This chapter we shall devote exclusively to a little play, written
expressly for parlor performance. The characters are so few, and the
materials--in the way of dress and scenery--so simple, that it can be
easily gotten up in any household. In the full-page picture you will see
our idea of the "make-up" of the Artist, but as Mr. Bullywingle does not
come out so well on so small a scale, we annex a picture of his head and
shoulders as a guide to the reader. We feel disposed, however, to allow
the largest latitude to the performers as to make-up. They can modify
the dress of the characters according to circumstances. Another reason
we have for giving the portrait of Mr. Bullywingle is, that a large copy
of it is required in the performance of the piece. In copying this it is
no matter how ludicrously inaccurate your performance is, provided you
make the face fiery red, the hair white, and the spectacles green.
Indeed, the worse the picture the funnier the effect.
[Illustration]
_Mr. Bullywingle._--Hat--white, with black band. Face very red,
culminating in a bright crimson on the nose. The face should be colored
with vermilion, which can be procured in a powdered state at any color
store. If you get it in this state mix it with water, to which add a
very small quantity of gum or glue. The best plan, however, is, if
convenient, to purchase a cake of vermilion such as is used for
water-colors.
Hair, eyebrows, and moustache must be very white. The hair and moustache
can be made white by dressing with plenty of pomatum, and then
sprinkling them liberally with flour from the flour dredger. The
imperial and eyebrows should be painted on the face with flake-white.
Procure two ounces of flake-white (in powder) in any paint store; mix it
carefully with water till it is about as thick as molasses. A small
piece of glue, about the weight of two beans, should be dissolved in the
water before it is added to the flake-white.
Spectacles--green, which you can either borrow from a friend, buy at a
store, or steal anywhere. If, however, you are too proud to steal, and
you cannot get the specs any other way, you may cut them out of
card-board and paint the proper color. As Mr. Bullywingle wears his
specs on the end of his nose, never using them to look through, it is of
little consequence whether they be transparent or not.
Cravat--large and white.
Shirt collar--large; can be cut out of writing-paper.
Coat--blue, with gilt buttons.
Vest and pants--light; the latter short in the legs.
Shoes--low.
_Mr. Puttyblow_ (the artist).--Nose red; eyebrows black, and painted
above the natural eyebrows. This gives the eyebrows a continued
elevated appearance, which is very comical in effect.
The moustache and beard can either be painted with burnt cork or
India-ink, or, which is far better, made out of curled hair and a little
diachylon, as described in a previous chapter. If you wish to make the
character very comic, you can turn up the nose with a piece of thread
and stick a patch of court-plaster over one of your teeth, all of which
has been described in earlier chapters.
Cap--something fancy, of bright color if possible.
Coat--anything comical and shabby. The young man is poor.
Pants--short in the legs.
_Miss MacSlasher_ must be attired in walking costume, and make herself
look as elegant and pretty as possible. Or in case the ladies won't act,
or you happen to be out of pretty girls, you can get Miss MacSlasher up
as an old lady, and make her look as comical as you can. You see our
play is on a compensating, self-adjusting principle. Now we will give
you a list of all the things you will require in the way of
"properties," as they are called in stage parlance. Before doing so,
however, we must impress upon you the necessity of having a stage
manager, otherwise you will surely get into a state of confusion and
spoil the play. It is the duty of the stage-manager to collect the
properties together and see that they are all in their right places. He
will arrange the stage, and, if desirable, act as prompter.
Vermilion--To be procured at a paint store.
Flake-white and green paint--paint store.
Card-board for imitation spectacles, and glue--paint store.
Three or four camel's-hair pencils--paint store.
India-ink or burnt cork.
Pomatum, butter or lard for hair.
Ten cents' worth of diachylon (in lump form, not plaster--remember this;
also remember that the diachylon must be warmed before the fire to make
it stick), which can be had at any drug store.
Flour for hair can be procured from the kitchen, if the barrel ain't
gin' out.
Green spectacles.
White cravat and large shirt-collar.
Blue or green coat, with bright buttons.
Vest and pantaloons, light in color.
Small piece of court-plaster or black silk, for tooth.
Curled hair from stuffing of mattresses.
Cap for artist, of bright color.
Coat for artist.
Pants for ditto, legs short.
Slippers for ditto.
Large portrait of Mr. Bullywingle.
Easel or stand for portrait.
