be full,

Gather them into the Sunday School,

Gather them in, gather them in,

Gather the children in.

Copyrighted, 1861, in Golden Chain, by W. B. BRADBURY; used by

permission of BIGLOW & MAIN.]

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_):

[Illustration: [music]

FULL CHORUS.

1. The Bible! the Bible! more precious than gold,

The hopes and the glories its pages unfold,

It speaks of a Saviour, and tells of his love,

It shows us the way to the mansions above.

CHORUS.

Hallelujah, Amen! Hallelujah, Amen!

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Amen!

2. The Bible! the Bible! the valleys shall ring,

And hillstops re-echo the notes that we sing,

Our banners, inscribed with its precepts and rules,

Shall long wave in triumph the joy of our school.

CHORUS.

Hallelujah, Amen! Hallelujah, Amen!

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Amen!

From the Sabbath Bell, No. 1, by permission of BIGLOW & MAIN owners

of Copyright.]

CURTAIN.

Rev. D. W. GORDON.

[Illustration: “Hence! horrible shadow, Unreal mockery, hence!”]

[233]The Calls of the Bells.

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

“_In union and in freedom dwell!_”

Peals forth a brave, time-honored bell.

“_To all proclaim sweet liberty

Throughout the land――the land is free!_”

In the tower let it cheerily swing,

And make the whole world hear it ring

“_The tyrants knell, the knell, the knell_,”

It is the Independence Bell.

At dawn of day, to break the spell

Of sleep, the watchman rings a bell.

The rough bell in the dusky tower,

With rude tongue calls the signal hour.

Oh, how it _rings, and swings and clangs_,

Shaking the old roof where it hangs!

The sound _foretells, foretells, foretells_

The toils that follow morning bells.

In ringing notes that rise and swell,

In startling sharpness sounds a bell.

To boys and girls, it seems to speak

Of German, Latin, French and Greek;

The lads and lassies know it well,

It is the famed Academy bell.

_Read well, think well, learn well, do well_,

In haste exclaims the scholars’ bell.

In stout hands, jangling as it fell,

Near a white apron rang a bell.

Its tones are sounds that all may know,

It gives the languid pulse a glow,

It _tinkles_, _jingles_, _rings_ and _sings_,

And talks of sweet and savory things,

_The roast, the broil and on the shell_,

It is the dinner bell, “sweet-bell.”

A great white sheet in silence fell,

Followed by the tinkling of a bell.

How wide and white the snow-lit scene!

Wrapped in warm furs two lovers lean,

Bringing their beating hearts so near,

Responsive throbbings they might hear,

And the fond story that love tells,

But for the _bells, sleigh bells, sleigh bells_.

Sweet music comes from hill and dell,

A charm of sound from a sweet bell;

In softest harmony the tones

Ring in the sweetest honey-moons.

May no harsh speech come from the lips

To shade the fair moon with eclipse.

Its melody in love-tones tells

Of bride and groom and wedding bells.

From far and near, where virtue dwells,

There comes the sound of sacred bells,

Soft choral chimes, one day in seven:

Voices of love from the vast heaven.

Their varied tones in sweetness blend,

And like a psalm of praise ascend,

_And each glad heart in rapture swells_,

Responsive to the Sabbath Bells.

Flaming like lurid light of hell,

Startled at midnight by the bell,

Oh, merciless, disastrous fire,

That spreads and rises, higher, higher, higher!

Crackling in speech like flames in fir,

That needs not the interpreter.

The thrilling warning _peals and swells_,

It is the fire alarm of bells.

There comes at last a saddening knell,

Startling our sluggish souls. The bell

Reminds us of the close of time,

And warns us with its solemn chime.

E’en the sad bell seems short of breath,

When _tolling_ in slow tones of death!

Let’s hope that _all is well, is well_

When tolls at last the funeral bell.

――_Geo. W. Bungay._

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

[Illustration: “And seeing, unseen, I watched the perfidy of him I

deemed most true.”]

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.――} (_Start_) Oh!

EM’LY.―― }

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.――} Oh, horrors!

EM’LY.―― }

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.――} No apology is necessary. EM’LY.―― }

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._