close,—close. But I grow faint with the perfume, and must be
off,—off to the hills, where sweetbrier and wild roses grow. Cousin
Moth says she goes there every day. Oh the joy of flying! Up, down;
up, down; up, down; now rest, now float, now sip, now rock, now away,
away!
Here are the tall blue meadow-flowers. I’ll stay a while with them.
How long it used to take me, with my eighteen legs, to creep thus
far! Whom have we here? What mean, dull fly is this? and why should
he have wings? What!—keep company with me? You? Impossible! Have you
noticed who I am, pray? or are you asleep? Look at _my_ brilliant
wings! I am a Butterfly, born in the purple. Of some use?—dear me!
of what use could such as you be to such as I? Upon my word, I pity
you; but all can’t be Butterflies, or go in company with Butterflies.
Please don’t follow, I should feel so mortified! Good-by! Now for a
long, long flight over the meadows!
The hills, at last,—the breezy hills! Ah! good bees, have you come
too? and you poor little wee grasshoppers! Dear humming-bird, isn’t
it jolly? Why don’t you sing? You don’t know how?—what a pity! But
you can hum. Oh this charming sweetbrier! and here are wild-roses:
now we’ll have a merry time among the wild-roses, and play in the
fragrant sweet-fern.
[EVENING.]
Lost, lost, lost! I wandered too far among the hills. Who will show
me the way home? My home is in the flower-garden: will no one show
me the way? Oh this frightful darkness! Where is the beautiful
daylight gone? The evening dews are cold and damp. My wings droop
from weariness. The night-winds chill me through. Ugly creatures are
abroad, and strange sounds fill the air. I see no flowers; hear no
singing of birds, no chirping of insects, no humming of bees. Where
are you, little bees?
Oh, this dreary, dreary night! Shivering with cold, I fly hither and
thither, but never find my home. I am a poor lost Butterfly. Who will
pity a poor lost Butterfly?
What dreadful sounds!—“Juggulp, juggulp, juggulp!” Away, quick!
“Juggulp, juggulp.” Oh, dear! oh, dear! Now something just hit me!
Again! Some horrid monster!—a bat, perhaps. Cousin Moth said, “Beware
of bats; for they will eat you up.” I shall die with fright. I know,
I know, I shall die with fright. My wings can scarcely move,—my fine
purple wings! Will the dear warm sun never shine again? Cousin Moth
told me of so many dangers, and never even mentioned getting lost.
Alas! must I die here all alone, breathe my last breath in this
terrible place? Better that some boy had caught me in his hat; that I
had been choked with a match, stuck on a pin, or put under a glass,
than to drop down here in the cold, gasping, quivering, and die all
alone.
Who comes? Can I believe my own eyes? Is that a light? Ho! a fly with
a lantern! How quick he darts! Stop there, you with a lantern!
It is the very same mean fly I met this morning. Good fly, best
creature, charming insect! I pray you light me home. Do you know
where the flower-garden is? You do? that is my home. My lodgings are
among the damask-rose-leaves. I am a poor belated Butterfly. I lost
my way; staid very long with the sweetbrier, and never thought the
daylight would go.
You will light me home? That’s a dear fly! Your name is Firefly?
What a sweet name! But how fast you go! Please don’t dart so quick,
because I cannot follow; for my wings are very, oh! very tired.
Slower, slower, that’s a kind firefly! Now we go nicely on.
What will you take for your lamp? Won’t sell? But you will forget,
I hope, our morning conversation. Perhaps, though, so little a fly
can’t remember so long. You can remember? Then what a kind, forgiving
creature you are! I shall certainly speak well of you to my friends.
Call on me almost any time,—that is, almost any evening,—and we’ll go
out together. We have come a very long way, and should now be near
home. Yes, the air is so fragrant here, that I am sure we have nearly
reached the flower-garden. I smell the perfume quite plainly. We are
passing over mignonette; that is the breath of sweet-pea; now the bed
of pinks is beneath us; here must be the honeysuckle-bower; here is
balm; here is lavender; and here’s the smell of the damask-rose.
Now thanks and good-by, my friend. I shall need you no longer: the
fragrance will guide me to bed. Good-night, little fly!
I do think it is very strange, and say so, now he is out of hearing,
that such mean-looking little flies should have lamps to carry, while
we Butterflies, who would light up so beautifully, and are so much
superior to them, should be obliged to do without.
THE MAPLE-TREE’S CHILDREN.
A maple-tree awoke at spring-time, shivering in the east winds. “O
mother Nature!” she said, “I tremble with cold. Behold my limbs ugly
and bare! The birds are all coming back from the south, and I would
look my best. They will soon be building their nests. Oh, a bird’s
nest does make a tree so pleasant! But, alas! they will not come to
me, because I have no leaves to hide them.”
And kind mother Nature smiled, and presented her daughter Maple with
such multitudes of leaves!—more than you could count. These gave
beauty to the tree, besides keeping the rain out of the birds’ nests;
for birds had quickly come to build there, and there was reason to
expect a lively summer. A right happy Maple-Tree now was she, and
well pleased with her pretty green leaves. They were beautiful in
the sunlight; and the winds whispered to them things so sweet as to
make them dance for joy. A pair of golden-robins had a home there,
and thrushes came often. Sunshine and song all day long! Or, if the
little leaves became hot and thirsty in the summer’s heat, good
mother Nature gave them cooling rain-drops to drink. A happier
Maple-Tree could nowhere be found.
“Thanks, thanks, mother Nature,” she said, “for all your care and
your loving-kindness to me.”
But, when autumn came with its gloomy skies and its chilling winds,
the Maple-Tree grew sad: for she heard her little leaves saying to
each other, “We are going to die; we are going to die!”
People living near said, “Hark! Do you hear the wind? It sounds
like fall.” Nobody told them it was the leaves all over the forest,
moaning to each other, “We are going to die; we are going to die!”
“My dear little leaves!” sighed the Maple-Tree. “Poor things, they
must go! Ah, how sad to see them droop and fade away!”
“I will make their death beautiful,” said kind mother Nature; and she
changed their color to a scarlet, which glowed in the sunlight like
fire.
And everyone said, “How beautiful!” But the poor Maple-Tree sighed,
knowing it was the beauty of death.
And one cold October morning she stood with her limbs all bare,
looking desolate. The bright leaves lay heaped about her.
“Dear, pretty things,” she said, “how I shall miss them! they were
such a comfort! And, how ugly I am! Nobody will enjoy looking at the
Maple-Tree now.”
But presently a flock of school-girls came along, chatting away, all
so cheerily, of ferns, red berries, and autumn-leaves.
“And I think,” said one, “that there’s a great deal of beauty in a
tree without any leaves at all.”
“So do I,” said another. “Just look up through yonder elm! Its
branches and boughs and twigs make a lovely picture against the sky.”
“When my uncle came home,” said a third, “he told us that some of the
people in the torrid zone perfectly longed to see a forest without
leaves.”
And, thus chattering, the lively school-girls passed on.
“Ah!” sighed the Maple-Tree, “this will at least be pleasant to dream
about.”
For she already felt her winter’s nap coming on. If she could but
have staid awake, and heard what her little leaves said to each other
afterwards down there on the ground!
“Dear old tree! She has taken care of us all our lives, and fed us,
and held us up to the sun, and been to us a kind mother; and now
we will do something for her. We will get under ground, and turn
ourselves into food to feed her with; for she’ll be sure to wake up
hungry after her long nap.”
Good little things! The rains helped them, and the winds,—in this
way: The rains beat them into the ground, and the winds blew sand
over them; and there they turned themselves into something very nice
for the old Maple-Tree,—something good to take.
THE WHISPERER.
Uncle Joe, being “stumped” by the children to tell a story about a
birch-tree, began as follows:—
“There was once a lovely princess who had a fairy for a godmother.
This young princess was slender, graceful, and very fair to behold.
She usually dressed in green, green being her favorite color.
“This pretty creature would have been a great favorite but for her
troublesome habit of whispering. She had always some wonderful news,
or seemed to have, which everybody must hear privately: so no wonder
that she came to be known, at last, by the name of ‘The Whisperer.’
“Now, this conduct was very displeasing to the old fairy, who, being
of a hasty temper, would often become angry, and scold and threaten
her; though, when good-natured, she would smile most pleasantly upon
her, and drop gold in her path.
“The princess, as may be imagined, liked to see herself well dressed;
and every year she saved up the gold which her godmother had dropped,
and spun and wove herself a fine golden mantle. The fairy was quite
willing to find her in gold to spin; and all would have gone well,
only for the habit above mentioned; which habit, I will say in
passing, was very strong upon her in breezy weather.
“But one day the old lady, who, as has been remarked, was of rather a
hasty turn, became so provoked, that she lost all patience with the
whisperer, and, touching her with her wand, changed her, quick as
thought, to a slender green tree.
“‘Now stand there and whisper to the winds!’ cried the angry fairy.
“And sure enough she did. The pretty, graceful tree did stand and
whisper to the winds ever after, but always saved up sunshine enough
through the long summer-days to weave for itself a golden mantle,
and, when decked in that, was as pleased as a tree could be to see
itself so fine.
“And that’s the way, so I’ve been told,” said uncle Joe, laughing,
“that birch-trees began. Go into the woods any time when there’s a
light breeze stirring, and you may hear them whispering, whispering,
whispering. They never fail, however, to save up sunshine enough
through the long summer-days to weave for themselves fine golden
mantles. But these fine golden mantles are sure to be spoiled by a
rough old king who comes this way every year, storming and raging,
and making a great bluster. He gives them white ones instead; but
they are not as pretty.
“Say, my little children, do you know who this old king is?”
A STRANGER IN PILGRIM-LAND, AND WHAT HE SAW.
The town of the Pilgrims—how often, in my far-off Western home, have
I read its story, and the story of the stout-hearted who sailed
across the sea to this very spot, then a wilderness, two hundred and
fifty years ago!
And I have come at last to visit the town of my dreams; have
actually set my foot upon its “holy ground.” This hill, planted
thick with graves, is the ancient “Burial Hill.” Sitting among its
mossy headstones, I look far across the bay to the cliffs of Cape
Cod, where, before landing here, some of “The Mayflower’s” crew
went ashore to get firewood. Just below me lies the town, sloping
to the sea. Vessels sail in and out, and little boats skim over the
water like white-winged birds. How can they skim so lightly over the
hallowed waters of Plymouth Bay! Far less swiftly sped that “first
boat,” laden with passengers from “The Mayflower.”
Two hundred and fifty years ago!—let me use for a while, not my real
eyes, but my _other pair_, the eyes of my mind, my “dream eyes,” and
see, or make believe that I see, this place just as it looked then.
And now I will suppose the town has vanished. No streets, no houses,
no sail upon the sea. Stillness reigns over the land and over the
dark waters of the bay.
A ship enters the harbor. Why should a ship come sailing to these
desolate shores? A hundred and one passengers are on board. They
have come three thousand miles, have been tossed upon the ocean one
hundred days and nights; and now they find no friends to welcome
them. Not a house, nor a single white person, in all this vast
wilderness. What will they do—these men, women, and children—in so
dreary a place? Can they keep from freezing in this bitter cold?
A boat puts off from the ship. Row, row, row. Nearer and nearer it
comes. But how will they land? Will the sailors jump out, and pull
her up high and dry? Ah! to be sure, there is a _Rock_, and the only
one to be seen along the shore. They steer for that. And now I see
Elder Brewster, their first minister, and Gov. Carver, their first
governor, and Capt. Miles Standish, their first soldier, and Mary
Chilton, the first woman who stepped upon the Rock. Now the boat goes
back,—back for another load.
Where can all these people live? Out of doors this wintry weather?
Let me see what they will do.
They cut down trees to build houses. First a “common house” is
built; then the one hundred and one people are divided into nineteen
families, and begin to construct nineteen log-huts, each family
working upon its own. These are set in two rows, and are placed near
together, on account of the Indians. The two rows form a street,
which runs from a cliff by the water’s edge part way up this hill.
Now the goods are being brought ashore,—bales, boxes, farming-tools.
And there is a cradle. They will need that to rock little Peregrine
White in. A baby has been born on the passage, whom they named
“Peregrine,” because he was born during their _peregrinations_, or
travels.