Palette (the palette should be cut out of pasteboard, the cover of a
large book, or something of that kind--a wooden palette would break when
sat upon); a maul-stick and brushes, pictures, casts, etc., to give the
artist's studio an artistic appearance.
Stale hard loaf of bread.
Knife--palette knife if possible.
Tray with two cups.
Tea-pot containing very weak tea.
Plates, butter, and pieces of crockery, to make a clatter.
Sheets, comfortable, shawls, or Turkey-red, to make proscenium and
drop-curtain.
Several sheets of tissue-paper, red and blue, to ornament proscenium.
Lamps to light the stage.
Deeds and legal documents for Mr. Bullywingle.
Umbrella for Mrs. Bullywingle.
White hat with black band.
Towels, or rags, to cover and conceal artist's breakfast on a chair.
Slice of bread prepared with diachylon or hooked pins to stick to Mr.
Bullywingle's coat-tail.
BULLYWINGLE THE BELOVED;
A DRAMA IN ONE ACT.
_Dramatis Personæ._
_Mr. Puttyblow_, an artist.
_Mr. Bullywingle_, a bachelor who is beloved by women, or thinks himself
so.
_Miss MacSlasher._
SCENE.--_An artist's studio._
Curtain rises, or is pulled down, and discovers Mr. Puttyblow seated at
an easel opposite a picture which is so placed that the audience cannot
see the face of it.
_Mr. Puttyblow_ (yawning). Oh--on--on--awe--awe--oo--oo! Oh, thunder!
Oh, pickled thunder, turnip-tops, trust, tick, and tomatoes! I wish to
goodness, goose-pies, and the goddess of fame, some one would give me a
commission to paint a picture--one thousand dollars--half cash in
advance, and the balance on completion of the work--some grand heroic
subject, which would send my name and fame resounding through the
nations of the earth like the mighty avalanche of the Alps, till the
human race with one voice should stand back and exclaim--"That's him!"
Now, I think I could paint a picture of Washington Crossing the Delaware
in a style of art equally creditable to my feelings as an artist and an
American citizen. I'd make Washington--yes--I would not make him as they
generally do, in a great, big, comfortable boat, with a new suit of
clothes, looking up to heaven, while a lot of other fellows are shoving
the boat through lumps of ice with hooks and pikes, and things of that
kind. No! I'd make him swimming across, with the stars and stripes
between his teeth and a horse-pistol of the period behind each ear.
That's what I should call something like a picture. But all this is
vain; instead of painting big pictures, and building my palatial villa
on the Hudson, I am stuck and starved in this miserable chamber--a poor
artist with scarcely anything to feed upon but tobacco-smoke and my own
ideas. Talking about feed reminds me that I have had no breakfast yet.
Now breakfast is one of those ideas about which I have my own
ideas--namely, to wit: that you can't continually do without it--that's
to say, not as a steady thing. It grows monotonous after a time. That
tea has been standing three-quarters of an hour, and ought to be now fit
for human nourishment (pours out tea, which is quite colorless). Rather
weak--I may even go so far as to say exceedingly weak. It is like
Hancock's veterans, will stand any amount of fire for any length of time
without changing color. But you are very weak, poor tea; like women, let
us respect your weakness. The butter is strong enough to take care of
you (smells butter). I wonder whether this butter is not manufactured
near Forty-second street, N. Y. It strikes me I have smelt something
very like it near the soap factory on the Hudson River Railroad. Where's
the knife (takes knife and loaf)? Ah! here it is (tries to cut loaf,
which resists all his efforts). This loaf is beginning to get slightly
obstinate. Most extraordinary thing how hard a loaf becomes after you
have kept it for a week or two. However, I ain't the kind of man to let
any darned baker's bread--ever baked--get the best of me. No! (Takes up
hatchet at one side, places bread on floor, and begins chopping it. Cuts
off a piece which he butters, and lays upon a chair.) Now, Puttyblow, my
boy; you shall have bread and chops for breakfast. C-h-e-o-p-s--chops!
Chops with a large C. (A loud knocking is heard at the door.) Oh,
thunder! there's some one at the door--it will never do to let them see
these things around (piles up cups and saucers on tray and covers them
with towels. He leaves the slice of bread and butter, however, on the
chair). It doesn't look prosperous; and nobody ever thinks anything of
any one who isn't prosperous. (Seats himself at easel, and pretends to
be busy painting.) Come in!
