is not a patriot, and there is defiance in her attitude as she calls up
the memory of Robert’s enlisting.
_Fourth Stanza._ Her manner changes as her recollection goes back to
Harry’s babyhood, and she grows tender in the thoughts of her dead
husband.
_Fifth Stanza._ Reflecting on what seems great injustice, her head bowed
on her hand.
_Sixth Stanza._ She turns her face to the officer again, to answer his
arguments, her face first expressing the helplessness she feels, then
doubt.
_Seventh Stanza._ Still addressing the officer she becomes hard in her
despair. At the words “My boy” she turns from the officer, holds out
both arms to Harry, who has just entered from rear and advances to meet
his mother, who embraces him, weeping. Officer retires slowly and
quietly, from rear, wiping his eyes. Harry brings a low stool and sits
upon it, his elbow on his mother’s chair--she caressing him.
_Eighth Stanza._ Harry takes big Bible from table and turns leaves
slowly, until he finds what he wants. Mother leans back in chair, with
closed eyes, one hand on Harry; countenance calm, expressing
resignation.
_Ninth Stanza._ Harry kneels near mother, who, in last two lines, with
clasped hands and uplifted face makes her petition. Curtain falls on
this tableau, after the last word of the poem.
--------------
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.
-------
BY ALICE CARY.
-------
(TABLEAUX ILLUSTRATING THIS POEM, ARRANGED ESPECIALLY FOR THE “PRESTON
LIBRARY.”)
Only the “cue” lines are given for each tableau, the well-known poem
being found in various collections, and space forbidding an entire
reprint.
CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES:--The old man, who is speaking; the artist, who
may be a young man, in sack coat or cardigan jacket, with fez or smoking
cap; the mother in quaint old style dress, hair parted on forehead; two
small boys in roundabout and long pants, such as were worn thirty years
ago.
TABLEAUX.
_First scene_, cue lines:
“O good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?”
Artist’s studio; pictures on walls and easels; bric-a-brac on what-not
or chiffonier; artist paints at easel in center front of platform, side
face to audience; customer enters from left, hat in hand, facing
audience, looking earnestly at artist.
_Second scene_, cue line:
“At last we stood at our mother’s knee.”
Sitting room, rather plainly furnished with old style chairs, sofa,
etc.; mother at left of front center; boys standing at her knee, grouped
with three-quarter faces toward the audience; mother looking very grave;
boy having bird’s nest stands so that nest may be seen.
_Third scene._ Studio again.
--------------
MY SISTER’S PHOTOGRAPHS.
(ADAPTED AND ABRIDGED EXPRESSLY FOR THIS PUBLICATION--WITH TABLEAUX
ARRANGED BY THE AUTHOR OF “PRESTON PAPERS.”)
-------
CHARACTERS:--Geordie, a boy about twelve years old; Miss Watson and
Geordie’s three sisters, all fashionable young ladies; a foppish young
man, a clerk, with an exceedingly long mustache; Peters, red-haired and
freckled; Mr. Courtenay, a lawyer, who carries his head away up in the
air.
-------
To-day I was let set up in a arm-chair, tucked up in a quilt.[1] I soon
got tired o’ that, so I ast Betty to git me a glass o’ ice water to
squench my thirst, an’ when she was gone I cut an’ run, an’ went into
Susan’s room to look at all them photographs of nice young men she’s got
there in her bureau drawer.
The girls was all down in the parlor, ’cos Miss Watson had come to call.
Betty she come a huntin’ of me, but I hid in the closet behind a ole
hoop-skirt. I come out when she went down stairs, an’ had a real good
time. Some o’ them photographs was written on the back like this:
“Conseated fop!”
“Oh, ain’t he sweet?”
“A perfick darling.”
“What a mouth!”
“Portrait of a donkey!”
I kep about two dozen o’ them I knew, to have some fun when I get
well--’n’ then shut the drawer, so’s Sue wouldn’t know they’s took.