More goods are landed, such as beds, bedding, dinner-pots, dishes,
pewter platters, spinning-wheels; and the nineteen families go to
house-keeping, and _begin New England_.
What will they eat, I wonder. Why, some catch fish; some dig clams;
others hunt. There comes a hunting-party, which brings, among other
game, an eagle. Will they really eat it?—eat the “American eagle”!
Yes, they do, and declare that it tastes “very much like a sheep.”
But it was not the “American eagle” then.
Soon to these nineteen families come sickness and death. In December,
six people die; in January, eight; in February, seventeen; in March,
thirteen. Scarcely half remain. They bury their dead with bitter
tears, but raise no stones above them. A crop of corn is sown over
the graves, that the Indians may not know how few are left alive.
And, now that spring has come, “The Mayflower” must go back to
England. Will none return by this only chance? Is there not even one
feeble woman who would rather go home and live an easy life? No. For
freedom’s sake they came, and for freedom’s sake they will remain.
Not one goes back in “The Mayflower.”
They climb the hill, this very hill, and watch her as she sails
away,—this very hill! I see them standing around me; see their pale
faces; see eyes, dim with tears, following each turn of the ship. Now
she is but a speck: now she is gone, and they are left alone. Behind
them stretches the wilderness, away, and away, and away, across the
continent; before them, three thousand miles of ocean. Slowly and
sadly they descend the hill to that cluster of huts, and the life of
toil goes on.
And now I will use my real eyes, and go down to view the town,—a
quaint old town, with narrow, crooked streets, yet quite a populous
old town, numbering its seven or eight thousand. The Indians used to
hold their feasts upon that hill at the right; and clam-shells are
still to be found buried in the soil upon its western side. At the
foot of this hill runs Town Brook, where Gov. Carver made a treaty
with the Indian chief Massasoit. Massasoit came down the hill with a
train of sixty Indians, but crossed the brook with only twenty. They
were nearly naked, painted, oiled, and adorned with beads, feathers,
and fox-tails. Capt. Miles Standish with a few of his men marched
them into a hut, where were placed “a green rug, and some cushions
which served as thrones.” The governor then marched in to the music
of drums and trumpets. He kissed Massasoit, and Massasoit kissed him.
The Indians “marvelled much at the trumpet.”
Now I walk down into that street which was first laid out, and
divided into lots for the nineteen families. It is a short street,
leading to the sea; and on the right, at the lower end, may be seen
the site of the first house. On the left is the hill upon which the
Pilgrims made that early graveyard, planting it over with corn. It
was then a cliff overhanging the sea: now a street runs along at
its foot, on the outer side of which are wharves and storehouses. I
am glad that these last are by no means in good repair; glad that,
standing near the Rock, they have the grace to look old and gray and
weather-beaten.
Farther and farther on I go. Soon shall my longing eyes behold that
sacred Rock “where first they trod.” Ah, how many times have I
fancied myself sitting upon its top, gazing off with my other pair—my
dream eyes—at “The Mayflower,” watching the coming of the crowded
boat, almost reaching out my hand to the fair Mary Chilton!
But where is it? I must be near the spot; but where is the _Rock_?
Here comes a boy. “My young friend, can you show me the way to the
Rock?” Boy points to a lofty stone canopy. “Is it possible?” I
exclaim: “all that hewn out of Forefathers’ Rock?” Boy smiles, takes
me under the canopy, and points to a square hole cut in the platform.
“There ’tis: Forefathers’ Rock’s ’most all underground.” I look down
at the enclosed rocky surface, less than two feet square; then with
a sigh stagger against the nearest granite column. “Sick?” boy asks.
“Oh, no! only a fall—down from a _rock_. The one in my mind was so
high!”—“’Nother piece of it out at Pilgrim Hall,” boy remarks.
I inquire my way to that Pilgrim Hall. Here it is; and here, right
in front, lies the precious fragment, surrounded by an iron fence,
and marked in great black letters “1620.”
[Illustration: Forefather’s rock]
Now I am going into the hall to see the Pilgrim relics, some of which
were brought over in “The Mayflower.”
On the wall of the ante-room hangs Lora Standish’s sampler, wrought
in silks of divers colors, bright enough two hundred and fifty
years ago, no doubt, though, alas! all faded now. Using again my
_dream eyes_, I behold the fair young girl, intent on learning
“marking-stitch,” bending over the canvas, counting the threads,
winding bright silks; her cheeks as bright as they. Little thinks she
how many shall come centuries after to view her work. Underneath the
alphabet are stitched these lines, which with my real eyes I read:—
“Lora Standish is my name.
Lord, guide my hart, that I may doe thy will;
Also fill my hands with such convenient skill
As may conduce to virtue void of shame;
And I will give the glory to thy name.”
In this same ante-room I find the two famous old arm-chairs that came
over in “The Mayflower,” one of which belonged to Elder Brewster, and
the other to Gov. Carver.
This ante-room on the right contains an ancient spinning-wheel, also
some bones and a kettle dug from an Indian grave. The kettle was
found placed over the Indian’s head. Here, too, are many very old
books.
Now I enter the large hall, sit for half an hour before an immense
painting,—of the Landing,—and am shown two large cases with glass
doors. In one of these is a great round-bottomed iron dinner-pot,
once belonging to Miles Standish. The handle, which has a hinge in
its centre, lies inside. Using my other pair, my dream eyes, I see
this big pot hanging over a big blazing fire, pretty Lora tending it;
while the gallant captain stands near, polishing his sword. To guess
what is cooking in the pot I get this hint from an old ballad of
those times:—
“For pottage and puddings and custards and pies
Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies.
We have pumpkin at morning, and pumpkin at noon:
If it was not for pumpkin, we should be undoon.”
And as for what they drank with their dinner,—
“If barley be wanting to make into malt,
We must be contented, and think it no fault;
For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips
Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips.”
The captain was polishing his sword, I said; and here it lies inside.
Need enough it has of polish now! And here is one of his great pewter
plates. Poor Lora Standish, with a pile of those to wash and to wipe
and to scour!
Whose spoon? “Elder Brewster’s,” the label says,—a dark iron spoon
with a rounded bowl (a bit nipped off the edge) and a short handle.
A spoon suggests “chowder;” and no doubt this one often carried that
delicious food to the lips of the elder: for what says the ballad?—
“If we’ve a mind for a delicate dish,
We go to the clam-bank, and there we catch fish.”
And, speaking of spoons, they used stout forks in those days. Here
is one a foot long, with a short handle, and two prongs very wide
apart,—certainly not made to eat peas with!
That inlaid cabinet on the upper shelf must have been a pretty thing
in its day. It belonged to Peregrine White, and came to him, so
the label says, from his mother,—just as likely as not a present
to her from Mr. White in their courting-days, and used to keep his
love-letters in: who knows? With my _other pair_ I can see the rosy
English girl sitting alone by her cabinet. Its little drawers of
letters are open, and with a smile and a blush she reads over the old
ones while awaiting the new. I wonder if any fortune-teller ever told
her that she would sail over the seas to dwell in a wilderness, and
that she would be the first New-England mother,—the first bride too;
for, after Mr. White’s death, she married Mr. Edward Winslow, the
third governor; and their wedding was the first one in the colony.
Yonder, among other portraits, hangs that of Mr. Winslow. On the
top of this relic-case is a flaxen wig worn by one of the Winslow
family, and underneath it is Mr. White’s ivory-headed cane.
What is this sealed up in a bottle? _Apple-preserve_, made from
the apples of a tree which Peregrine White planted. Think of
_apple-preserve_ keeping so long!
On one of these shelves inside I see dingy old Bibles; also the
spectacles with which they were read, looking as if they could
almost see without any eyes behind them. There is an ancient Dutch
Bible, with brass studs and clasps, and an English one, open at the
titlepage, “_Imprinted at London by Robert Barker, printer to the
King’s most excellent Majestie._”
And—is it possible? can this really be? yes, there it is in black
and white—_John Alden’s Bible_! O John! you young rogue, I’ve read
in a poem what _you_ did!—made love to Priscilla Mullins, when Capt.
Miles Standish was going to ask her to be his second wife, and sent
you to do the errand for him. Naughty, naughty youth! But Priscilla
knew pretty well the feelings of your heart, John, and knew very well
the feelings of her own, or she would never have dared to ask that
question, so famous in story, “_Why don’t you speak for yourself,
John?_” Mr. Longfellow has told us all about your wedding; and how,
when taking home the bride,
“Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla,
Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of his master,
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in his nostrils,
Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and the heat of
the noonday.”
Little Mehitable Winslow’s shoes may also be seen here,—stiff,
clumsy, black, cunning, peaked things they are, with their turned-up
toes; likewise old pocket-books, dishes, a spur, a gourd-shell, a
lock taken from the house of Miles Standish, and various articles
besides.
Cross over now to the other case. What little ship is that on top?
Ah! a model of “The Mayflower.” I am glad to see a model of “The
Mayflower.” By no means a clipper ship was she.
[Illustration: INDIAN DOLL.]
This case contains mostly Indian relics, such as tomahawks, kettles,
mortars, pestles, axes, all made of stone; also a string of “wampum,”
or Indian money, which is simply shells, polished and rounded. And
here, of all things in the world! is an Indian doll, made of—I don’t
know what; perhaps hardened clay. It is a clumsy-looking thing for a
toy. I see plenty of Indian arrows, and up there on the highest shelf
a sort of helmet labelled _King Philip’s cap_. The genuineness of
this relic is doubted. King Philip was a famous Indian warrior, who
gave the whites a deal of trouble, until at last Col. Church caught
him in a swamp. Col. Church was a mighty man to catch Indians. He
used to complain, though, that they sometimes slipped out of his
hands, because, on account of their going nearly naked, “_there was
nothing to hold on by but their hair_.” King Philip was caught at
last, though, by this valiant Col. Church; and, if anybody doesn’t
believe it, why here is his own pocket-book, marked “_Col. Benjamin
Church_;” and here is the very gun-barrel of his gun.
Now one last look, and then for a walk to find those “sweet springs
of water” and “little running brooks” on account of which the
Pilgrims settled in this spot. Good-by, precious relics! and good-by,
you old arm-chairs wherein sat those men of blessed memory!
“Their greeting very soft,
Good-morrow very kind:
How sweet it sounded oft,
Before we were refined!
Humility their care,
Their failings very few.
My heart, how kind their manners were
When this old chair was new!”
DRAMAS AND DIALOGUES.
THE GYPSIES.-A MAY-DAY DRAMA.
CHARACTERS.
LADY CAROLINE. FLORA, _little daughter of_ LADY CAROLINE. MARGERY,
_her maid, an elderly person_. ELSIE, _a young girl in attendance
upon_ FLORA. TRAMP, _dressed as an old gypsy-man_. TRAMP’S WIFE,
_dressed as an old gypsy-woman_. TRAMP’S DAUGHTER PEG, _dressed as a
gypsy-girl_. TOMKINS, _a showman_. A BLIND FIDDLER, _old and gray_.
GIRLS _and_ BOYS, _who dance the May-dance, and sing May-songs_.
SCENE I.—LADY C. _reclining in arm-chair. Enter_ MARGERY _with vase
of flowers_.
LADY C. How beautiful, Margery! Did little Flora help you gather them?
MARGERY. Yes, my lady. Miss Flora—why, Miss Flora, she do frisk about
so, pulls Elsie here, and then there,—“Now this flower, Elsie!” and
“Now this nice one, Elsie!” That be a most wonderful child, my lady:
she be playful like a kitten, and gentle, too, like a pet lamb.
LADY C. (_anxiously_). Ah! already I regret having given her
permission to go with Elsie to the green. But she longed so to see
the May-dances!
MARGERY. Oh, never fear, my lady! There isn’t anywhere a faithfuller
little maid than Elsie: she will not let Miss Flora out of her sight.
But nobody could wish Miss Flora out of sight, she is such a little
angel. Indeed and in truth, my lady, in all the world can’t be found
a child sweet-tempered like her.
LADY C. Oh, do not call her an angel, good Margery! call her a lamb
or a kitten, if you will, or even a squirrel, but never an angel.
(_Children’s voices outside. Enter_ FLORA, _singing and skipping_.