Enter _Mr. Bullywingle_.
_Mr. B._ Ha! I've found a refuge at last, thank goodness! I'm all in a
flutter--she nearly caught me. It was a dooced close shave. Here am I
tormented to death by women who will insist upon marrying me. 'Pon my
soul it is rather too bad that a man, because he is rather nice-looking
and has a little money saved up, cannot leave his house without being
pursued by all the women in creation wanting to marry him. I don't want
to marry _them_. I don't see any particular fun in dividing all my
property, my time, my comfort, my amusement, with another individual,
besides giving that individual the life-long privilege of--the life-long
right to dictate the temperature of the apartment in which I sit, the
amount of light which shall illuminate my chamber; who shall be my
associates; where I shall live; what I shall eat; what I shall
drink--there's the rub! actually putting the power into the hands of a
mortal like yourself to come between you and your social tod. Oh, it's
horrible to think of! Marriage is a humbug. I wouldn't marry the
Bearded Lady herself. But I wonder what kind of an office this is I've
rushed into--not a lawyer's; no--doesn't smell of Russia leather. Not a
Government office; no--don't smell any whiskey. Not p-e-t--yes,
r-o--l-e-u-m; there's certainly a smell of oil around. Ah, oh--yes, I
see; it's some kind of a paint shop. I must trump up some business with
the proprietor as an excuse for coming in. Wonder, by the way, whether
there's anybody about, after all? Ah! yes, to be sure; bless my soul,
there he is. (Takes a step towards artist, and coughs. Artist pretends
to be deeply engaged in his art, and does not hear him.) Ahem! ahem!
wonder whether the poor creature is deef and dumb. Ahem! ah, excuse me,
sir, but--ah, that is fine day--ahem! good-morning, sir.
_Artist._ Good-morning, sir.
_Mr. B._ You are a painter, are you not, sir?
_Artist._ That is my name--ah, that is to say, that is my profession.
_Mr. B._ I want you to paint me a sign for my store.
_Artist._ A what, sir?
_Mr. B._ A sign. Jothan H. Bullywingle, wholesale----
_Artist._ Wholesale fiddlestick!
_Mr. B._ Wholesale dealer in----
_Artist._ Sir, I would have you to understand that I don't paint signs,
sir. I am an artist--historical and portrait delineator.
_Mr. B._ Oh, ah! yes, exactly; that's what I mean. I want you to paint
my portrait--Jothan H. Bullywingle, wholesale--no, exactly as you were
saying, my portrait. (Aside)--By Jove, I--I'm in for it.
_Artist._ Would you like a full face?
_Mr. B._ (thoughtfully). Why, pretty full.
_Artist._ Or a side face?
_Mr. B._ Oh, yes--a side face.
_Artist._ Or a three-quarter face?
_Mr. B._ Yes, a three-quarter face. Yes, she was a blue one, I think,
this last one.
_Artist_ (prepares seat). Will you take a seat, Mr. Bully--Bully----
_Mr. B._ Wingle.
_Artist._ Will you take a seat, Mr. Wingle?
_Mr. B._ Bully, sir.
_Artist._ Take a seat, Mr. Winglebully.
_Mr. B._ Yes, yes, certainly. (Aside--I'm regularly stuck for a
portrait.) Certainly, sir; though you haven't got my name exactly
right--not quite correct, my young friend. My name is Bullywingle.
(Aside--The first one was purple and diamonds.)
[Mr. B. seats himself at opposite side of stage to artist, who sits down
and prepares to paint.]
_Artist._ Will you smile, sir?
_Mr. B._ (aside.) Really, a very polite young man. Thank you, I don't
mind if I do--the least drop in the world; Bourbon, or anything that's
handy.
_Artist._ I mean, sir, will you be pleased to smile with your mouth?
_Mr. B._ (aside.) With my mouth? Of course, with my mouth. Does the
young man fancy that I propose to drink through my nose, like an
elephant? (Aloud.) Oh, yes, I'll smile with my mouth, of course.
_Artist._ I perceive you do not understand me, sir. I allude to the
expression.
_Mr. B._ Oh! I'm perfectly familiar with the expression--perfectly
familiar with the _expression_.
_Artist._ Mr. Winglebully, I wish you to assume an agreeable expression
of countenance in order that I may transfer your beautiful features to
my canvas in a manner satisfactory to yourself, myself, and mankind
generally.
