part of “Babbie” in Barrie’s play “The Little Minister.” The charming
young lady who took the character seemed, as the folks say, “to be born
for it.” “Little Women” a dramatization of Louisa Alcott’s book was also
cleverly acted.
A group of twenty young men and women from fifteen different communities
dramatized “The Grand Prairie Community School Building” project in
five scenes. The first scene told the story of the organization of the
Grand Prairie Farmers’ Club in the old one-room country school, and
the endorsement of the new structure. The second showed the plans and
specifications of the proposed building, by means of an illustrated
lecture given in the old town hall. In the third and fourth parts
the basement with the installation of the lighting system and the
preparation of the lunch in the kitchen for the visitors were portrayed.
The last scene displayed the auditorium and stage in the community
school building complete, together with the dedication ceremonies. The
scenery, properties, curtains, and lighting effects were arranged by
these young men and women. The two hundred people who saw this dramatic
demonstration will never forget the effect it had upon them. It proved
that any community which is farsighted enough can with imagination and
organization erect a similar structure or remodel a village hall so the
people can have a place to express themselves. The essentials are an
assembly room and a stage, that’s all.
[Illustration: SCENE—“Back to the Farm” _By Mereline Shumway_]
Three outdoor spectacles, “The Pastimes of the Ages,” “The Enchantment
of Spring,” and “The Master Builder” revealed the infinite possibilities
of the drama in picturing “tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
sermons in stones, and good in everything.” All of these pageants and
many more aim to teach the people who live in God’s gardens to appreciate
their surroundings. “The Pastimes of the Ages,” as well as the other two
outdoor plays, was presented on a flat prairie, a parade ground about
three or four hundred feet from The Little Country Theater. Over fifteen
thousand people saw the spectacle and twelve hundred people took part
in it. The scene was a most impressive one. At one end of the natural
outdoor amphitheater the silent sphinx and three pyramids rose in all
their Oriental grandeur. At the other stood a temple of glittering gold,
in which the Spirit of Mirth reigned supreme. The play opened with Mirth
running out of the temple singing and dancing. In the distance she saw a
caravan approaching the pyramids. She beckoned them to come forward. The
grand procession followed. On entering the temple the sojourners were
greeted by flower maidens. Mirth then bade the caravan to be seated on
the steps of marble and witness some of “The Pastimes of the Ages.” The
Greek games were played. An Egyptian ballet was danced. Forty maidens
clad in robes of purple with hands stretched heavenward chanted a prayer.
Two hundred uniformed Arabs drilled. The chimes rang. Mirth gestured for
all to rise and sing. The bands _en masse_ struck the notes of that song
immortal, written by Francis Scott Key. The caravan, having seen all the
pastimes in which men and women have indulged in ages gone by, journeyed
back to the place from whence it came. And the story of the most gorgeous
spectacle ever seen, on the Dacotah prairie ended.
“The Enchantment of Spring” was a pageant in two episodes, with its
theme taken from the field of agriculture. The setting was The Temple
of Ceres. The Herald of Spring came to the temple with Neptune the God
of Water, Mother Earth, Growth, Apollo the God of the Sun, Persephone
emblematical of the vegetable world, Demeter the Goddess of Grains, Flora
the Goddess of Flowers, and Pomona the Goddess of Fruits, to announce the
approach of Spring. The trumpeters signaled the coming of the east and
west and north and south winds. They met, they quarreled and Fate drove
the north wind away. The three winds then counseled with Neptune, Apollo,
and Mother Earth, companions of Growth, as to her whereabouts. They
finally discovered Growth at work and bade her to go to the temple. The
welcome and the rejoicing followed. At the entry of Spring, the flowers
awoke. Ceres called to Spring to come to the steps of the temple. The
Crowning of Spring ended the pageant. When it was produced, it opened up
the vision of many people as to the latent possibilities of the drama in
the vocation of agriculture.
[Illustration: FESTIVAL—“The Pastimes of the Ages.” _By Alfred Arnold_.