ELSIE _follows quietly_.)
FLORA. O mamma! see her wreaths and garlands, and the white dress she
has on for the May-day dances! Doesn’t she look lovely, mamma?—oh,
just as lovely as—oh, I don’t know!
LADY C. (_smiling_). Indeed she does, my dear. Elsie, do all the
lassies wear white?
ELSIE. Yes, my lady, white, with right gay garlands.
FLORA. Good-by, mamma: it is time to go now. (_Goes to her mother._)
LADY C. O Elsie! will you take good care? She never went far from me
before. I shall be very anxious!
ELSIE. Yes, indeed, my lady, I will take great care.
FLORA. And I will stay with Elsie, and be so good!—oh, just as good
as—oh, you can’t think!
(_A company of singers heard outside, as if passing at a distance._)
FLORA (_skipping, and clapping hands_). Oh, hark, mamma! do hark to
the May-songs! Come, Elsie, quick! Good-by, mamma!
LADY C. (_embracing her_). Good-by, darling! good-by!
[_Exit_ F. _and_ E.
MARGERY. I must see to their lunch-baskets.
[_Exit_ MARGERY. _Curtain falls._
SCENE II.—_Pretended gypsies seated in a tent, or on the
ground._ OLD WOMAN _counting over silver_, OLD MAN _looking on.
He is dressed in old, ill-fitting clothes._ WOMAN _has a black
handkerchief wound about her head, shabby dress, blue stockings,
and something bright around her neck_.
MAN. Wal, old Beauty Spot, how many d’ye count?
WOMAN. Eight spoons, six forks, five thimbles, one cup.
MAN. Is that all we’ve took on this beat?
WOMAN. Not by somethin’! Look ye here, dad! (_Holds up a ladle._)
MAN (_delighted_). Now you be the beater! (_Rubs his hands._) Let’s
take a look. (_Examines it._) Real, is’t? But where’s Peg?
WOMAN. Off on her tramps about the grand house yonder. Owner’s away:
nobody left but my lady and servants. Never a better time, daddy.
MAN. Nor a better day. Tompkins will set up his show tent. Everybody
stirring. Pockets to pick, fortunes to tell!
WOMAN (_rubbing her hands_). Lads and lassies dancing on the green,
old uns looking on, nobody taking care of the spoons’n the house.
MAN (_slapping her on the shoulder_). We’re in luck, old woman,—in
luck! (_Enter_ PEG, _dressed in red bodice, black skirt, red
stockings, light blue handkerchief on her head, pinned under her
chin._) Here comes Peg, now. Wal, my Nimble Fingers, any game to-day?
PEG (_takes a few articles from her pocket_). Not much now, dad, but
some a-coming, if you an’ her (_points to_ WOMAN) be up to it.
MAN (_earnestly_). What’s that?
PEG. Oh! a nice little job.
MAN _and_ WOMAN (_earnestly_). Speak out, gal.
PEG. Wal, you see I walked in through the park, and along by the
hedge-row, and into the kitchen-garden, thinkin’ to go boldly in at
the back-door, as you told me, to ask for cold bits.
BOTH (_bending eagerly forward_). Yes.
PEG. But jest when I got my mouth open to say, “Charity for my poor
sick mother”—
BOTH. Wal?
PEG. Why, a servant ordered me off.
MAN. An’ what then?
PEG. Why, then I turned to come away. But next I sees—
WOMAN. Sees what?
PEG. Somethin’ in our line.
BOTH (_impatiently_). Tell away, can’t yer?
PEG. Sees my lady’s child a-walkin’ out with her maid.
WOMAN. Wal, what o’ that?
PEG. You keep quiet, an’ I’ll tell; jest you keep on a-interruptin’,
an’ I’m mum’s a fish.
MAN (_to_ WOMAN). Hush up, now, can’t yer? (_To_ PEG.) Sees what?
PEG. I seed as how little miss was a-dressed out in all her
finery,—her velvet, an’ her silks, an’ gold beads an’ bracelets.
(_Clasps throat and wrists._) Very good things to have. (_Old couple
nod approvingly at each other._)
MAN. Mebby they be (_holding up old bag_); but how be they a-goin’ to
jump in this ’ere?
PEG. There ye go agin a-interruptin’.
WOMAN (_to_ MAN). Hush up, dad! Let the gal speak, can’t yer?
PEG. Then I watches to find out where wud they be a-goin’ ter (_old
couple nod to each other_), an’ I sees ’em take the path down by the
hedge-row. So I creeps along softly, a-tiptoe, on t’other side, just
like this (_shows how she crept along_), a-peepin’ through.
WOMAN (_rubbing her hands together_). Sharp gal you be, Peg.
MAN (_to_ WOMAN). Keep still; don’t bother her.
PEG. When they goes down on the grass to rest, I goes down too, on
t’other side, ye know, to rest,—so. (_Sits down._)
MAN (_laughing_). Yes, yes: so ye did. Poor little gal, wasn’t used
to trampin’!
WOMAN (_to_ MAN). Gabble, gabble, gabble! The gal’ll never git done.
MAN. Tell away, Peg.
PEG. I listens, an’ I finds little miss is a-goin’ with her maid to
see the dances. There, I’ve started the game: let’s see ye foller it
up.
(_Old couple sit in silence for a few moments, turning over the
silver._)
MAN (_thoughtfully_). ’Tis deep water; but I sees through.
PEG (_bending forward_). Let’s hear. (WOMAN _listens_.)
MAN. Tomkins’s show draws all the crowd, missy among ’em.
PEG. Go on, dad.
MAN (_rising_). They two, missy and maid, stands agapin’ at it,—so.
(_Imitates._) You creeps in between,—so. (_Imitates._) I stays
outside.
PEG. Yes, yes!
MAN. In the middle of it I gets myself knocked down outside, and
groans and roars, “Help, help! thieves! murder!”
WOMAN (_eagerly_). Then everybody’ll run.
MAN. Then everybody’ll run. Peg catches hold o’ little miss, runs her
off. I say, “I’ll take care of yer.” Neat job, hey? (_Rubs hands._)
PEG (_briskly_). Then I’ll lend her some of my clothes, ’cause
they’s better for her, you know, an’ help her eat what’s in the
buful basket; an’ she’ll be my little sister, an’ she’ll tramp with
us (_rises_) an’ our merry, merry crew. (_Sings. Old couple join in
chorus, and all keep time with feet and hands._)
[Music:
Oh! we’re a merry gypsy crew, Roaming all the country thro’,
Plenty to eat and little to do, Roaming thro’ the wildwood. Sing
ri fa la li lu li oh! Plenty to eat and little to do, Roaming thro’
the wildwood.
]
Want and care we never know:
Sun may shine, or winds may blow;
All the same we come and go,
Roaming through the wildwood.
Sing ri fa la li lu li oh!
Plenty to eat, and little to do,
Roaming through the wildwood.
SCENE III.—_Enter_ FLORA _and_ ELSIE, _hand in hand. Both have
flowers; and_ ELSIE _carries a pretty lunch-basket_.
FLORA. What pretty flowers there were in that meadow! Why, I wanted
every one!
ELSIE. Then we’d have to fetch a wagon to carry them home in, I guess.
FLORA. A wagonful of flowers! What would mamma say to that, I wonder?
ELSIE. All the vases together wouldn’t half hold ’em.
FLORA. Then I’d put them in my little crib, and have them for my bed.
ELSIE. Margery wouldn’t spread her white sheets on such a bed as that.
FLORA. But I could take flowers for bed-clothes, and smell them all
night. Oh! what a—(_stops suddenly, and listens_). I hear music.
Hark! (_Music heard faintly, as if afar off._) O Elsie! they’re
coming, they’re coming! Hark! don’t you hear the singing?
ELSIE. Yes (_looking in the direction of the music_): they’re
marching this way.
(_Singing comes gradually nearer, until the chorus is heard outside.
Enter a procession of girls and boys, blind fiddler following.
Boys are dressed in white trousers, with bright or striped jackets,
flowers at the button-hole; girls in white, with garlands. All march
round the stage, singing; then either eight or sixteen of them form
a circle for dancing the May-dance. At intervals, in some pretty
figure, the dancers pause, and sing a May-song, in which all join.
Dancing ends with a march, which is interrupted by a girl rushing in
from the show._)
SONG (_briskly, to “The Poacher’s Song,” or any lively tune_).
We come, we come, with dance and song,
With hearts and voices gay;
We come, we come, a happy throng;
For now it is beautiful May.
We’ve lingered by the brookside
To find the fairest flowers;
We’ve rambled through the meadows wide
These sunny, sunny hours.
(_All move round._)
CHORUS.
Oh! we’ll dance and sing around the ring
With footsteps light and gay;
Oh! we’ll dance and sing around the ring;
For now ’tis the beautiful May.
GIRL (_rushing in_). Oh, come! do come and see the show! ’Tis the
funniest show!
ALL TOGETHER. Where? where? (_Pressing about her._)
GIRL (_pointing_). Over yonder by the wood. Only a penny. Come!
ALL TOGETHER (_or nearly so_). Yes: let’s go! Come! Only a penny?
We’ll all go!
(_All rush out_, ELSIE _leading_ FLORA. _Curtain falls._)
SCENE IV.—TOMKINS, _in flashy costume, preparing for the show.
There should be several objects, supposed to be statues or animals,
covered with white cloth. The animals may be boys in various
positions. The coverings will not be removed, as the show is to be
interrupted._ TOMKINS _moves about, peeping under the coverings,
dusting the statues, patting and quieting, and perhaps feeding, the
animals. He holds in one hand a string which is attached to one
of them. Enter_ TOM THUMB _and his_ BRIDE, _arm in arm, followed
by his aged parents and maiden aunt. (Five little children must
be dressed up to represent these.)_ TOMKINS _helps them to a high
platform at the back part. Old lady is knitting a doll’s stocking.
Enter crowd of May-dancers_, PEG _among them. She tries several
times to separate_ FLORA _from Elsie while they are listening
to_ TOMKINS, _and finally succeeds. (This scene may easily be
lengthened by adding other figures to the show, such as a giant, or
curious animals, &c.)_
TOMKINS (_arranging the spectators, speaks rapidly_). Stan’ reg’lar,
ladies and gentlemen, stan’ reg’lar, and let the tall ones look over
the short ones; for if the tall ones don’t git behind the short ones,
and the short ones gits behind the tall ones, then how’s the short
ones a-goin’ to look over the tall ones? Ladies and gentlemen, I have
the honor to show you the only ’xhibition of the kind on record. On
this ’casion ’tis not a talkin’ ’xhibition. Six talkin’ ’xhibitions
they’ve done to-day. Do I want ’em to die on my ’ands? Do I want
to close their ’xpiring eyes, an’ say—an’ say—farewell, my dears?
No. Let ’em live to d’light the world, an’ to ’dorn—to ’dorn—my
’xhibition. (_The animal gets uneasy._ TOMKINS _jerks the string_.)
Sh—sh—! your time’ll come when the Thumbs is all done. Ladies and
gentlemen, you see before you the descendants of the real Tom Thumb,
who lived in story-books a thousand years ago. Their grandfather far
removed was carried in his master’s waistcoat-pocket, and swallowed
by a cow. (_Animal steps. He pulls the string._) Sh—sh! They would
speak to the audyence: but six talkin’ ’xhibitions they’ve done
to-day; an’ their healths must be looked to, as their constitootions
compares with their sizes, and ’tis very nat’ral they’d be
short-breath’d. The old lady, as you see, is knittin’ a stockin’ for
her grandchild that lives in Siam. The old gentleman takes his pinch
of snuff, an’ would smoke his pipe, but—ladies present. The maiden
aunt is neat about her dress; and that’s why she’s smoothin’ out the
wrinkles, and rubbin’ off mud-spots. Tom Thumb is very fond of his
bride; an’ you won’t think strange of his strokin’ her curls, an’
lookin’ at her face in admiration. (_Animals move a little._) But my
an’mals is uneasy, and I must also proceed to uncover the statuarys.
Thumb family may march round and take their leave. (_They march round
and go out, each turning at the door to salute the audience._) I
will now proceed to uncover the famous, unheard-of, wonderful animal
called—(_Deep groans heard outside. “Help! thieves! murder!_”) Don’t
be uneasy! (_All rush out._ PEG _runs off with Flora_.)