_Mr. B._ Oh, ah! yes, certainly--exactly--to be sure--bless my
soul--yes. (Mr. B. grins in an exaggerated manner).
_Artist._ Ah--yes; that's it--that's it--just so. A little to the left.
I'm afraid--keep your head up--I cannot give you a very long sitting
to-day--I'm so crowded with sitters. (Mr. B. forgets that he is sitting
for his portrait and begins to look very melancholy and miserable.) I am
obliged to--smile, if you please. (Mr. B. starts and resumes his
exaggerated grin.) I'm obliged to fix certain days and hours to receive
my friends and patrons, otherwise they--will you smile, if you
please?--otherwise they would not leave me a--will you smile, if you
please, sir? Look at me and think of something pleasant. Think of a lady
(Mr. B. looks miserable and frightened). (Aside--He doesn't look as if
he were thinking of a lady, does he?) Think of something pleasant,
now--something pleasing. Think of _Hash_ (Mr. B. brightens up). Yes,
hash. Keep on thinking of hash, hash, hash! Good gracious! will you
smile, sir? Hash--hash--hash! Keep smiling--hash--that's it; hash!
There, sir, will you be kind enough to look at that? You are a little
rough and raw (Mr. B. starts), but, of course, I have only rubbed you
in. You will come out better at the second painting.
_Mr. B._ (rising and advancing towards the picture). Oh, yes--yes, very
good. The shirt-collar and the cravat are extremely like; but don't you
think you might alter the rest?
_Artist._ Well--ah--umph! I don't know. I think I have hit your eye
exactly. (Mr. B. starts slightly.) The hair is very fair, and I've got
hold of your nose very satisfactorily. (Mr. B. rubs his nose.) The mouth
might look all the better, perhaps, for a little madder, but----
_Mr. B._ Oh, dear, no, it's quite mad enough. I don't wish to have a
severe expression of countenance.
_Artist._ I refer to the color--the pigment.
_Mr. B._ The color the pig meant. The pig--the pig. I meant what I said,
sir; and if you think to call me a pig with impunity you are very much
mistaken.
_Artist._ Oh, no--no--no, my dear sir; you mistake me. We artists use a
beautiful pink color called madder, and I spoke of this as a pigment--no
offence, not for the world. But allow me to place the picture in a
better light; you can hardly judge of it in its present position. (Turns
easel and picture round facing the audience.) (Aside.)--Now won't he be
an unreasonable old polypus to object to that as a likeness?
(Aloud.)--There, sir, now you can see it better. (They both sit down in
chairs, the artist on his own palette and Mr. B. on the slice of bread
and butter left by the artist.)
_Artist._ Now, sir, I think I have caught the expression of your eyes
and spectacles; and as for the nose, it literally speaks, while the
chin and mouth--
_Mr. B._ Yes--yes, but I don't think you have stuck quite closely enough
to nature. There is nothing like sticking to a thing. (Rises and moves
towards picture, showing slice of bread sticking to his coat-tails.
Advances and examines picture critically.)
_Artist._ I declare, if the idiotic old grampus has not been sitting
down on my bread and butter. It is most extraordinary that some people
will never look where they sit down. (Rises to remove bread and butter,
and shows palette sticking to his dressing-gown behind.) The
carelessness of some people is marvellous--really astonishing.
_Mr. B._ The shirt-collar is certainly very like; but don't you think
the complexion is a little high? because I am really rather pale, you
know.
_Artist_ (making futile endeavors to remove the bread and butter with
one hand). Ah, yes, perhaps that might be toned down a little. (Aside.)
I'll whitewash the old brute if he likes. (Aloud.) If you will be kind
enough to take a seat for two minutes I will try to avail myself of your
valuable suggestion (looks around for his palette). Now, where on earth
can be my palette? (Looks suspiciously at old Mr. B.) He can't have been
sitting down on that too--and yet I do believe he's stupid enough for
anything. (Looks for palette again.) No. (At this moment Mr. B. sits
down on the chair where Mr. P. has concealed his breakfast, and
everything goes with a crash.)