Parade Grounds, North Dakota Agricultural College, Fargo, North Dakota]
Just recently “The Master Builder” was presented. The scene of the story
was laid in the Great Outdoors. The play centers about a man who builds,
a mechanic called the Master Builder. In his dream a vision comes to
him, a picture of a beautiful temple that he has longed for years to
construct. Around him and about him the dream children dance. They are
the messengers that tell him that the workmen are coming. Before him
in a procession, passes Ahura Mazda and the Sun Worshipers, Vulcanus
and the torch-bearers, Atlas and his men of power, the Great Architect
and his associates, Praxiteles and the stone-cutters, Tubal Cain and
the blacksmiths, Joseph and the carpenters, and Michael Angelo and the
painters. After he consults with the architects and approves the plans,
they sing and rejoice. Nature’s forces—light, power, and fire—combine
to help him realize his dream. Even the flames, often the elements
of destruction, turn their energies into power to help him. Finally,
Praxiteles and the stone-cutters begin the temple, and Joseph and the
carpenters, Tubal Cain and the blacksmiths, Michael Angelo and the
painters complete it. The Anvil Chorus plays, Enlightenment awakens the
Master Builder from his dream, and Achievement shows him that his vision
has been realized. The beautiful temple stands before him.
All three of these spectacles show untold dramas in fields of thought yet
untouched. They were mediums through which the ideals, the traditions,
and the beauties of nature and human nature could be expressed.
The great mass of people in the state love good plays. Just like most
folks, they want something with a homely story mixed with a few bits
of comedy. Ninety out of a hundred persons are usually human, anyway.
“David Harum,” a three-act comedy by Eugene Noyes Westcott, seemed to hit
the right spot with hundreds of the Dacotah folks. Personally, I do not
believe a finer piece of non-professional acting has ever been done in
America than that of the young man who took the part of David Harum. His
phenomenal success in the character is all due to the fact that he lived
the part every time he acted it. Naturally, he had strong support in the
presentation of the play.
One incident in regard to the place of its production I shall never
forget. During the past twenty-five years it has been my good fortune
to see plays and programs presented in village halls, schoolhouses,
churches, homes, country stores, gymnasiums, auditoriums, theaters,
hotels, barns, parks, groves, streets, and other places. But I have never
had the good fortune to see a baseball diamond used for a theater, and
on the Fourth of July, with a play like “David Harum.” It all happened
down at Lisbon. The second baseball game had just finished. It was about
six-thirty in the evening. A frame of two-by-four scantling was erected
and braced like a city billboard. The center of the frame was exactly
nine feet from the home plate. On it fourteen foot green draperies were
hung. A large soiled canvas was laid on the worn ground for the stage.
Three electric bulbs with a few batteries and two good sized automobiles
furnished all the light necessary for the production. The baseball pits,
where the players stay before they are called upon to bat, were used as
dressing rooms. The crowd began to assemble at half past seven, and at
eight o’clock the bleachers were brimful. The overflow crowd was seated
on planks close up to the stage. For two solid hours and on the Fourth
of July, mind you, several hundred people sat, watched, and listened to
David Harum. Not a soul left. The interest manifested by the audience
was tense at all times. It was one of the most unique instances ever
experienced by the writer.
[Illustration: SCENE—Sitting Bull-Custer. _By Aaron McGaffey Beede_]
An Indian drama called, “Sitting Bull-Custer,” written by an Episcopal
priest, now a judge in Sioux County, told the story of the Redman’s
version of the Custer Massacre. It was presented on a Dacotah prairie
at sunset, seven years ago. The scene represented an Indian village on
the Little Big Horn River. It was dawn, June twenty-fifth, eighteen
hundred and seventy six. A thick clump of trees, in which the Indian
characters, Echonka, Gall, Rain-in-the-Face, Old-man, Old-woman,
and Old-Woman-Diviner were hidden, furnished the background. There,
secluded as spies, they anxiously awaited the arrival of Sitting Bull,
believing that he would unfold valuable secrets in regard to the coming
battle. Fool-mink, an Indian story teller and singer, the comedian of
the play, was everywhere present. He sang and he danced. His music
irritated Rain-in-the-Face, because it reminded him of the time Tom
Custer handcuffed him. In several sharp encounters which ensued between
Fool-Mink and Rain-in-the-Face, Gall acted as the peace-maker. Silence
reigned. Sitting Bull arrived. He looked at the dawn wistfully, started
a fire, and sat down beside it. He spoke with rapid tongue. He told the
story of the Redman, the most misunderstood creature on earth. He gave
the reason why his race feared the white man—he wanted to be left alone
and have food to eat. He foretold the battle. Suddenly his body became as
rigid as a statue. Mid pauses, he spoke in a far-away ghostly voice.