I couldn’t bear to go back to that nasty room, I was so tired of it, ’n’
I thot I’d pass my time playin’ I’s a young lady. I found a lot o’
little curls in the buro, wich I stuck on all around my forehead with a
bottle o’ mewsilage. Then I seen some red stuff on a sawser, wich I
rubbed onto my cheeks.[2]
Wen I was all fixed up I slid down the bannisters, plump agin Miss
Watson, wot was a sayin’ good-by to my sisters. Such a hollerin’ as they
made!
Miss Watson she turned me to the light, an’ sez she, as sweet as pie:
“Geordie, where did you get them pretty red cheeks?”
Susan she made a sign, but I didn’t pay no ’tention to it.
“I found some red stuff in Sue’s buro,” sez I--’n’ she smiled kind o’
hateful ’n’ said:
“O-o-o-h!”[3]
Wich my sister says she is a awful gossip, wot’ll tell all over town
that they paint, wich they don’t, ’cause that stuff was just to make red
roses on card-board, wich is all right.
Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.
“Aha, Missy,” sez I to myself, “you don’t guess about them photographs
wot I took out o’ your buro!”
Some folks think little boys’ ears are made o’ purpose to be boxed--my
sisters do. If they knew how it riled me up they’d be more careful.
I laid low--but beware to-morrow.
This morning they let me come down to breakfast.
I’ve got all those pictures in my pockets, you bet your sweet life.
“Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting a
chance to slip out un-be-known.
“Oh, things,” sez I--’n’ she laughed.
I got off down town, an’ had piles o’ fun. I called on every one o’ them
aboriginals of them photographs.
“Hello, Geordie! Well agen?” said the first feller I stopped to see.
Oh, my! when I get big enuff I hope my mustaches won’t be waxed like his
’n! He’s in a store, ’n’ I got him to give me a nice cravat, ’n’ he ast
me, “Was my sisters well?” so I fished out his photograph and gave it to
him.
It was the one that had “Conseated Fop” written on the back. The girls
had drawed his mustaches out twict as long with a pencil, ’n’ made him
smile all acrost his face. He got as red as fire, ’n’ then he scowled at
me.[4]
“Who did that, you little rascal?” “I guess the spirits done it” I said,
as onest as a owl--’n’ then went away real quick ’cause he looked mad.
The next place I come to was a grocery store, where a nuther young man
lived. He had red hair, an’ freckles, but he seemed to think hisself a
beauty. I said:
“Hello, Peters!”
He said: “The same yourself, Master George. Do you like raisins? Help
yourself.”
Boys wot has three pretty sisters allers does get treated well, I
notiss. I took a big handful o’ raisins, ’n’ a few peanuts, ’n’ sot on
the counter eating ’em, till all at onst, as if I jest tho’t of it, I
took out his photograph an’ squinted at it, an sez:
“I do declare it looks like you.”
“Let’s see it,” sez he.
I wouldn’t for a long time, then I gave it to him. The girls had made
freckles all over it. This was the one they wrote on its back: “He ast
me, but I wouldn’t have him.” They’d painted his hair as red as a
rooster’s comb. He got quite pale when he seen it clost.[5]
“It’s a burning shame” sez I, “for them young ladies to make fun o’
their bows.”
“Clear out,” sez Peters.
I grabbed a nuther bunch o’ raisins ’n’ quietly disappeared. I tell you
he was wrathy.
Mister Courtenay he’s a lawyer ’n’ got a offis on the square by the
court-house. I knew him very well, ’cos he comes to our house offen.
He’s a awful queer lookin’ chap, an’ so stuck up you’d think he was
tryin’ to see if the moon was made o’ green cheese, like folks says it
is, the way he keeps his nose up in the air. He’s got a deep, deep
voice--way down in his boots. My heart beat wen I got in there, I was
that frightened; but I was bound to see the fun out, so I ast him:
“Is the ‘What is It’ on exabishun to-day?”