[_Curtain falls._
SCENE V.—LADY CAROLINE _reclining in her chair. She rings a bell.
Enter_ MARGERY.
LADY C. You may bring that round table nearer to me, Margery: Miss
Flora and I will take our tea together. What a treat it will be for
her!
MARGERY (_bringing the table_). Yes, my lady. (_Spreads cloth._)
LADY C. She will be eager to tell all that has happened, and I shall
be just as eager to hear. (MARGERY _fetches plates, &c._) Bring her
small china mug, Margery (she likes that best); and bring her low
rocking-chair.
MARGERY. Yes, my lady. The little dear will be so tired! (_Brings the
things._)
LADY C. Place the chair near me. Is the supper all ready? What an
appetite the little traveller will have to-night!
MARGERY. Every thing is ready, my lady.
LADY C. And fetch her slippers lined with down. They will be soft
to her tired feet. Ah, how many steps those feet have taken since
she kissed me good-by! (MARGERY _brings slippers, and places them in
front of the chair_.) So. That is right. Now that all is ready, how
long seems every moment! Margery, go stand by the upper window, and
bring me word when you catch the first sight of them coming along by
the hedge-row.
MARGERY. I will, my lady. I’ll watch, and not leave the window,—not
for one single moment.
[_Exit_ MARGERY. _Curtain falls._
SCENE VI.—TRAMP _and his_ WIFE. _Old bags, bundles, and baskets
lying about._ MAN _is binding an old shoe to his foot with a strip
of cloth. Foot is on the shoe, not in it._ WOMAN _is picking over
rags of different colors_.
WOMAN. Wal, ole man, here we bees agin. ’Tis a year ago this blessed
day since Peg ’ticed the little gal from Tomkins’s show.
MAN. ’Twouldn’t ha’ been a year, mammy, only we got no news o’ the
reward. Fifty guineas, an’ no questions asked. Wal-a-day! Many’s the
weary tramp we’s had that we needn’t a’.
WOMAN. An’ many’s the trinket I’ll buy.
MAN. Now, ole Beauty Spot, you don’t git the spendin’ o’ that gold!
WOMAN. I don’t! Wal, we’ll see! I don’t, do I?—humph!
MAN. But where’s Peg? Meet us by this wood, she said. An’ ’tis past
the time set. She must a’ reached the hall two days agone.
WOMAN. If I’d a’ had my say, the child should ha’ been sent by some
other body; but Peg she would go along.
MAN. ’Tis a marcy an’ she don’t git fast under lock an’ key.
WOMAN. Wal, the child’s back to where she belongs; an’ lucky she
be; for our Peg, that be a great deal too smart for us, will go to
mind every crook o’ that young un’s finger, an’ worse’n that. Now
I’ll tell ye. I harked one night, late it was, with the stars all
so bright, we inside the tent, they two out, nobody stirring, no
noise, only corn rustlin’ a-near us, an’ a little matter of a breeze
in the trees; an’ what does I hear? Why, that young ’un a-tellin’
our Peg about the angels, an’ more besides, an’ what good was, an’
what wicked was. Does I want a gal o’ mine to hear the like? No, I
doesn’t. Peg ain’t the gal she was (_shaking her head_). No, no! She
ain’t up to half the smart tricks. (_Enter_ PEG.)
MAN _and_ WOMAN. The money! The gold, the gold! Where’s the gold?
PEG. The lady wants to see you at the hall.
BOTH. Ha!
WOMAN. Be we fools?
MAN. She wants, does she?—ha, ha! She wants!—he, he, he!
PEG. I want, then. And the gold is ready for you there.
WOMAN. What be we a-goin’ to the hall for?
PEG. She has a favor to ask.
WOMAN. Yes: the favor o’ shuttin’ us up.
PEG. The favor o’ lettin’ me be servant to Miss Flora. (WOMAN _nods
to_ MAN.)
MAN. Have more sense, gal.
WOMAN. O Peg! an’ would ye go from us, an’ to be a slave?
MAN (_picking up bundles_). ’Tis all a trap to nab us.
PEG. No, there be no trap.
WOMAN. An’ what use of our seein’ the lady?
PEG. She be loath to keep anybody’s child without consent. The little
un begs me stay; an’ I must.
WOMAN (_entreatingly_). Don’t, Peg! Let her go. She ben’t one o’ our
sort.
PEG. I can’t; an’ the truth must be spoken to ye. I’m tired o’
trampin’, tired o’ beggin’ an’ thievin’, an’ skulkin’ about; an’,
what’s more, I can’t lose sight o’ _her_.
WOMAN (_sorrowfully_). O Peg! An’ how could the little un bewitch ye
so?
PEG. I can’t tell that. How can I tell what makes me pine for a sight
o’ her sweet face, an’ why ’tis that the sound o’ her sweet voice
touches me here (_places hand on her heart_), an’ why ’tis I weep
when she tells me of the angels and holy things? Will ye go, or no?
(_Moves towards door._)
MAN _to_ WOMAN (_confidentially_). Between you an’ me, I’d sooner
have Peg there. Don’t ye see? (_Claps hand on her shoulder._) Many’s
the nice bit she’ll help us to, or a silver penny, or a spoon.
WOMAN. That she won’t. An’, if she’d do’t, ain’t we got money
enough wi’ all that gold? I’d sooner keep my gal. (_Folds arms, and
looks down sorrowfully._) But ’twon’t be for long. _(Looks up more
cheerfully._) Peg’ll come back to us. She’ll soon pine for the sweet
woods agin’. (_Ties up her bundles._)
MAN (_contemptuously_). Enough!—enough gold! (_Picks up baskets._)
What can the old gal mean? Enough money?—ha, ha, ha! Enough!—he, he,
he!
[_Curtain falls._
SCENE VII. (_chiefly a tableau_).—LADY C. _sits with her arm round_
FLORA. MARGERY _arranging the furniture. Enter gypsies, conducted
by_ PEG. LADY C., _at sight of them, shudders, and turns away_.
MARGERY _keeps them at a distance_.
MARGERY. Stand back, stand back! Don’t ye see my lady almost faints
at sight of ye? (_Music, heard afar off, comes gradually nearer._)
LADY C. (_listening_). What music do I hear, Margery?
MARGERY. ’Tis the May-party, my lady. They come to welcome Miss Flora
back with a cheerful song.
LADY C. Bid them enter, Margery.
(MARGERY _goes to the door. Enter May-party and blind fiddler. They
are arranged by_ MARGERY. _Gypsies watch the proceedings_,—OLD
GYPSY _leaning on his staff with both hands_; OLD WOMAN, _rather
sullen, stands with folded arms_. PEG _moves softly along, and
sinks upon the floor near_ FLORA. ELSIE _is among the singers, but
stands silent with downcast looks_. MARGERY _motions for the young
people to sing, and, when they begin, holds corner of apron to her
eyes_.)
CLOSING SONG.
Home again, home again!
All her wanderings o’er;
At home, sweet home again, to dwell
With loving friends once more!
Flowers, show your fairest hues,
Make the meadows gay;
Dear little birds, oh I carol forth
Your sweetest songs to-day.
CHORUS. For home again, home again,
Her weary wanderings o’er,
At home, sweet home again, she dwells
With loving friends once more.
[_Curtain falls._
A DECEMBER CHARADE.—(FAREWELL.)
FIRST SYLLABLE: _Fare_.
CHARACTERS.
JOE _and_ NED, _two young clerks from the city_. JOE _is in rough
sea-clothes,—tarpaulin hat, stout boots, trousers tucked in;
carries cod-lines, oil-clothes, and a rope-handled bucket_. NED
_is in gentleman’s fishing-costume; wears broad-brimmed straw hat,
carries reed pole, lunch-basket, &c. They enter from opposite
doors._
JOE. How fares ye, Ned? Been a-fishing? So’ve I. Let’s sit down on
the bank here and talk it over. (_Throws himself down._ NED _spreads
out his handkerchief, then seats himself upon it_.)
NED (_affectedly, and with a sigh_). Ah, well! or, rather, ah, ill!
Another day of vacation gone. Already the store—the busy, crowded,
everlasting store—looms up before me. Customers seem beckoning me
away. I hear, methinks, the rustle of cambrics mingling with the
rustling of the leaves, and—and—
JOE. And the birds sing out “Cash, cash!” don’t they? O
fiddle-de-dee! the store is fifty miles off,—fifty miles; and six
days! Another day gone?—well, don’t fret for that. Didn’t you get
enough for it? Now, I never fret about letting a piece of goods go,
if I get the worth of it.
NED. Really, Joseph, I don’t see what selling goods has to do with
the subject.
JOE. Why, you’ve let your day go. Old Time took it. He buys up a good
many of ’em; but he pays. You got the value of your article: you took
your pay in taking comfort. Fair trade enough.
NED. Well, you may talk; but the day is gone, and it will never
return (_sighs_).
JOE. But, if we live till to-morrow, there’ll another one come:
leastways, I hope so; for I’ve a plan ahead. (_Earnestly._) I’ll do
it: I will! I certainly will, dogs or no dogs,—unless the sea dries
up; and then I’ll walk. But how was river-fishing?
NED. Oh, fair! that is to say, reasonably fair, for the first attempt.
JOE. Fine day you had.
NED. _Charming_ day. In the morning we rowed up stream, with Nature
smiling all around us,—of course I mean the dewy fields, sprinkled
with flowers; and anon we glided through the leafy woods, where the
birds sang melodiously. All was fair and lovely.
JOE. Having fair wind’s the main thing: the rest is well enough. So
you made an all-day trip of it?
NED. Yes: a really _charming_ little excursion, and the presence of
the fair sex—hem!
JOE. Made it still more really charming. Yes, I know. They usually
have their charms about them.
NED. Exactly. And at noon we landed, and spread our repast under
the shade of a spreading oak, and there partook of cold chicken,
sandwiches, and fruits. At the hour of sunset, with a fair wind, and
with now and then a song, we floated calmly down the stream.
JOE. All serene. Now I took it in the rough. See! Borrowed real
sea-clothes, and sailed on the briny sea. Jingoes, if ’twasn’t sport
off the Ledge!
NED. Seasick?
JOE. Hem! Well, little rily doubling “Hook’s Pint:” soon over
it, though, and relished my lunch—oh, hugely! None of your
chicken-fixin’s; real fishermen’s fare,—sea-biscuit dipped in the sea.
NED. Barbarous fare, I should call that.
JOE. Not a bit. Oh, yes! I’m mistaken: good many bits. Fish bit
lively, and old skipper chowdered ’em right out o’ the water: then
we got into a school o’ mackerel, and so brought in quite a fare of
fish. If we’d only landed on that island—But I mean to (_rubbing his
hands_), dogs or no dogs. What the dogs do I care! Let ’em yelp!
NED. Of what island are you speaking?
JOE. “Maiden Island” some call it. Skipper said ’twas oftener called
“The Isle of Dogs.”
NED. Why are these names given to it?
JOE. Because there is a maiden there, of course, and dogs abound. But
I’ll land (_rubbing his hands excitedly_). I’ll attack the fort. “Let
dogs delight,” and so forth.
NED. I’m curious to hear more of this isle of the sea.
JOE. Listen, then, and I’ll tell you a true story: only it hasn’t any
end to it yet. But I’ll make an end (_earnestly_),—I’m resolved upon
that,—unless an earthquake swallows it up.
NED. Swallows up the end!
JOE. The island.
NED. Can’t you explain? (_In a pet._)
JOE. Oh, yes! Explain?—certainly. Now hark. In the middle of the
sea—that is, off in the harbor—stands a lonely isle; and on that isle
stands a hut; and in that hut dwells a stern old fisherman; and that
stern old fisherman owns a fair daughter; and, on account of the
island being flooded with admirers, he has defended it with dogs,
manned it with dogs.
NED. Really! Now that isn’t quite fair in the old gentleman.
JOE. Fair? Of course it isn’t! But I’ve got a plan. I’ll land: I
certainly will, if every dog had as many heads as—now, what was that
dog’s name that barked down in that dark place?—no matter; and if
every head had as many mouths, I’ll land. “Faint heart never won fair
lady.”
