his favorite author, because in reading aloud he would have to stop and
explain a joke that to him seemed bare. He put away the book, lighted a
cigar and took up the daily newspaper--but now he missed Maria more than
ever, for usually while he smoked, she billed and cooed and admired him
in the most lavish way imaginable. That didn’t seem to be the product of
any cast-iron system, nor to require any great intellectual effort; but
Mr. Brown liked it, was accustomed to it, and he missed it from among
the home comforts and luxuries by which he was surrounded.[18]
A happy thought struck him, and he prepared to write a letter to his
family. Now that was a sacrifice of self, for if there was anything Mr.
Brown detested it was correspondence of any kind; but as he wrote he
forgot himself and poured out some of his finest feelings in his letter
to his wife and little ones, writing on and on, page after page--until
he was not surprised next day to have to pay a sixteen cent tribute to
Uncle Sam for carrying the precious missive.[18]
The morning found him up early, having received an inspiration about
breakfast, before going to bed. He would cook some rice! The baker’s man
would come with hot rolls, which he had ordered the day before, and with
the strawberries (which he heard the grocer’s boy bringing even now)
coffee, and eggs, he would breakfast like a king. Also, he would bring
Ed Nash home to dinner, and to stay all night, for spend another evening
by himself he would not--if he could help it.
After a careful toilet Mr. Brown began a search for the rice, rightly
judging that it would require longer to cook than coffee or eggs. That
was premeditated intellect. What followed was neither premeditated
nor--strictly speaking--intellect, for when it came to a matter of
judgment regarding quantity, he simply hadn’t any; any judgment, I mean;
the quantity was there--so far as the rice was concerned--and with a
hasty “I’ll be sure to cook enough, so I can have some left for griddle
cakes,” he washed a quart and put it on to boil in a tiny farina kettle,
with just enough water to keep it from sticking, while he looked after
the other things.
Something ailed that rice. That was certain; and as he looked at the
hard, shiny grains after having put the coffee and eggs to boil, in real
systematic shape, he brought his great, massive, masculine intellect to
bear on the rice and its nature. “It needs more water”--and he covered
it, feeling encouraged at the evident effect of mind over matter, and
proceeded to hull the strawberries and give them a liberal powdering
with sugar.
Then Mr. Brown looked at the rice again. Dry and hard as a stone! No
evidence of ever having had a drop of water!! More meditation. The
kettle was full--no room for water--rice must have swollen--get a larger
kettle! Eureka!! And he got the larger kettle, and again flooded the
rice, hoping it would be done by the time he had arranged his breakfast
on the table. It had been cooking half an hour, and he had often heard
Maria say that half an hour of quick boiling was enough--more spoiled
it. To be sure this had not been “quick,” but “the extra length of time
ought to compensate,” he reasoned, and with a very good show of logic.
But the law of compensation didn’t work, and all Mr. Brown’s logic left
him helpless in the presence of that rice, when, after getting
everything else on the table he again looked at it, only to find it as
hard as possible, dry again, and up to the very edge of the second
kettle!
“Well, I can have it for dinner. It will save cooking fresh;” and he
again emptied it into a still larger kettle and sat down to a really
good breakfast of which rice was not a component. Under the exhilarating
influence of the coffee he grew facetious, and sustained all sides in a
family conversation--to keep up a flow of spirits during the
meal--varied by calls to an imaginary Bridget, whom he assured in a very
good imitation of Maria’s blandest tones, “Mr. Brown will bring company
to dinner to-night, so be prompt.”
He read the morning paper, while indulging in his third cup of the
delicious beverage---then decided to put the dishes in the sink,
unwashed, as there were so few soiled and plenty of fresh ones.
“Besides,” he reasoned with masculine forethought, “maybe Ed will help
me wash them to-night”--which no one who knew Ed’s innermost would ever
have suggested, as he had no genius for housekeeping, no intellectual
craving for its drudgery, and a horror of anything about it except its
most fastidious results. However, Mr. Brown did not know this, when he
banked on Ed’s company and help--and when Ed was invited home to dinner
“and to stay all night” he accepted with alacrity and with no thought of
what was in store for him.
Mr. Brown dismissed himself from his office promptly at five this time,
hoping to surprise Ed with a properly-served and really elegant dinner,
having made elaborate preparations by telephone orders for steak,
vegetables and fruit; and he hurried home happy in the consciousness of
having demonstrated “intellectual capacity as a necessary adjunct of
good housekeeping.” As he opened the door, an odor of something burning
offended his somewhat delicate olfactory organs, but he proceeded with
deliberate precision to divest himself of his street garb before
descending to the kitchen, where he saw, oh, horrors! Rice on the range,
on the floor, and everywhere, in great abundance; boiling, burning and
dry, and that large kettle standing there full to the brim of a solid
mass, dry and hard, the fire nearly out, having burned all day without a
damper.