“Great Custer speaks. I hear him say,
Brave action crushes calumny.
No lies can crush a glittering fact,
If man, ignoring self, will act.
I’m not a man without a flaw,
What man has not his foibles? Pshaw!
Courtmartial me! For what? To blight
My name! I swear, by yonder light
Of morning, I’ve no serious wrong!
The truth will flame abroad ere long.
Their teeth shall bite the dust to-day,
A soldier’s grave can sing a lay
Of praise, while foibles dare not peep,
And those who twisted foibles sleep
Forgotten. They suppose I shrink
From death as they do. As they think
They judge me. Open your sweet jaws,
Brave death, and swallowing petty flaws,
Make Custer’s rightful honor bright
And clean, as youthful morning light!
To die! To die gives them the shame,
And me, I ask no word of fame,
Save this,—that ere I slept in dust.
He pauses, waves his lifted hand,
He’s beckoning toward the spirit land.”
In this reverie he pictured Custer as the idol of the Redman. The arrival
of the herald from the enemy’s camp awakened him from his stupor. A
council of war was hastily called. It was noon and after. The battle was
on. The smoke rose in every direction. Soldiers and warriors appeared and
disappeared. Echonka was seen. His gun failed to discharge. A bullet laid
him low. Winona, Echonka’s lover, came running, looked at him with an
agonized face, lifted her hands toward heaven, and shrieked. She knelt at
his side and cried as if her heart would break. The fatal day soon ended.
It was after sunset. Sitting Bull in searching among the dead found the
body of Custer. The wailing for the dead could just be heard. He uttered
a soliloquy, covered Custer’s face with a silk handkerchief, lifted his
own face and hands in prayer, and was silent. The play ended.
The effect upon the three thousand persons who witnessed the Indian play
was excellent.
Religious dramas, sometimes in prose and poetry and often in tableau
and pantomime, are given. “The Evergreen Tree,” “The Nazarene in Song
and Story,” and “The Man of Galilee” were especially well presented.
Every year a series of one-act plays is produced for the sole purpose of
training young men and women to be able to stage dramas in the districts
where they expect to live. Programs containing features characteristic of
the activities of a community are frequently given.
A great many original plays have been written and presented to large
crowds. “The Prairie Wolf,” “Bridging the Chasm,” “Every Ship Will Find
a Harbor,” “The New Country Woman,” “The Country Side,” not to mention
dozens of others, are productions which have come out of the country
people themselves. The place was crowded at the presentation of every
one of these plays. Over eighty per cent of the audiences were country
people, who had come to see dramas of their own creation, plays that had
come out of the soil. “The Prairie Wolf” was written by a young man who
was interested in horses and cattle. It pictured in a most vivid manner
the financial troubles of a great many farmers. The central thought
in “Bridging the Chasm” brought out the gap between city and country.
A city girl and a country boy had fallen in love with each other. The
city prejudice against country people made her hesitate before she said
yes. “Every Ship Will Find a Harbor” was worked out by a country lad who
was very fond of machinery and electricity. The action of the play took
place in a country store, in the woods near the Langer farm, and in the
sitting room of a farm home. The play told the story of a lazy country
boy who decided to leave the farm and go west in search of adventure,
and to study about machinery with the aid of a correspondence course. He
didn’t like school. After being in the employ of a western power company
for a few years, he returned home. His arm was broken. While at home he
became interested in the community where he was born. In order to help
his people enjoy life he showed them how to harness nature’s power, so
that the drudgery of the farm might be done by machinery instead of man
power. The crowd which witnessed this play was a very responsive one.