NED. But what if they all fly at you?
JOE. Then I’ll fly at them. (_Sings._)
“Let dogs delight
To bark and bite.”
(_Slight noise of rain heard._)
NED (_rising hastily_). We shall be caught in the shower. (_Going._)
Come.
JOE (_rising slowly_). Oh, let it rain, let it rain! Better chance of
fair weather to-morrow.
NED (_passing out_). But will you? will you really dare?
JOE. Yes: none but the brave deserve the fair!
[_Exeunt both._
(_Rain may be made by dropping peas in a tin pan behind the scenes._)
SECOND SYLLABLE: _Well_.
SCENE.—_Out of doors. Tools lying about._ MR. BENSON, _a
dark-whiskered Yankee, in working-clothes and overalls, is at
work on a pump. The pump is a man or boy incased in brown paper.
He is topped by a bandbox-cover, or by any thing which will bear
resemblance to the capping of a wooden pump. One arm is used for
the pump-handle: the other, as far up as the elbow, represents the
spout. A small tub should be put underneath. There must be a large
bottle of water hid in the coat-sleeve, with the thumb pressed over
its mouth for a stopper. At the proper time, the water is allowed
to run out. (This operation should be first practised in the
ante-room.) While_ MR. BENSON _is at work_, SQUIRE REED _enters.
He is well dressed; has gray whiskers, tall hat, and a cane; is a
little pompous and condescending._
SQUIRE REED. Well, Benson, how do you prosper? Always at work, hey?
What! covered up your well?
MR. BENSON. Yes, and got in a pump (_works the handle_); but ’twon’t
draw. Something’s the matter.
SQUIRE R. I’m very sorry; not sorry the pump won’t draw, but sorry to
lose the well,—sorry, I mean, to lose it out of the landscape. It was
a very striking feature, with its long sweep.
MR. B. Wal, to tell the truth, it did go agin my feelings. We’d got
used to seeing it. My gran’ther dug it and stoned it up; and I’ve
hoisted up a good deal o’ water out of it since I was boy, counting
washing-water and all. But then ’twas a heap o’ trouble. (_Works the
handle._) Why don’t the critter draw?
SQUIRE R. How did it trouble you?
MR. B. (_resting on the pump_). Oh! things kept falling down it. I’d
be out in the field, working, you know; and ’twould be all the time,
“Mr. Benson, this thing’s tumbled down the well, and that thing’s
tumbled down the well.” Then I’d leave, and run; and maybe ’twould be
my little gal’s doll, or bub’s hat, or clean clothes off the line.
And all the neighbors wanted to hang their things down it to keep
cool. Course it put us out; but course we didn’t like to speak: so we
had to say, “No trouble at all, no trouble at all;” though ’twasn’t
true, you know.
SQUIRE R. Very true; that is, it wasn’t very true.
MR. B. And then ’twas a master place to c’lect young folks together,
as ever was. First the gals would come with their pails, and stand
talking; then the beaux would come, ’specially about sundown. Says
I to my wife, “Guess I’ll break up that haunt.” (_Pumps with short
quick stroke._) But this new-fangled thing won’t draw a mite.
SQUIRE R. Let me try. (_Pumps slowly, with long stroke._)
MR. B. Yes, you work it, and I’ll pour in water to fetch it. (_Lifts
the cover a little, and pretends to pour in water from a pitcher;
then seizes the handle, and works it with quick, jerking motion._)
Any thing run out?
SQUIRE R. (_stooping a little_). I don’t see any thing.
MR. B. (_examining the spout_). Dry as a grasshopper.
(_Enter_ MR. DOWNING, _a tall man, with green spectacles and wide
red cravat. Has a rod in his hand, and walks with solemn air._)
MR. D. (_to_ MR. B. _very stiffly_). Good-morning, sir. I understand
you have a pump that doesn’t work well.
MR. B. Exactly: that’s just what I’ve got.
MR. D. (_solemnly_). I am a pump-doctor.
SQUIRE R. (_with a condescending smile_). That is to say, I suppose
that you can cure a pump, and make it well.
MR. B. (_laughing_). Oh, don’t make mine well! It’s been well once.
MR. D. If you will place your pump in my hands, sir, I will pledge
myself that it shall give satisfaction.
SQUIRE R. That is to say, give water.
MR. B. Here, take it right into your hands: now let’s see what ’twill
give.
SQUIRE R. How do you cure, sir?
MR. D. (_solemnly_). By circles and opposite electricities. Shall I
proceed?
MR. B. Yes, proceed to begin: don’t wait.
SQUIRE R. That is, begin first, and then proceed.
MR. B. And, if the job’s well done, you shall be well paid.
MR. D. I shall require, gentlemen, a little assistance from both of
you.
SQUIRE R. (_glancing down at his clothes and his hands_). Of what
nature, sir?
MR. B. Oh, yes! I’m willing to take hold: course you’ll take little
something off the price.
MR. D. No labor, no actual labor, will be required of you. My system
involves only circles and opposite electricities. In the first place,
it will be necessary to ascertain whether your electrical currents
are opposite.
MR. B. Well, how will you do it?
(MR. D. _brings in an old-fashioned flax-wheel, or some
yarn-winders, or any thing that can be made to turn round. After
solemn preparation, he whirls this rapidly for a minute or two._)
MR. D. _to_ SQUIRE R. Have the kindness, now, sir, to touch lightly
the circumference of this machine.
(SQUIRE R. _touches, and hops away with a loud cry, dropping his
cane_.)
MR. D. _to_ MR. B. Now you, sir. (MR. B. _hesitates_.) Don’t be
afraid: it is quite harmless.
(MR. B. _touches, and, with a scream, gives a leap in the opposite
direction, rubbing his arms, and looking frightened_.)
MR. D. All is well. The electrical conditions are fulfilled: the one
sprang to the east, the other to the west.
MR. B. (_glancing at the machine, and rubbing his arm_). Mighty
powerful!
MR. D. (_solemnly_). I shall now proceed, gentlemen, to describe two
circles around the well. (_Marks out two circles with his rod._) Will
you please to advance? (SQUIRE R. _walks towards the pump_.)
SQUIRE R. Sir, this appears somewhat like trifling.
MR. D. That depends upon yourself, sir. To the light-minded, serious
matters appear light. I deal with the truths of science. (_To_ MR.
B.) Will you come nearer, sir?
MR. B. (_advancing cautiously_). No danger, I hope; no witchcraft?
MR. D. Not the slightest. I will now work the handle. You two, being
fully charged, will stand at opposite points (_placing them_), and
proceed to revolve silently in these circles,—you, sir (_to_ SQUIRE
R.), revolving in the external orbit, and you, sir (_to_ MR. B.),
in the internal: at your third conjunction, water will gush forth.
(_Works the handle slowly. The others walk as directed. At their
third meeting, water streams out. They step back._)
SQUIRE R. (_lifting both hands_). Marvellous! most wonderful!
MR. B. Wal, I declare! Be you a wizard? I hope—I hope it’s Christian
doings.
MR. D. (_with a smile, and wave of the hand_). What you have
witnessed, gentlemen, is merely a new triumph of science.
MR. B. (_with a sigh of relief_). I’m glad it’s science: I was afraid
’twas witchcraft. Send in your bill, stranger. (_Pumps._) I’m all in
a heap. Science!
MR. D. Permit me to inform you, sir, that witchcraft is science;
only science doesn’t know it. Good-morning, gentlemen (_takes his
machine_): I have business farther on. Have the goodness to accept my
card (_presenting it_).
SQUIRE R. (_following_). Will you allow me to accompany you, and give
me the pleasure of your conversation?
MR. D. With pleasure, sir. (_They move to the door._)
SQUIRE R. Good-day, neighbor. I’m rejoiced that your troubles are
over. “All’s well that ends well.”
MR. B. My well ends pump.
[_Curtain drops._
WHOLE WORD: _Farewell_.
It being December, there may be a Farewell Address from the Old Year
to the children. This Old Year may be represented by a trembling old
man, with white locks and beard, leaning on his staff,—the staff to
be a portion of a leafless bough. He should carry a pack on his back,
marked on each end “’77;” and, as a wholly pathetic character is not
desirable, he may be plentifully labelled with the same figures.
White hair and beard can be made of cotton-wool or yarn, or both; and
dipping the ends in a solution of alum will give them a frosty or icy
appearance.
ADDRESS.
DEAR CHILDREN,—Do you know who I am? My name is ’77. Good-by. I am
going now; yet very few of you will mourn for that. Are you not
already wishing me away, longing for the young, bright New Year? You
know you are.
Oh, I remember well when I was myself a young, bright New Year! A
Happy New Year, they called me: and so I was; for then you all liked
me. You had longed for my coming; you cheered me; you hurrahed; you
shouted for joy; for I came bringing gifts and good wishes.
Ah! that is all changed now. Now that I am old, and have little left
to give, you are willing to turn me off for another. Such ingratitude
is hard to bear. It is that which has bleached my locks, and chilled
me to the heart; for I have given you the very best I had. Think,
now. Look back,—away back to the time when I was in my prime. Did
I not give you those lovely spring children of mine? Don’t you
remember my young April, so tender, so full of feeling, laughing and
crying in a breath? She brought the crocuses and violets, but seemed
too bashful to offer them. And do you so soon forget my pretty,
smiling May, with her apple-blossoms and her singing-birds? My June
brought you green carpets inlaid with buttercups and daisies, and her
warm-hearted sisters gave you all their beautiful flowers.
And then my later children, how generous they were! how free of their
gifts? Think of all the apples they gave you; think of the abundance
of ripened grain,—grain which will last till the new friend that is
coming shall be able to furnish more. And fortunate that it is so;
for let me tell you that it will be a long time before this young
upstart, this inexperienced New Year, can do much for you in the way
of providing.
But, although I have done my very best, you are impatient to see me
off. Now, why this haste? Why treat me so coldly? When once gone, you
will see me no more. Other friends leave you in sadness to return in
joy; but I go, never to return.
And in this pack I carry all the joys and the merry times of ’77: you
can never have them back again. Do you grieve for that? Take comfort,
then, in the thought that I carry, also, all the sorrows of ’77. But
there is something which cannot be taken away,—memory. All the days
and hours of ’77 are in this pack; but the memory of them remains. Be
thankful; for if memory, too, could be carried away,—why, then, in
looking back, what a dreary blank there would be!
Well, children, I am going. Good-by! Do you wonder that I go off
so smilingly? ’Tis because Old Santa Claus—dear, jolly Old Santa
Claus—comes to cheer me in these last days. Ah, were it not for him,
how gloomy would these last days be! But it is not permitted me to
be sad. He comes with his jingling of bells, and his mirth, and his
“Merry, merry Christmas!” and so, thanks to him, I leave you with a
smiling face.
And now farewell forever! But when young ’78 comes, happy and bright,
laden with good wishes, and rejoicing your hearts with his beautiful
gifts, look back, I pray you, and bestow one thought upon poor old
’77.
WHOLE WORD IN PANTOMIME:[1] _Farewell_.
SCENE.—_Inside of room. When the curtain rises, a young sailor
is seen taking leave of his mother. Both are standing. Her head
is slightly turned away; her right hand is clasped in his. With
the left she holds a handkerchief to her eyes, as if weeping.
Her little boy stands near, holding by her dress, and looking up
in the sailor’s face. His playthings are scattered on the floor.
Faint noise of singing heard, as if in the distance: it is the
singing of sailors, and seems to come nearer and nearer, and very
near. Sailor presses the mother’s hand in both of his; catches up
his little brother, and kisses him; then rushes out. Mother sinks
down, as if overcome with grief, and sits with face bowed upon both
hands. Little boy looks out at the door. Singing grows fainter and
fainter, and dies away in the distance, while curtain falls slowly._
FOOTNOTES:
[1] If preferred, the pantomime may be substituted for the Old-Year’s
Address.
THE LITTLE VISITORS.—A PLAY FOR YOUNG CHILDREN.
CHARACTERS.
AGNES, _aged six or seven_. LULU, _aged six or seven_. BEL, _aged
four or five_. DAN, _aged eight or nine_. BENNY, _aged ten or
eleven_.