“Wot do you mean?” sez he, a lookin’ down at me.
“Sue said if I would come to your offis I would see wot this is the
picture of,” sez I--given’ him his own photograph inscribed “The
Wonderful What is It.”
It’s awful funny to see their faces wen they look at their own cards.
In about a minute he up with his foot--which I dodged just in time.[6]
Well, sir, I give them cards all back afore dinner time. I expect
there.’ll be a row. I’ve laughed myself almost to fits thinkin’ of the
feller wot I give the “Portrait of a Donkey” to. He looked so
cress-fallen. I do believe he cried.
Wen I got home they wuz teazin’ ma to let ’em give a party next week. I
don’t believe one o’ them young men ’ll come to it; the girls have give
’em dead away. I don’t care, worth a cent. Wot for makes ’em box my ears
’f they want me to be good to ’em?
TABLEAUX.
1. Boy’s room. Geordie in an arm-chair wrapped in a quilt.
2. Girls’ room. Geordie, fixed up as described, stands in center of
foreground--grinning self-consciously.
3. Parlor. Miss Watson and Geordie in foreground, side face to audience;
sisters scattered in rear and at sides.
4. Clothing store; counters, shelves, etc., may be simulated by tables,
boxes and what-nots, on which clothing may be piled. Clerk and Geordie
in front, clerk scowling--Geordie as innocent as it is possible to look.
5. Grocery store. Boxes and barrels standing around, Geordie sitting on
one and just in the act of handing the picture to Peters.
6. Lawyer’s office. Desk and chairs in rear and side of room. Table with
books at opposite side. Lawyer at right and Geordie at left of center,
the former in the act of administering a kick, which Geordie wards off
with his hand.
--------------
THE NIGHT WATCH.
-------
FRANÇOIS COPPÊE.
-------
(ILLUSTRATED BY TABLEAUX ARRANGED EXPRESSLY FOR THE PRESTON LIBRARY BY
THE AUTHOR OF “PRESTON PAPERS.”)
CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES:--Irene in Nun’s dress, with silver cross, and
ring, as suggested in the poem; she should be tall, slight, and pale,
with black hair--which is covered by a white wig for the last tableau;
the wounded officer, in regimentals for first tableau, on a cot after
that (any soldier uniform with gilt lace and epaulettes will do;) the
valet, an old man in servants’ livery; the doctor, in a business suit;
the postman, in uniform, with mail-bag.
-------
Soon as her lover to the war had gone,
Without tears or common-place despair,
Irene de Grandfief, a maiden pure
And noble-minded, reassumed the garb
That at the convent she had worn--black dress
With narrow pelerine--and the small cross
In silver at her breast; her piano closed.
Her jewels put away--all save one ring.
Gift of the Viscount Roger on that eve
In the past spring-time when he had left her,
Bidding farewell, and from Irene’s brow
Culling one silken tress, that he might wear it
In gold medallion close upon his heart.[1]
Without delay or hindrance, in the ranks
He took a private’s place. What that war was
Too well is known.
Impassible, and speaking
Seldom as might be of her absent lover,
Irene daily, at a certain hour,
Watched at her window till the postman came
Down o’er the hill along the public road,
His mail-bag at his back.[2] If he passed by,
Nor any letter left, she turned away
Stifling a long-drawn sigh; and that was all.
Then came the siege of Paris--hideous time!
Spreading through France as gangrene spreads, invasion
Drew near Irene’s chateau. In vain the priest
And the old doctor, in their evening talk,
Grouped with the family around the hearth,
Death for their constant theme before her took.
No sad foreboding could that young heart know.
Roger at Metz was, with his regiment, safe,
At the last date unwounded. He was living;
He must be living; she was sure of that.
Thus by her faith, in faithful love sustained,
Counting her beads, she waited, waited on.
Wakened one morning, with a start, she heard
In the far copses of the park shots fired
In quick succession. ’Twas the enemy!