_Artist._ There goes that old porpoise again! All my breakfast gone--my
beautiful tea and my elegant bread and butter. (To Mr. B., who
apologizes.) Ah, never mind, sir--no consequence; only a few paint
saucers, that's all. No consequence; take a seat over here. (Seats old
gent in the chair which Mr. B. first occupied, and which artist has
since used.) But my palette--where can it have gone? Where's that d--d
palette? Let me see; I think I laid it on that chair. Will you kindly
rise for one moment, Mr. Winglebully? (Looks at Mr. B.'s back.) No!
strange--let me see--oh! ah! yes--I--he sat over there. (A thought seems
to have struck him. He begins to feel behind his own coat, where he
finds the palette. Produces it--his own fingers covered with paint.)
There it is--I knew I'd put it somewhere. (Here a knocking is heard at
the door. Mr. B. jumps up and grasps the artist by the hand, getting his
own covered with paint in the operation.)
_Mr. B._ Here she is! For heaven's sake, conceal me!
[Illustration: THE DRAMA OF "BULLYWINGLE."--_See page 180._]
_Artist._ Here is who?
_Mr. B._ The blue woman.
_Artist._ The blue woman?
_Mr. B._ Yes--they pursue me wherever I go. It's a blue woman now.
Yesterday it was a red woman. Oh, all sorts of women--black women--green
women--white women--for pity's sake, conceal me! They'd make a Mormon or
polygamist of me. (Wipes his painted fingers over his face.) Oh, my dear
sir, you would not have me commit trigamy--you would not--but hide me
somewhere--hide me!
_Artist._ Here--here, behind the curtain.
_Lady_ enters.
_Lady._ Is there a gentleman here?
_Artist._ Em--ah! gentleman? no--no; that is to say, not exactly.
_Lady._ This is an artist's studio, is it not?
_Artist._ Yes, madam; this is an artist's studio.
_Lady._ There is no other studio in this building?
_Artist._ This is the only studio in this building. Will you take a
seat, madam?
_Lady._ I was to meet an elderly gentleman here--my father--who was
going to have his portrait taken.
_Mr. B._ (aside.) Her father--that's a deep dodge. Pretends to be after
her father, the artful thing.
_Artist._ Yes, madam.
_Lady._ He should have been here some time ago--that is to say, if I
have come to the right place.
_Artist._ Ah, yes; this is the right place. (Aside.) Hooray! here's
another job.
_Mr. B._ (aside.) Send her away! send her away! Ah, you villain, are you
going to betray me?
_Lady._ You seem to have a great many pretty pictures here.
_Artist._ Ah--oh--well, a few little trifles. Are you fond of art?
_Lady._ Oh, yes--very.
_Artist._ I shall be happy to show you some of my sketches. If you will
excuse me for a moment, I will bring them from the other room.
_Lady._ Certainly, It will give me great pleasure to look at anything in
the shape of pictures. I once studied Poonah Painting and Potichomanie
myself; and mamma's uncle, who was a great artist, and used to draw
things with a red-hot poker, said he couldn't tell my pictures from
life, almost--only I could never learn to do trees. Don't you find trees
very difficult? Mamma's uncle used to say the only fault with my trees
was that they looked like cabbages. I can paint cabbages very well; but
then they don't look pretty in a picture, you know.
_Artist._ Indeed, I doubt not your delicate hand would lend a charm to
any object it might portray. Nature is full of beauties, and there is a
world of loveliness even in a cabbage.
_Mr. B._ (aside.) In a cabbage-head.
_Artist._ But I will bring you my portfolio--a few unworthy sketches
which may serve to while away the moments till the arrival of your
estimable father.
[Exit.
_Mr. B._ (aside.) Good heaven! He is going to keep me here all day while
he makes a fool of himself to that young woman. This will never do! I
must escape. I must throw myself on her mercy. She has an awful vicious
expression of countenance, though. However, she must have the heart of a
woman. Perhaps she has a brother; and how would she like to have him
married against his will by fifteen women in blue? I will--yes, I will
throw myself on her mercy. I will implore her to spare me. Poor thing! I
shall be sorry to break her heart--but it must be done.----Courage,
Bullywingle--courage! (Rushes out and throws himself at her feet.) My
good young woman, spare me! Think of your own brother, and spare me!
[Lady screams and rushes off.
I cannot marry you all. If I did marry you I should make the red lady
miserable for life, and the green lady would die of jealousy, and the
yellow lady might commit suicide.
Enter _Artist_, with portfolio, which falls on the floor.
_Artist._ You venerable reptile, what are you about! What do you mean,
sir? Get up, sir! I'll knock you down, sir! You've driven away one of my
best customers. (They scuffle.)