SCENE.—_A common room._ AGNES _sits with many dolls and other
playthings about her_. BENNY _is reading, the other side of the
room_. DAN _sits near him, catching flies on the table_.
(_Enter_ LULU _and_ BEL, _with dolls all in out-door rig_.)
AGNES (_jumping up, and clapping hands_). Oh, goody, goody! Did your
mothers say you might come?
LULU (_speaking quickly_). Yes, my mother said I might; and then I
teased Bel’s mother, and she said yes.
AGNES (_clapping hands_). Oh, I’m so glad! (_Helping take off their
things._) How long can you stay? Can you stay to supper?
LULU. I can’t stay without I’m invited, mother said.
BEL. My mother said to come home when the table had begun to be set.
I’ve got my new boots on (_looking down_), and I stepped in the mud
with ’em.
(DAN, _in catching a fly, knocks down_ BENNY’S _book_.)
BENNY (_picking it up_). What are you trying to do?
LULU. We saw a cow, and ran across the street; and Bel stepped in the
mud (_wiping it off Bel’s boots_).
BEL. ’Twas a hooking cow.
BENNY. Ho! run for a cow! ’Fore I’d run for a cow!
DAN (_swooping off a fly_). It doesn’t take much to scare girls.
BENNY (_finding his place_). I know it: anybody could do that.
AGNES. _He_ couldn’t scare us; could he, Lulu?
BENNY. Don’t you believe I could make you run? Boo, boo! (_Jumps at
them._)
LULU. Oh, we sha’n’t run for that!
BENNY. Just wait a little while; and, if I can’t scare you, then I’ll
treat.
AGNES (_indignantly_). Do you believe he could, Lu?
LULU. I know he couldn’t. What will you treat us to?
BENNY. Oh! any thing. Take your choice.
AGNES (_clapping hands_). Oh, goody, goody! Ice-cream, ice-cream!
LULU. Cream-cakes, cream-cakes!
DAN. I’ve got him (_looks carefully in his hand_). Why, I haven’t got
him! Where is he? Oh, I see! (_Hits_ BENNY’S _shoulder_.)
BENNY (_starting up_). You’ve driven away _this_ fly. (_Goes out to
disguise himself._ DAN _goes on swooping flies off of table; girls
step back to where the dolls are_.)
AGNES. Now let’s play something.
LULU. So I say. Let’s play school.
BEL. But there wouldn’t be enough scholars.
DAN (_coming forward with ruler_). I’ll be the schoolmaster. Silence!
Take your seats. Study your books. Can’t have any recess. You must
all stay after school. (_Girls laugh._ DAN _goes back to his flies_.)
LULU. Let’s play mother, I say.
AGNES. You be the mother?
LULU. No, you be the mother, and I’ll be your little girl, and Bel be
my little sister.
AGNES. Well, I’ll run up and get some of my mother’s things to put
on, and you two can be seeing my dollies. (AGNES _goes out_.)
DAN (_stepping forward_). I’ll be the one to introduce them. (_Takes
up each doll as it is named._) This is Miss Cherrydrop, named for her
red cheeks; but some say they’re painted, and not real. She’s got a
new round comb and a—a sontag.
BEL. Oh, that isn’t a sontag! ’tis a breakfast-shawl.
DAN. Well, never mind. Here is Miss Patty Troodledum; very proud,
so they say, because her dress is spangled. When Aggy thinks too
much of her new clothes, mother says, “Ah! who have we here? Miss
Patty Troodledum?” Sit down there, Miss Patty. And this is the young
sailor-boy, just home from sea. There’s the star on his collar,
and his Scotch cap. Jack, take off your cap, and make a bow to the
ladies. His mother fainted away with joy at seeing him, and hasn’t
come to yet: here she is. (_Takes up old faded shabby doll._) But
_here_ is somebody very grand. Now, who do you think came over in
the ship with the sailor-boy?
LULU. The captain.
DAN. Of course. But I mean passenger.
LULU. Who was it?
DAN. Mademoiselle De Waxy, right from Paris.
LULU. Oh, she’s a beauty! Don’t touch her, Bel!
DAN. Oh, no! Miss De Waxy mustn’t be touched. Miss De Waxy keeps by
herself, and never speaks a word to the others, because they can’t
talk French. Miss De Waxy, before she came over, thought all the
American dolls were dressed in wild beasts’ skins. See, this is
her fan, bought in Paris; and this is her gold chain. (_Lays her
carefully by._)
BEL. And who are all these little ones? (_Pointing to row of small
dolls._)
DAN. Those are the children just come from school, waiting for their
lunch. See this cunning one! She doesn’t know O yet: she’s in the
eleventh class.
LULU. And who is that old one with that funny cap on?
DAN. Oh, this! (_Taking up large old rag-doll._) Why, this is—this is
old Nurse Trot. Poor old woman, she’s got a lame back, and she’s all
worn out tending so many children; but she never complains, nor sheds
a tear.
BEL. Oh, she’s got a bag on her arm!
DAN. Her snuff-box is in that. The sailor-boy brought it home from
sea to her. (_Takes out the box, opens it, takes pinch of snuff,
sneezes. The others sneeze._) Best of snuff! And he brought her these
new spectacles (_tries them on her_): now she can see as well as ever
she could.
LULU. How came this one’s arm off?
DAN. Why, that is poor Tabitha. She broke her arm sweeping out the
baby-house; and it had to be taken off at the shoulder.
BEL. Where did she get that clean apron?
DAN. That checked apron? Let me see. That came, I think—oh! that was
made at the doll’s sewing-school.
LULU. Look, Bel: here’s a blind one! (_Takes up doll with eyes gone._)
BEL. Oh! isn’t that too bad?
DAN. Yes, she’s blind; totally blind. She became so by trying to
sleep with her eyes open. Dolls know better now. They shut their eyes
when they lie down, and go off to sleep like live folks.
LULU. Oh, see this one! she’s all spoiled.
DAN. Yes: she was spoiled having her own way. Fell down when she
was told to stand up, and broke her cheek. Doctors were sent for;
but they couldn’t do any thing. She ought to have that face tied
up. Where’s her pocket-handkerchief? Here it is. Now, isn’t that a
beauty? Aggy says the sailor-boy brought it home to her from China.
There, now her face is tied up, she won’t get cold. Do you see this
pretty girl with the pink dress and curly hair? She is to be the wife
of the sailor-boy. These two sit close together all the time, waiting
for their wedding-day. The wedding-cake is ordered. See how smiling
they look! and no wonder. I will tell you who is invited to the
wedding; but you mustn’t tell. First, all the— Oh! here comes Aggy.
Wait till by and by.
(_Enter_ AGNES, _dressed up in her mother’s clothes, with gay
head-dress_.)
LULU (_laughing_). Oh, what a good mother! What’ll your name be?
AGNES. Mrs. White. (_Tiptoes up at the glass, twists and turns,
arranges bows, strings, collar, &c._) This is the way mother does.
DAN. Shall I be the father, and do the way father does?
ALL THE GIRLS. Oh, yes, yes! Do!
(DAN _goes out_. AGNES _walks stiffly to a chair, speaks to the
children very soberly_.)
AGNES. Children (_unfolding aprons_), come and let me put on your
sleeved aprons.
LULU _and_ BEL (_whining_). I don’t want to.
AGNES (_stiffly_). Little girls must think mother knows best. Come,
mind mother. (_Sleeved aprons are put on._) Now, children (_speaking
slowly_), I am going to have company this afternoon; and you must be
very good children. What do you say when a gentleman speaks to you?
(_Children stand with folded hands._)
LULU _and_ BEL. Yes, sir; no, sir.
AGNES. What do you say when a lady speaks to you?
LULU _and_ BEL. Yes, ma’am; no, ma’am.
AGNES. And, if they ask you how you do, don’t hang your head down,
and suck your thumbs, so, but speak this way (_with slight bow and
simper_),—“Very well, I thank you.” Now let me hear you say it.
CHILDREN (_imitating_). Very well, I thank you.
AGNES. And what do you say at the table?
BEL. _Please_ give me some more jelly.
LULU. Please may I be _excused_, when we get up.
AGNES. That is right. And, if anybody asks you to sing, you must be
willing, and sing them one of your little songs. What one do you like
the best?
LULU. “_Gone Away._”
AGNES. I think you’d better sing it over with me, to be sure you know
it. (_All three sing a song_, AGNES _beginning_.)
GONE AWAY.
TUNE,—“_Nelly Bly_.”
I know a pretty little maid,
And Sally is her name;
And, though she’s far away from me,
I love her just the same.
Sally is a darling girl,
A darling girl is she:
Her smile so bright is a happy sight
I’d give the world to see.
Upon my lovely Sally’s lips
The sweetest kisses grow.
Oh! if I had her by my side,
She’d give me some, I know.
Sally is a darling girl,
A darling girl is she:
Her smile so bright is the happiest sight
In all the world to me.
I have not seen my little girl
This many and many a day:
I hope she’ll not forget me in
That land so far away.
Sally is a darling girl,
A darling girl is she:
Her smile so bright is a happy sight
I’d give the world to see.
AGNES (_slowly_). Very well. Now sit down, dears, and play with
your playthings, and don’t disturb mother. Mother’s going to make a
new head-dress. (_Takes lace, flowers, ribbons, from work-basket.
Children sit down and play with blocks, dishes, &c._)
(DAN _enters, dressed as father, with tall hat, dicky, black
whiskers, cane, &c._)
AGNES. Children, be quiet. Your father’s coming. (DAN _walks in with
stately air, seats himself, crosses foot over the other knee, tips
back a little, takes out pipe, pretends to smoke_.)
DAN. That’s the way father does.
(_Children get each other’s things, and make believe quarrel._)
LULU. That’s mine.
BEL. I say ’tisn’t.
LULU. I say ’tis.
BEL. Mother, see Lu! }
LULU. Mother, see Bel.} _Both together._
(_Children’s blocks tumble down with great noise. They get each
other’s._)
LULU. Mother, won’t you speak to Bel?
BEL. Mother, Lu keeps plaguing.
DAN (_sternly_). Silence, children!
AGNES (_knock heard at the door_). Bel, you may go to the door.
(BEL _goes to the door, and runs back really frightened_.)
BEL. Oh, there’s an old beggar-man there! I’m scared of him! (_Begins
to cry._)
(_Enter beggar-man very slowly. He is shockingly dressed; stoops;
is humpbacked; carries a cane; has whiskers and hair, which, with a
slouched hat, nearly cover his face. Girls are really frightened,
and, huddling close together, whisper._)
ALL THE GIRLS. Who is it? I’m scared! Let’s run! Come quick! (_Girls
run out._)
DAN (_jumping up_). Good for you, Ben! I knew they’d be scared.
BENNY (_throwing off disguise_). Hurrah! let’s chase! No treat, no
treat!
DAN. Come on, come on! (_They run out._)
THE BIRD DIALOGUE.
SPEAKERS.
MARY.
DEBBIE.
DORA.
EDITH.
CAROLINE.
HITTIE.
EVA.
MINNIE.
JOE.
FREDERIC.
ARTHUR.
JOHNNY.
GUSSIE.
[MARY, CAROLINE, DEBBIE, and DORA are the largest among the girls;
MINNIE and EVA the smallest. FREDERIC and JOE are the largest boys:
JOHNNY is the smallest.]
SCENE.—_A schoolroom. Tables and chairs are placed around, upon
which are books, slates, a globe, &c. Maps are hung upon the walls.
A group of scholars assembled, waiting for school to begin._ MARY
_and_ HITTIE _are sitting together_, MARY’S _arm around_ HITTIE.
JOHNNY _stands whittling_. GUSSIE _is seated, with open book in
hand, twirling a teetotum_. DEBBIE _stands with sack on, holding
and occasionally swinging her hat by one string_. CAROLINE _sits
with slate and arithmetic before her_. EDITH _is seated with an
open atlas_. FREDERIC _leans back a little in his chair, sharpening
lead-pencils for the others, which he hands them at intervals_.
DORA _is at work on tatting_. ARTHUR _stands, and is winding a
ball, unravelling the yarn from an old stocking_. JOE _sits at work
on the hull of a little boat_. MINNIE _is sitting on a low stool,
with a bunch of flowers, which she is arranging in different ways_.