She would be brave as Roger. So she blushed
At her own momentary fear; then calm
As though the incident a trifle were,
Her toilet made; and, having duly said
Her daily prayer, not leaving out one Ave,
Down to the drawing-room as usual went,
A smile upon her lips.
It had, indeed,
Been a mere skirmish---that, and nothing more.
Thrown out as scouts, a few Bavarian soldiers
Had been abruptly, by our Franc-Tireurs,
Surprised and driven off. They had picked up
Just at that moment, where the fight had been,
A wounded officer--Bavarian was he--
Shot through the neck. And when they brought him in,
That tall young man, all pale, eyes closed, and bleeding,
Stretched on a mattress--without sigh or shudder
Irene had him carefully borne up
Into the room by Roger occupied
When he came wooing there,[3] Then, while they put
The wounded man to bed, she carried out
Herself his vest and cloak all black with blood;
Bade the old valet wear an air less glum,
And stir himself with more alacrity;
And, when the wound was dressed, lent aid,
As of the Sisterhood of Charity,
With her own hands.[4]
Evening came on apace
Bringing the doctor. When he saw the man
A strange expression flitted o’er his face,
As to himself he muttered: “Yes, flushed cheek;
Pulse beating much too high. If possible
I must arrest the fever. This prescription
Very oft succeeds. But some one must take note
Of the oncoming fits; must watch till morn,
And tend him closely.”
“Doctor, I am here.”
“Not you, young lady! Service such as this
One of your valets can”----
“No, doctor, No!
Roger perchance may be a prisoner yonder,--
Hurt, ill. If he such tending should require
As does this officer, I would he had
A German woman for his nurse.”
“So be it,”
Answered the doctor, offering her his hand.
“Give him the potion four times every hour
I will return to judge of its effects
At daylight.”[5] Then he went his way, and left
Irene to her office self-imposed.
Scarcely a minute had she been in charge,
When the Bavarian, to Irene turning,
With eye half-opened looked at her and spoke.
“This doctor,” said he “thought I was asleep,
But I heard every word. I thank you, lady;
I thank you from my very inmost heart--
Less for myself than for her sake, to whom
You would restore me, and who there at home
Awaits me.”
“Hush,” she said, “Sleep if you can
Do not excite yourself. Your life depends
On perfect quiet.”
“No,” he answered, “No!
I must at once unload me of a secret
That weighs upon me. I a promise made,
And I would keep it. Death may be at hand.”[6]
“Speak, then,” Irene said “and ease your soul.”
“The war,---- oh, what an infamy is war!
It was last month, by Metz, ’twas my ill fate
To kill a Frenchman.” She turned pale, and lowered
The lamp-light to conceal it.[7] He continued:
“We were sent forward to surprise a cottage,
Strengthened and held by some of yours. We did
As hunters do when stalking game. The night
Was clouded. Silent, arms in hand, in force,
Along the poplar-bordered path we crept
Up to the French post. I, first, drove my saber
Into the soldiers’ back who sentry stood
Before the door. He fell, nor gave the alarm.
We took the cottage, putting to the sword
Every soul there.”
Irene with her hands
Covered her eyes.
“Disgusted with such carnage,
Loathing such scene, I stepped into the air.
Just then the moon broke through the clouds and showed me
There at my feet a soldier on the ground
Writhing, the rattle in his throat. ’Twas he,
The sentry whom my saber had transpierced.
Touched with compassion sudden and supreme,
I stopped, to offer him a helping hand--
But, with choked voice, ‘It is too late,’ he said,
I must needs die----you are an officer--
A gentleman, perchance’, ‘Yes; tell me quick;
What can I do for you?’ ‘Promise--that you
Will forward this,’ he said, his fingers clutching
A gold medallion hanging at his breast,
Dabbled in blood, ‘to’--then his latest thoughts
Passed with his latest breath. The loved one’s name,
Mistress or bride affianced, was not told
By that poor Frenchman.