_Mr. B._ But my dear sir--my good young friend, what was I to do? Hear
me--listen--leave go--you'll tear my coat--let go, or she'll be back,
and then I'm lost! Do you hear, you rascal! You'll tear my coat--there
go my suspenders--there goes something else! I'll have you arrested for
intent to do grievous bodily battery and commit violent matrimony--let
go!
_Artist._ You old rascal--you old polypus--you old humbug--you are
ruining me! (Rushes to one side and returns with club or stick. A fight
ensues. Old gent strikes an attitude with umbrella.)
_Mr. B._ Come on, Mac what's your name! and damned be he who first cries
hold--enough!
_Artist_ (aside). I'll be hanged if the old buffer ain't swearing!
(Aloud.) By all the powers I'll be revenged! As sure as my name is
Puttyblow I will be re-ve-n-ged! (Is about to rush at old gent.)
_Mr. B._ Pause, rash man! Did you say Puttyblow?
_Artist._ I did.
_Mr. B._ Have you a strawberry mark on your left arm?
_Artist._ Nature has ornamented me in the manner you describe.
_Mr. B._ Are you short-sighted in your left eye?
_Artist._ Such is my affliction.
_Mr. B._ Do you snore at nights?
_Artist._ So I have been informed by the people over the way, who have
sent over several times to expostulate with me in the most offensive
terms possible.
_Mr. B._ And sleep late in the morning?
_Artist._ I do.
_Mr. B._ (rushing forward.) My long-lost son!
_Artist._ Excuse me for one moment. Have you a gooseberry bush on your
left arm?
_Mr. B._ Gooseberry? No--no--not specially.
_Artist._ Do you wear corns or paper collars?
_Mr. B._ Well, I've had chilblains.
_Artist._ Are you subject to hydrophobia?
_Mr. B._ Well, not precisely; but I've been run over by a Broadway
omnibus.
_Artist._ Are you in the habit of committing suicide?
_Mr. B._ Well--I--I--don't know--I travel on the Hudson River Railroad
sometimes.
_Artist._ Come to my arms, my long-lost father!
[They embrace.
_Mr. B._ Bless you, my boy--bless you! bless you!
Enter _Lady_. Artist sees her, and struggles to escape from Mr. B.'s
grasp.
_Artist._ Let go--let me go--drat it all, let go.
_Mr. B._ Bless you, my boy--bless you!
_Lady._ I have left my portemonnaie in your studio--will you be kind
enough to let me have it?
_Mr. B._ Young woman, spare me!
_Lady_ (to Artist). Pray protect me from this venerable ruffian.
_Mr. B._ (aside.) Venerable ruffian! Come, now, that is what the boys
call rather rough. (Aloud.) Then you don't love me?
_Lady._ If you insult me further, I shall inform my father.
_Mr. B._ Then you have a father?--wonderful! Are you sure of it--no
deception? What is his name? Where does he live? Tell me
quick--quick--do not deceive me!
_Lady._ My father, sir, is General MacSlasher, who will not allow his
daughter to be insulted with impunity.
_Mr. B._ MacSlasher! The brave MacSlasher, who married my half-cousin
Columbia Ann, of Pickleville, Indiana?
_Lady._ Indeed, it is true.
_Mr. B._ Come to my arms, my long-lost niece! No, not niece;
cousin--second cousin--oh, hang the relationship! Come to my arms, any
way! But hold--you are the richest heiress in New York. I have the deeds
in my pocket to prove it. By the will of your late grandfather Grampus
you are the sole possessor of six blocks on Broadway, Trinity Church,
Erie Railroad, two steamboats on the Hudson River that won't burst, and
vast territories on Coney Island.
_Artist._ Good gracious!
_Mr. B._ Happy hour--auspicious moment! to have thus met my son and
niece on the same day. Puttyblow, my son--no longer Puttyblow, but
Bullywingle--this is the lady I have destined for you for ten long
years, if I could only have found you. She is rich and beautiful. I know
you love each other; and if you don't, make believe you do, or you'll
spoil the play. Bullywingle, junior, embrace your bride! Take her and be
happy! Bless you, my children--bless you!
Grand tableau. Mr. Puttyblow and Miss MacSlasher embrace. Mr.
Bullywingle opens his umbrella, and, standing on one leg,
holds it over them.