EVA _is also on a low stool, near_ DORA _and_ CAROLINE. _These
various occupations are introduced to avoid stiffness. They should
not be kept up constantly, but left off and resumed occasionally,
in an easy, careless way. Confused talking and noise heard behind
the curtain. Curtain rises._
MARY (_as if continuing a conversation_). Now, I should rather be a
robin. He sings so pretty a song! Everybody likes to hear a robin
sing. I don’t believe even a boy would shoot a robin.
JOHNNY. Course he wouldn’t!
MINNIE. Robin redbreasts covered up the two little childuns when they
got lost in the woods.
CAROLINE. And they don’t do like other birds,—live here all summer
and have a good time, and then fly off and leave us. They stay by.
GUSSIE. How do you know that?
CAROLINE (_or any one that can sing_). Oh! I’ve heard. They stay in
swamps and barns, waiting for spring. Don’t you remember? (_Sings._)
“The north-wind doth blow, and we shall have snow;
And what will the robin do then, poor thing?
He will sit in the barn, and keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing!”
(_Others join in the song, one or two at a time; and, at the close,
all are singing._)
MARY. Yes: he comes up close to our back-door and eats the crumbs,
and perches on the apple-tree boughs. Mother says it seems as if he
were one of the family.
DEBBIE. Now, I should a great deal rather be a swallow, and fly away.
Then I could fly away down South where the oranges grow, and figs
and sugar-cane, and see all the wonderful sights; and I’d go to the
beautiful sunny islands away over the seas.
JOHNNY. You’d get tired, maybe, and drop down into the water.
JOE. No. He’d light on vessels’ topmasts: that’s the way they do.
DEBBIE. ’Twould be a great deal better than living in a barn all
winter.
DORA. Oh, this morning I saw the prettiest bird I ever saw in all my
life! Oh, if he wasn’t a pretty bird! Father said ’twas a Baltimore
oriole. Part of him was black, and part of him red as fire. Oh, he
was a beauty! If ever I am a bird, I’ll be an oriole!
ARTHUR. Uncle Daniel calls him the fire hangbird.
FREDERIC. That’s because his nest hangs down from the bough like a
bag.
CAROLINE. Don’t you know what that’s for? Where they first came from,
’way down in the torrid zone, they build their nests that way, so the
monkeys and serpents can’t get their eggs.
ARTHUR. I’ve got a hangbird’s egg.
EDITH. Do they have red eggs? (_Boys smile._)
FRED. No: black-and-white. Father calls him the golden-robin.
CAROLINE. I’ll tell you what I’d be,—a mocking-bird. And I’ll tell
you why: because a mocking-bird can sing every tune he hears. It does
vex me so when I hear a pretty tune, and can’t sing it! Sometimes I
remember one line, and then I can’t rest till I get the whole. Mother
says I ought to have been born a mocking-bird.
FRED. Of course, _Caroline_ would want to _carol_.
(_Groans and “O Fred!” by the crowd._)
CAROLINE. Mother says he can whistle to the dog, and chirp like
a chicken, or scream like a hawk, and can imitate any kind of a
sound,—filing, or planing, or any thing.
MARY. And he can sing sweeter than a nightingale.
ARTHUR. I’d be a lark; for he goes up the highest.
FRED. He has a low enough place to start from.
CAROLINE. I know it,—’way down on the ground, ’mongst the grass.
DEBBIE. No matter what a low place he starts from, so long as he gets
up high at last. Don’t you know Lincoln?
JOE. I know what I would be,—some kind of a water-fowl: then I could
go to sea.
JOHNNY. You’d better be a coot.
FRED. Or one of Mother Carey’s chickens.
JOE. No. I’d be that great strong bird, I forget his name, that flies
and flies over the great ocean, and never stops to rest, through
storms and darkness right ahead. _He_ doesn’t have to take in sail,
or cut away the masts. I’d be an albatross!—Guss, what do _you_ think
about it?
GUSS. Well, I think I’ll be an ostrich: then I can run and fly both
together.
ARTHUR. And you wouldn’t be afraid to eat things.
GUSS. That’s so! They swallow down leather, stones, old iron; and
nothing ever hurts them.
DEBBIE. I heard of one swallowing a lady’s parasol.
JOHNNY. But they’d pull out your feathers.
GUSS. No matter! The girls need them for their hats.
JOHNNY. I know what I’d be. I’d be an owl: then I could sit up nights.
HITTIE. You’d be scared of the dark!
JOHNNY. ’Twouldn’t be dark if I were an owl.
MARY. Can’t you play enough daytimes?
JOHNNY. Oh! daytime isn’t good for any thing. They have all the fun
after we’ve gone to bed,—_I_ and Charlie.
FRED. ’Twon’t do for little boys to hear every thing that goes on.
GUSS. You little fellers are apt to make a noise, and disturb us.
HITTIE. Mother says, if I weren’t a chatterbox, I could stay up
later. I’ll choose to be a parrot; for parrots can talk just when
they want to, and have blue wings, and green wings, and red and
yellow, and all colors.
EDITH. I should rather be a canary-bird, ’cause they have sponge-cake
and sugar-lumps every day.
HITTIE. Oh, I wouldn’t be a canary-bird, shut up in a cage!
DORA. I should rather live on dry sticks.
MINNIE. My mamma’s got a canary-bird; and he sings, and he’s yellow.
HITTIE. Parrots are the prettiest.
MARY. Why _doesn’t_ somebody be a flamingo? He is flame-colored.
ARTHUR. I should think some of you girls would want to be a peacock.
DEBBIE. Now, what do you say _girls_ for? Boys think as much of their
new clothes as girls do.
DORA _and_ MARY. Just as much!
FRED. I know who seems like a peacock,—Nannie Minns. I saw her
stepping off the other day just as proud!—about seventeen flounces,
and yellow kids, and yellow boots, and curls and streamers!—first
looking at her dress, and then at her boots, and then at her gloves,
and then at her curls,—this way. (_Imitates Nannie Minns’s walking._)
DEBBIE. Well, if some girls are peacocks, so are some boys hawks. I
saw that great Joshua Lowe come pouncing down among a flock of little
boys yesterday, and do every thing he could think of to ’em, just to
show he could master them.
MARY. And, if you want a crow-fighter, take Andy Barrows: he’s always
picking a quarrel.
DORA. I know it. I’ve heard him. “Come on!” he says,—“come on: I’ll
fight ye!”
CAROLINE. I think, as a general thing, girls behave better than boys.
What do you think about it, little Minnie? You don’t say much.
MINNIE (_looking up from her flowers_). I’d be a humming-bird.
EDITH. She thinks you’re talking about birds.
CAROLINE. And what would you be a humming-bird for?
MINNIE. ’Cause they’re so pretty, and so cunning!
HITTIE. So they are, Minnie.
MINNIE. And they keep with the flowers all the time, and eat honey.
ARTHUR. They eat the little mites of insects as much as they do honey.
EDITH. My brother found a humming-bird’s nest. Oh, the inside of it
was just as soft as wool! and little bits of white eggs, just like
little bits of white beans.
DORA (_looking at_ EVA, _and taking her hand_). Now, here’s a little
girl sitting still all this time, and not saying a word.
CAROLINE. I know it. Isn’t she a dear little girl? (_Stroking her
hair._)
MARY. She ought to be a dove, she’s so gentle and still.
DEBBIE. You dear little pigeon-dove, what bird would you be?
EVA (_looking up_). Sparrow.
MARY. You would? And what would you be a sparrow for?
EVA. ’Cause my mamma said not a sparrow falls to the ground.
(_The girls look at each other._)
DEBBIE (_softly_). Isn’t she cunning?
MARY _and_ DORA (_softly_). I think she’s just as cunning as she can
be.
JOE. Fred hasn’t said what he’d be yet.
FRED. Eagle. He’s the grandest of all. He can fly right in the face
of the sun.
JOHNNY. Eagles can beat every other bird.
JOE. Of course, Fred wouldn’t be any thing short of an eagle.
FRED. No: nor any thing short of the American eagle.
ALL THE BOYS. Three cheers for the American eagle!
ALL TOGETHER. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
(_Curtain falls. Or, if there be no curtain, a boy rushes in to
tell them the organ-man is coming, and they all rush out._)
SHOPPING.—A DIALOGUE FOR THE VERY LITTLE ONES.
CHARACTERS.
CLERK.
ANNIE.
OLD LADY.
CELIA.
MRS. HIGHFLY.
MR. JONES.
SCENE.—_A shop. Tables are placed at one end of the stage to
represent counters. Upon these are displayed toys, confectionery,
boxes, or any thing which will indicate a shop. Advertisements
of patent medicines and of other things might be hung up. White
pebbles may pass for sugar-plums. Sticks whittled out and colored
will do for sticks of candy. A little boy of seven or eight may be
dressed up to represent a smart clerk or storekeeper (with a pen
behind his ear). The other actors should be younger._ CELIA _and_
ANNIE, _two very little girls, enter at one end of the stage_.
CELIA. O Annie! did your mother give you a cent?
ANNIE. Yes. See! (_Holds it out._)
CELIA. Want me to go with you to spend it?
ANNIE. Yes, come. There’s the shop.
CELIA. Will you let me taste?
ANNIE. If you won’t taste very big.
CELIA. I will only take just a little _teenty teenty_ mite. (_They
cross over._)
ANNIE. Here’s the shop.
CLERK. Well, my little girls, what will you have?
CELIA. She wants to spend her cent.
CLERK. That’s right. This is the place.
ANNIE. I want a stick of candy.
CLERK. Red candy?
ANNIE. No, sir. Mamma says white candy is best for little girls.
(CLERK _wraps stick of candy in paper, and takes the cent. Little
girls walk away, hand in hand._ ANNIE _lets_ CELIA _taste_. CELIA
_and_ ANNIE _go out_.)
(_Enter_ MRS. HIGHFLY, _fashionably dressed, with trail, veil,
waterfall, reticule, parasol, &c._)
CLERK (_with polite bow_). Good-morning, Mrs. Highfly.
MRS. HIGHFLY. Have you any canary-seeds? I wish to get some for my
bird.
CLERK. We have all kinds of flower-seeds, ma’am.
MRS. HIGHFLY. Those won’t do. Have you nice prunes?
CLERK. We don’t keep prunes. We have some very nice squashes, ma’am.
(_Takes long-necked squash from behind the counter._)
MRS. HIGHFLY. What do you ask?
CLERK. Six cents a pound.
MRS. HIGHFLY. I’ll take half a one. My family is quite small.
CLERK. Can’t cut it, ma’am. It sells by wholesale.
MRS. HIGHFLY. I’ll try some other store.
[_Exit_ MRS. HIGHFLY _in displeasure_.
(_Enter nice_ OLD LADY, _dressed in black; white cap-frill shows
under her bonnet: she carries a work-bag, and wears spectacles
(without glasses); makes a little courtesy_.)
OLD LADY. Good-morning, sir. I’ve come to town, and I want to buy
some sugar-plums for my grandchildren.
CLERK. Large or small kind?
OLD LADY. Which are the best?
CLERK. Large ones are better for large children, and small for the
small ones.
OLD LADY (_counts her fingers_). Let me see. There’s Sarah Emeline
and Polly and Jemima and John Alexander and Hiram,—five. I’ll take
five cents’ worth, mixed. (_Takes out from her bag five old-fashioned
cents._)
CLERK. Yes’m. (_Attempting to wrap them in paper_, OLD LADY _watching
him_.) ’Twill come to just five cents.
OLD LADY (_opening bag_). Drop them right in here. (CLERK _drops them
in_.)
[_Exit_ OLD LADY.
(_Enter_ MR. JONES _with tall hat, overcoat or dress-coat, cane,
stand-up dicky, &c._)
CLERK. Good-morning, sir. Wish to trade to-day?
MR. JONES. I wish to buy some toys for my children.
CLERK. How old are your children?
MR. JONES. All ages.
CLERK. Would you like a whip, sir? (_Shows one, snapping it._)
MR. JONES. Well, a whip isn’t a very good thing to have in the house.
CLERK. Would you buy a ball? These will every one bounce. (_Shows
various kinds._)
MR. JONES. No, _sir_. I’m about tired of setting glass.