Seeing blazoned arms
On the medallion, I took charge of it,
Hoping to trace her at some future day
Among the nobility of France,
To whom reverts the dying soldier’s gift;
Here it is. Take it. But, I pray you, swear
That, if death spares me not, you will fulfill
This pious duty in my place.”
Therewith
He the medallion handed her; and on it
Irene saw the Viscount’s blazoned arms.
Then--her heart agonized with mortal woe--
“I swear it, sir!” she murmured. “Sleep in peace,”
Solaced by having this disclosure made,
The wounded man sank down in sleep. Irene,
Her bosom heaving, and with eyes aflame
Though tearless all, stood rooted by his side.[8]
Yes, he is dead, her lover! Those his arms;
His blazon that, no less renowned than ancient;
The very blood stains his! Nor was his death
Heroic, soldier-like. Struck from behind,
Without or cry or call for comrade’s help,
Roger was murdered. And there, sleeping, lies
The man who murdered him!
Yes; he has boasted
How in the back the traitorous blow was dealt.
And now he sleeps, with drowsiness oppressed,
Roger’s assassin; and ’twas she, Irene,
Who bade him sleep in peace! And then again,
With what cruel mockery, cruel and supreme,
She from this brow must wipe away the sweat!
She by this couch must watch till dawn of day,
As loving mother by a suffering child!
She must at briefest intervals to him
Administer the remedy prescribed,
So that he die not! And the man himself
Counting on this in quiet,--sheltered, housed
Under the roof of hospitality!
And there the flask upon the table stands
Charged with his life. He waits it: Is not this
Beyond imagination horrible?
What! While she feels creeping and growing on her
All that is awful in the one word “hate,”
While in her breast the ominous anger seethes
That nerved, in holy scripture, Jael’s arm
To drive the nail through Sisera’s head! She save
The accursed German! Oh, away! Such point
Forbearance reaches not.
What! While it glitters
There in the corner, the brass-pommeled sword,
Wherewith the murderer struck--and fell desire,
Fierce impulse bids it from the scabbard leap--
Shall she, in deference to vague prejudice,
To some fantastic notion that affects
Human respect and duty, shall she put
Repose and sleep, and antidote and life
Into the horrible hand by which all joy
Is ravished from her?
Never! She will break
The assuaging flask.
But no! ’Twere needless that.
She needs but leave Fate to work out its end.
Fate, to avenge her, seems to be at one
With her resolve. ’Twere but to let him die!
Yes, there the life preserving potion stands;
But for one hour might she not fall asleep?
Then, all in tears, she murmured “Infamy!”
And still the struggle lasted, till the German,
Roused by her deep groans from his wandering dreams,
Moved, ill at ease, and, feverish, begged for drink.
Up toward the antique Christ in ivory,
At the bed’s head suspended on the wall,
Irene raised the martyr’s look sublime;
Then, ashen pale, but ever with her eyes
Turned to the God of Calvary, poured out
The soothing draught, and with a delicate hand
Gave to the wounded man the drink he asked.
And when the doctor in the morning came,
And saw Irene beside the officer,
Tending him still and giving him his drink
With trembling fingers, he was much amazed,
That through the dreary watches of the night
The raven locks, which, at set of sun,
Had crowned her fair young brow, by morning’s dawn
Had changed to snowy white.[9]
TABLEAUX.
Scene only changes from reception room to chamber, and the poem suggests
the characters for each, and the surroundings. _Look out for the details
mentioned in the poem._
--------------
SYSTEMATIC AND INTELLECTUAL HOUSEKEEPING.
(WITH TABLEAUX.)