Mr. Brown was somewhat discouraged, but went bravely to work to rescue
the range and floor from another inundation of rice and to clean up what
had overflowed; but long before through the work of restoration the bell
rang. He made no change in his looks before going up stairs, rightly
thinking Ed would size up the joke in good shape and they would enjoy
the whole thing in royal masculine style. He even forgot to drop the
little shovel with which he had been scooping up the rice--his intellect
was too weighty to suggest the use of a broom--so it now and then
dropped a tear of rice on the carpet as he went to the door.
“Glad to see you, old fellow (fumbling at the night latch) at least I
will be as soon as I get this measly door open”, and he fairly beamed at
the prospect of company to dinner.
Mr. Brown’s face and attitude would have been a study for an artist when
the door finally opened--and instead of Ed Nash, he saw an elegantly
dressed young lady whom he did not know, but who smiled brightly, and
said:
“Cousin George, I believe?”
No reply. Mr. Brown might have been petrified, for all the emotion he
betrayed. He was dazed. After waiting two or three seconds the brilliant
creature laughed outright, and asked:
“Didn’t Maria get my telegram? I don’t believe you were expecting me.”
Then he gasped, “Maria is out in the country. I thought it was Ed Nash.”
She laughed again, and that laugh reassured him, and as she said: “My
name is Edna, but I was never before saluted as ‘old fellow’”, he opened
the door wide and said:
“Come in and stay for dinner. I am here alone just now, but Ed is
coming.”
Miss Russell hesitated but for a moment. She was only to be in the city
between trains, and had telegraphed Maria that she would call--but the
messenger had found no one at home and was just too late to find Mr.
Brown at his office. She must get to the 8:30 train and “Cousin” George
must go with her. So she declared, while taking off hat and gloves, at
the hatrack.
Here was a dilemma. Dinner must be hastened; he must leave her in the
library to entertain herself while he again went below stairs to reduce
chaos to a semblance of civilization. Just then the bell rang again.
This time it was Ed, and Mr. Brown received him with visible
embarrassment--but kept him in the hall while explaining the situation
before taking him into the library to present to Miss Russell--who, even
yet, did not know that the house was being run by a one-man-power, else
she would have gone down stairs at once and relegated Mr. Brown to the
office of entertainer while she officiated as Bridget.
It was with an air of humility that our hero finally invited his guests
to a dinner of which the fruit and coffee were by far the best part.
Then they learned of his struggles, and together they laughed and ate,
both gentlemen finally going to the train with Miss Russell, leaving the
dinner table to stand until their return.
Here the writer will draw the veil of obscurity--referring you to Ed
Nash for details as to what happened on their return--and leaves you to
judge of the next six weeks’ doings by the dialogue that was heard the
day following Maria’s return from the country:
“George, what is my garden-fork doing out there in the kitchen? It looks
as if it had been burned. ‘You used it to broil steak on? You couldn’t
use the broiler because the fat all ran down into the fire?’ You should
have used your intellect, my dear.
“And this sticky stuff in the soup tureen; what is it? ‘You thought you
would make a pie or two, but as the flour and water stuck to your
fingers you ate the apples raw?’ A pie-ous plan, I am sure.
“And these dishes; why is all this China piled into these tubs and
barrels? Upon my word, they look dirty. What’s the trouble? ‘Oh, you got
tired of washing dishes, and it made your hands sore?’ You should have
had a little more system, dearest, then it would have been all right.
“And this soiled linen? Why was it not given to the washerwoman, or sent
to the laundry? ‘Oh, you kept using the clean and when that was gone you
bought more?’ That was hardly good domestic economy, but if you have
been buying so long you must have a good supply on hand, darling.
“How about the beds? I see that none of them are made. What! ‘You took
turns, sleeping in each, to save the trouble of making?’ Well, that was
ingenious, even if slightly tinctured with inertia.
“What is all this broken bric-a-brac out in the coal scuttle? ‘You
attempted to dust the what-not and knocked the whole blamed thing
endwise?’ George, your language is positively shocking, and is only
equaled by your want of knowledge of some of the commonest truths in
gravitation. You know that to maintain an equilibrium”--but here Mrs.