CLERK. These are warranted not to break windows. But here’s a
trumpet. A trumpet is a very pleasing toy. (_Shows one, blowing it._)
MR. JONES (_with a wave of the hand_). Don’t show me any thing that
will make a noise.
CLERK. How would a hoop suit you? (_Showing one._)
MR. JONES. I couldn’t think of spending money for hoops. A
barrel-hoop drives just as well.
CLERK. Have they got marbles?
MR. JONES. Yes, plenty. My Sammy got one in his throat, and came very
near being choked.
CLERK. Try a jumping-jack. (_Holds one up, pulling the string._)
MR. JONES. Oh! they’d soon break the string.
CLERK. How would a knife please them? (_Shows one._)
MR. JONES. Well enough. But they’d be sure to lose it, or cut
themselves. Jemmy’s got six fingers tied up now.
CLERK. Are they supplied with boats? (_Showing one._)
MR. JONES. I never let my children sail boats, for fear of their
being drowned.
CLERK. How is it about a kite?
MR. JONES. Kites are likely to blow away.
CLERK. Perhaps you’d like something useful.
MR. JONES. My children don’t like useful things.
CLERK. Here’s a good hatchet. (_Shows hatchet._)
MR. JONES. They’d hack my fruit-trees.
CLERK. A hammer?
MR. JONES. Nails would be driven in everywhere.
CLERK. Buy a doll for your little girl. (_Shows doll._)
MR. JONES. She has a houseful now.
CLERK. A silver thimble?
MR. JONES. A pewter one does as well to lose.
CLERK. You are a hard customer, sir.
MR. JONES. Not at all. Your wares don’t suit me.
CLERK. We expect a new lot of toys in soon.
MR. JONES (_going_). I’ll call again. Good-morning.
CLERK. Good-day, sir.
[_Exit_ MR. JONES.
NOTE.—If the part of the clerk is too long for one small boy
to remember, another one dressed as the storekeeper, with gray
whiskers and wig (made of curled hair), might come in and take his
place when Mr. Jones enters. In this case the clerk should sit
down and look over his account-books, and appear to write. If the
conversation with Mr. Jones is too long, part of it may be omitted;
and, if the articles mentioned are not at hand, others may be
substituted.
MAY-DAY INDOORS; OR, THE YOTOPSKI FAMILY’S REHEARSAL.
CHARACTERS.
ARTHUR, _William Tell_. NED, _the Tyrant_. TOMMY, _Tell’s Son_.
GEORGE. CAROLINE, LUCY, ANNA, POLLY, KATE. _Girls are dressed in
white, with bright sashes, and have little flags._ GEORGE _has a
larger flag_.
SCENE.—_Room in residence of_ NED, POLLY, _and_ TOMMY.
_Lunch-baskets, &c., on chairs._ POLLY _sits, holding her hat,
shawl, and sack_. TOMMY _is seated on the floor, playing with
marbles_. NED, _a much larger boy, leans over a chair-back_.
NED (_dolefully_). We shall have to give it up, Polly. No May-party
to-day. (_Goes to window._)
POLLY (_earnestly_). Oh! _don’t_ you think the clouds will blow over?
NED. The whole sky will have to blow over. It’s all lead-color.
POLLY (_sighing_). Oh, dear, dear, _dear_!
(_Voices heard outside. Enter, with a rush_, CAROLINE, LUCY, ANNA,
KATE, GEORGE, _and_ ARTHUR, _with baskets, tin pails, &c. The
boys’ hats are trimmed with evergreen, the girls’ with wreaths
and posies. The girls have baskets of flowers._ TOMMY _leaves off
playing with his marbles to watch the new-comers_.)
GEORGE (_throwing down a long coil of evergreen_). Here we come!
LUCY (_almost out of breath, and speaking fast_). Yes, here we come,
pell-mell! It’s going to pour!
CAROLINE (_speaking just as_ LUCY _finishes_). Oh, how we _have_
hurried! I felt a great drop fall on my nose.
ANNA (_speaking just as_ CAROLINE _finishes_). And think of our
dresses!—span-clean white dresses!
KATE (_speaking just as_ ANNA _finishes_). No procession to-day!—no
dancing around the May-pole!
(ARTHUR _throws up his hat, and catches it_. GEORGE _does the
same_.)
LUCY. They got all that evergreen to trim the May-pole; and George
brought his flag.
NED. If it had only been pleasant to-day, I’d have let it rain a week
afterward.
GEORGE (_stepping to the window_). There!—it pours! It’s lucky we
hurried.
POLLY. Now all of you stay here and keep May-day with us (_clapping
hands_). Do, do!
CAROLINE. Will your mother like it?
POLLY. I’ll go ask her. (_Runs out._)
NED. Anyway, you can’t go till it holds up. (_Girls go to the
window._)
ARTHUR. That may not be for a week. (_Enter_ POLLY _in haste_.)
POLLY. She says we may do _any thing_ but make ’lasses-candy.
NED. The last time we made it, father said he found some in his
slipper-toes.
(_Girls take off hats and shawls, which, with baskets, &c., are
placed in a corner. Some take seats with some confusion; others
remain standing._)
ARTHUR. Now what shall we do with ourselves?
NED. Let’s get up an entertainment. Tickets ten cents; grown folks,
double price.
KATE. So _I_ say; and call ourselves a “troupe,” or a “family,” or
something.
GEORGE. Something that has a foreign sound.
ARTHUR. How would “Yotopski” do?
CAROLINE, LUCY, _and_ ANNA. Splendid!
ANNA. Let’s call ourselves “The Yotopski Family.”
LUCY. But what shall we have for our entertainment?
POLLY. I think _tableaux_ are perfectly splendid.
ANNA. Oh, I’ll tell you! Have the kind that winds up.
GEORGE. Why, all entertainments wind up when they are done.
ANNA. I mean, have each one wound up with a key, and then they move.
ARTHUR. She means Mrs. Jarley’s Wax-works.
NED. All right. We’ll have the winding kind.
CAROLINE. What wax-works shall we have?
NED. We might have William Tell shooting the apple, for one.
TOMMY. I’ve seen that! ’Twill take three to do that,—Mr. Tell, and
his son, and the cross tyrant.
GEORGE. And the apple makes four.
ANNA. Who’ll be Mr. Tell?—you, Ned?
NED. No; I’d rather be the cross tyrant: I feel just right for that.
Arthur’ll be Mr. Tell.
ARTHUR. Oh, yes! I’ll be Mr. Tell; and Tommy can be the boy. (TOMMY
_moves toward the door_.) Where are you going, Tommy?
TOMMY (_going out_). After my bow’n’arrow.
LUCY (_bringing an apple from her basket_). Here’s the apple.
CAROLINE. What shall we do for a feather? Mr. Tell’s hat must have a
feather.
KATE. Twist up a piece of newspaper. (_Turns_ ARTHUR’S _hat up at one
side, and fastens it with a twist of paper, left open at the top_.)
There you have it! And Polly’s sack, turned wrong side out, will do
for a tunic.
(ARTHUR _puts on hat and sack. Sack is lined with a bright color, or
with different colors._)
POLLY. He ought to have a wide sash.
LUCY (_taking off hers_). Here, take mine!
POLLY. Not that kind of a sash!
ANNA. Oh, that won’t do!
CAROLINE. It should be a scarf.
NED (_tying sash at the side, around_ ARTHUR’S _waist_). Oh! never
mind, we’re only rehearsing.
LUCY. How must the cross tyrant be dressed? Who knows?
ANNA. The tyrant I saw had a cape hung on one shoulder. A shawl
will do for that. (_Brings shawl, which_ NED _hangs over his left
shoulder_.) Now, what must he wear on his head?
LUCY. I should think a tyrant ought to wear a tall hat.
POLLY (_going_). I’ll get father’s.
ANNA (_to_ POLLY). And something bright to put on it. I remember that
part plainly.
GEORGE (_calling after_ POLLY). And something long, for a sword.
(_Exit_ POLLY.)
CAROLINE. If the boys do that, can’t we girls make ourselves into
wax-works?
ANNA. Let’s be a May-day wax-work, singing and dancing round a
May-pole.
GEORGE. I’ll be the pole.
CAROLINE. But you’re not long enough.
GEORGE (_mounting a chair_). Now I am!
GIRLS (_laughing and clapping_). Oh, yes; oh, yes! He’ll do! Trim him
up; trim him up!
NED (_to_ GEORGE). Yes. Come down and be trimmed up.
(GEORGE _steps down, stands erect, arms close to his body_. GIRLS
_hand garlands_. NED _winds them around_ GEORGE.)
KATE. Shall we hoist the flag?
NED. Oh, yes! bring the flag. And here’s a string (_taking ball
of string out of pocket_) to fasten it on with. (NED _fastens the
flag-stick to_ GEORGE’S _head by winding the string around, then
helps him mount the chair_.) Three cheers for the flag! Now,—One,
two, three! (_All cheer and clap._)
(_Enter_ POLLY _with an old hat and a poker_.)
POLLY. Won’t this hat do? Mother can’t have father’s good one banged
about.
GEORGE. Oh! that’s good enough. We’re only rehearsing. Did you get
something bright?
(NED _puts on hat_.)
POLLY (_taking out yellow bandanna handkerchief_). Mother said this
was quite bright.
ANNA. Why, I meant something shiny, like a clasp, or a buckle.
KATE. No matter: we’re only rehearsing.
(NED _ties handkerchief round the hat, so that the corners hang
down_.)
POLLY (_hands the poker_). Here’s your sword. That’s the longest
thing I could find.
(_All laugh._ NED _seizes poker, and strikes a military attitude.
Enter_ TOMMY _with bow and arrow_.)
TOMMY. Where shall I stand up?
ARTHUR. Come this way (_leads_ TOMMY _to one side the stage_; NED
_follows_). Ned, you must scowl and look fierce. Tommy, fold your
arms, and stand still as a post.
(_Puts apple on_ TOMMY’S _head, and takes aim with bow and arrow_.)
TOMMY. Oh, I’m afraid! Look out for my eyes! The arrow might go off!
ARTHUR. I’ll put the apple in the chair.
(TOMMY _stands motionless_. ARTHUR _aims at apple in the chair_.
NED _stands by with drawn sword; then all three resume their former
position_.)
KATE. Now, we girls must stand around the May-pole (_they gather
around the pole_). Who’ll wind?
THE GIRLS. You, you, you!
POLLY. What a little circle! I wish we had more girls.
KATE. So do I. (_To_ ANNA.) How shall I wind up the wax-works?
ANNA. The ones I saw all stood on a string, and the string led to a
box; and, when the box was wound up, the wax-works began to act their
parts. A door-key will do to wind with.
KATE. We’ll manage in the same way.
(_Lays a long string on the floor, passes it under the feet of the
wax-works, and drops the end of it in a work-box upon the table._)
ARTHUR. Don’t you think you girls ought to be holding your posies,
and your flags, and your flower-baskets, and wearing your wreaths?
They’ll make your wax-work look handsomer.
CAROLINE. So they will.
(_Girls get their posies, little flags, and baskets, take wreaths
from hats, and put them on their heads._)
ANNA. You must take a key, and pretend to wind up the machinery. What
song shall we sing?
LUCY. “The merry month of May” is perfectly splendid.
CAROLINE. I wonder if we know the words. Let’s try. (_They sing a
May-song._)
KATE. That’s a good song. Now then! All ready! Stand in your places
(_gets the door-key_). Arms folded, Tommy! When I’ve done winding up,
Arthur will begin to take aim, Ned will begin to scowl and to hold up
his sword, and you girls will begin to sing and dance around. Can’t
you hold your hands high, so the flowers and flags will show? (_Girls
raise their hands._) That’s prettier. Now all stand just as still
as real wax-works till the machinery is wound up; then begin. We’ll
play, that, when I throw up my handkerchief, the curtain falls. Now!
(KATE _winds the machinery, the actors remaining quiet. When
the winding stops, they begin to perform their parts. When the
dancers have danced twice around the circle_, KATE _throws up her
handkerchief_.)
(CURTAIN FALLS.)
(_If desirable, more singing and dancing can be introduced under
pretence of practising._)
Transcriber’s Notes
pg 185 Changed: the air is so fragant here
to: the air is so fragrant here