“What is that, my dear? A trip into the country? Why, certainly. Go and
enjoy yourself. Stay as long as you like. Take the children with you and
give the domestics a holiday. Don’t hurry back on my account. I shall
get along well enough. I guess I haven’t forgotten all my old bachelor
ways and means yet. Besides, I don’t believe in all this fuss and
nonsense about housekeeping being burdensome. It all depends upon the
amount of intellect you bring to bear upon the matter. Of course, women
have no idea of ‘system’ such as a man uses in his business--but I know
that it can be carried into the domestic economy with very good results,
and I shall be glad of a chance to show you the effect of a little brain
power in the kitchen.”[18]
Mrs. Brown was a very indulgent wife who never found it necessary to
proclaim superiority to her liege lord, even in the domestic lines where
he now seemed really anxious to test his ability--besides, she really
wanted a summer in the country for the children’s sake (or the
children’s ache, as it proved later), so she smiled sweetly at his ready
acquiescence to her suggestion and immediately set about preparations
for departure.
She wanted to retain at least one domestic, as a reserved force in case
of emergency; but Mr. Brown scouted the idea, and upon reflection she
decided to let him have his way, knowing that he could exist upon
restaurant fare if worse came to worst, and he was not so successful in
his culinary experiments as he hoped.
So in three days the house was left in solitary possession of its
sanguine head, who had gone to the suburban station with his family, bag
and baggage, at noon.[18]
Being in business for himself, Mr. Brown could not drop his work, as his
clerks did, regardless of importance, when the clock pointed to the hour
of five--and on this particular day he had been in close consultation
with one of his out of town drummers, and in planning the fall campaign
of business the time had sped so rapidly that he was surprised to find
it half past six when the commercial man left him--and as he left the
street car he half wished he had kept the cook for a day or two until he
was fairly initiated, for he was hungry--very--and did not want to wait
to cook a dinner. But thinking: “I’ll broil a steak and make some
coffee,” he walked up the steps and into the house with a tolerably
light heart. Once within, he had to whistle and talk to himself, to
prevent the feeling of utter loneliness that would steal over him in
spite of his weighty intellect.[18]
Mr. Brown was orderly, even in haste, so when he took off his coat he
hung it up with usual care--and put on his slippers before descending to
the dining-room, which he found very dark. He opened the blinds wide,
and as the light from the setting sun flooded the room he took fresh
courage. “Oh, this isn’t half bad, as our English cousins would
say”--and he smiled with gratitude at Maria’s tender thoughtfulness
(which just then struck him as better “pound for pound” than intellect
or system) in having left the table already set, and with bits of her
very choicest China, too.[18]
“She’ll trust me with her hand-painted ware, if she doesn’t
Bridget”--and he smiled again with pardonable pride as he thought of his
own worthiness to be thus exalted beyond a mere drudge, while he
proceeded to the kitchen.
The range was polished to a degree--for Maria was a good housekeeper and
her domestics well trained, even without that mighty “intellect” and
that forceful “system” on which Mr. Brown was at times prone to
expatiate--but it was also dark and cold, and he didn’t want to stop and
kindle a fire. As he turned to the gas stove, thinking he would use
that, he remembered that he hadn’t brought any steak!
There was no help for it, he must go back down town for his dinner, as
he had told Maria to be sure and have the cupboards cleared out, as he
didn’t “want to live on cold victuals” and all the markets near were
closed now. He locked up carefully, got on the next street car that came
along, and went to a club-house that he had patronized in the beautiful
long ago.
Apprehensive of more loneliness on his return home, he went out to a
news stand and purchased a copy of Stockton’s latest story, for evening
company. The house seemed darker than ever when he again entered it, and
the silence was almost oppressive. He could hear his watch tick and his
heart beat--and it seemed as if both said “Alone, alone, alone,” with
provoking iteration, while he groped for a match.
Until then Mr. Brown had not known how much of his happiness depended
upon light--light and sound. How still it was, even after the gas had
made the house brilliant! What would he not have given to hear even one
of Maria’s commonplaces about household matters! How he did wish Ben
were here, his sturdy ten-year old Ben, who was so manly and yet so
boyish!! The girls, of course, ought to be with Maria; but he and Ben
would have been capital chums. Why had he not thought of it?