Brown’s pretty mouth was closed by George’s larger one, who emerged from
the oscular demonstration with a profession of profound respect for
anyone who can run the household machinery with or without “system” and
by bringing intellectual weight into it or leaving it out entirely.
TABLEAUX.
The tableaux will suggest themselves at the places indicated; and during
the last part of the reading the curtain should remain drawn from
“George, what is my garden fork doing” until he kisses her, while she
points to everything of which she speaks.
--------------
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
-------- PAGE
ABOU BEN ADHEM 51
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE 60
ANSWERING AN ADVERTISEMENT 24
BIRTH OF THE IVY, THE 7
BRIDAL WINE CUP, THE 44
BRIDAL VEIL, THE 27
CALLAGHAN’S FAILURE 13
DEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER 22
DRAFTED 56
EASTER EXERCISE--“King Robert of Sicily” 54
GRANDMA’S MINUET 49
IF 34
JIMMY BROWN’S SISTER’S WEDDING 29
LESSONS IN COOKERY 41
LOOKING BACKWARD 39
MATRIMONIAL PHILOSOPHY 18
MY SISTER’S PHOTOGRAPHS 61
NIGHT WATCH, THE 66
OPENING OF THE PIANO 20
SMALL BOY’S EXPLANATION 38
STRONG COFFEE 31
SYSTEMATIC AND INTELLECTUAL HOUSEKEEPING 75
WASHERWOMAN’S SONG, THE 36
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE PRESTON LIBRARY
OF AMUSEMENTS AND ENTERTAINMENTS.
For the Home, for Schools, Churches, Temperance, Social, Literary and
other organizations desiring something different from that found in
the ordinary book of Recitations, Dialogues, etc.
Each number is complete in itself, and has a distinctive character, the
annual “scheme” taking up programs for special days and special
subjects, and a variety of entertainments, embracing
Illustrated Readings, Pantomimes, Tableaux, Drills, Wax
Works, Illustrated Songs, Acting Proverbs, Charades,
Plays, Dialogues, Readings, Recitations, etc.
----------
The PRESTON LIBRARY
Is Issued Monthly, Ten Numbers a Year.
30 Cents a Number. To Subscribers, $2.00 a Year.
Teachers and Entertainment Committees will be glad to embrace this
opportunity to secure fresh, appropriate and acceptable material for
entertainments; the trouble of searching for declamations, dialogues and
the more difficult programs being avoided by a year’s subscription to
The Preston Library.
Subscriptions should be sent without delay. Address
The Preston Publishing Company,
149 Main Street, CINCINNATI, O.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
=☩ An Entertaining Pedagogical Study! ☩=
BRIGHT! BREEZY!
THOUGHT-PROVOKING!
-------
PRESTON PAPERS.
A recital of actual school-room experiences, in which all the common and
uncommon pedagogical difficulties are met and remedied.
It is a book of new methods, but not of fine-spun theorizing. All of the
important subjects, such as Government, Responsibility, Punishment,
Examinations, Prize-giving, Reports, Museums, etc., are exhaustively
treated, NOT in the stilted way usual with books of its kind, but woven
into the story of a teacher’s experience.
PRESTON PAPERS has been more widely and favorably reviewed than any
other American pedagogical work. It never fails to delight and profit
its readers. Its constantly increasing sale is proof of its excellence.
-------
HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. PRICE, $1.00.
ADDRESS ALL ORDERS TO
=THE PRESTON PUBLISHING COMPANY,=
149 Main Street, CINCINNATI, O.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
Most readings are accompanied by a numbered set of 'tableaux', or stage
directions, which appear at the end of each text, and act as footnotes.
In the first two readings, the final tableau (nos. 10 and 5
respectively), had no corresponding reference in the text. These have
been added at the end of each reading.
Some readings, while there are references in the text, have no
directions in the 'Tableaux' section following them.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.
14.22 so small that Mr. Callaghan[’s] but for his Removed.
natural politeness
14.25 The revolver was pointed in Mr. Callaghan[’s] Added.
direction
27.15 from my head and look on me[.] Added.
38.22 “You just ought ter seen him[,]” Added.
53.21 [(]See> “Directions,” p. 6, for making Added.
foot-lights.)
54.3 by the Author of “Preston Papers.[”] Added.
54.12 (“cue” line.[”]) Removed.
58.6 To[o] fair to be crippled or scarred? Added.
66.13 Without [or ]tears or common-place despair, Removed.
71.11 A gentleman, perchance[’]>, ‘Yes; tell me Added.
quick;
71.12 What can I do for you?[’] Added.
76.25 the light from the s[i/e]tting sun Replaced.