“The New Country Woman,” written by a girl of French descent, brought
out the leadership of woman in improving the social conditions in the
country. There were ten characters in the play. The action took place in
three scenes. The existing rural conditions in the state were splendidly
portrayed in “The Country Side.” It was exceptionally well written, the
thought and the English well nigh perfect.
[Illustration: SCENE—“American Beauties”—A One-Act Play _by A. Seaman_]
Whenever possible, the young people who are competent are broken in as
directors on the original plays as well as on the others. This is done to
give them the experience, so that they can help when called upon in their
communities to assist. It also develops leadership. In other words, The
Little Country Theater is not only a laboratory to try out different
kinds of plays and entertainments for country folks, but also a place to
train country-life workers.
One could go on indefinitely with hundreds of incidents which show the
magnitude of the work of this particular country-life laboratory in the
Northwest.
A BEE IN A DRONE’S HIVE
Just a few years past a young man from near Edmunds, North Dakota, came
to see me. He said he wanted to try a hand at writing a play. When asked
what was the most interesting thing in his life at that particular time,
he told me about two people who had lived on the farm the greater share
of their lives. One wanted to retire and the other to remain. I asked him
how he stood on the subject and he said if he were to make a decision he
would stay on the farm. “Good,” said I, “there’s the theme for your play,
country life versus city life. Lay the scene of the first act in the city
and have the farmer retired, showing that all the advantages of real life
are not found in the city. Place the second act out in the country and
demonstrate the social possibilities of life on the farm.”
Nothing more was said. He left the office. In about three or four weeks
he returned with a copy of a play. It was written in lead pencil on
an old-fashioned yellow tablet. I asked him what the name of the play
was, and he said he had called it “A Bee in a Drone’s Hive.” At first I
objected to the title, but after questioning him found that the reason he
called the play, “A Bee in a Drone’s Hive” was that he thought that a man
who really understood the country should never move to the city; that he
was just as much out of place in the city as a bee was in a drone’s hive.
At first thought, I intended to go over the play with him and correct
it and make a suggestion here and there. Then another idea struck me.
What if this young man were out in the country, would it be possible
for him to have anybody go over a play he had written there? Just about
that time I made a trip east and read the play to several audiences. It
met with a hearty reception wherever read. After a talk with a great
many playwrights, authors, and men of affairs, I came to the inevitable
conclusion that the best thing to do was to bring the play back and let
the author stage it just as he had written it. This was done. Within
several weeks the play was presented in the theater.
A full house greeted the performance. Men and women from all over the
state were present to witness the production. Everybody said it was the
best thing they had ever seen. Rural workers in the audience claimed it
was one of the finest arguments in favor of country life that they had
ever heard. The author took the part of Hiram Johnson, the philosopher.
His make-up was remarkable. He did it himself. After the play several
persons suggested that the thing for him to do was to go away and take
some courses in writing plays. This did not appeal to him, as he loved
the farm and wanted to return to it. What he really found out was that he
could express himself.
To-day he operates nearly four hundred acres of land. He has forty head
of cattle, eight of which are registered short-horns. He is a successful
farmer in every respect. During his spare moments he takes part in home
talent plays. He loves the drama. He is married and has a family.
“A Bee in a Drone’s Hive” is the product from the mind of a farmer who
actually farms and lives on the farm. Following is the play in full form
just as he wrote it and as it was produced.
[Illustration: SCENE—“A Bee in a Drone’s Hive” _By Cecil Baker_]
ACT I.
_Scene_: _Benson’s home in the city. Room lavishly furnished. Ethel at
desk writing, Mr. Benson sitting in easy chair reading, and Mrs. Benson
darning socks._
MRS. BENSON
Ethel, who are you writing to?
ETHEL
Oh, I was just dropping a line to brother Harry. Thought he would be glad
to know how we were getting along in the city by now. You know I promised
him I would write often and let him know how you and father took to city
life. He said you would never like it here after the novelty of it wore
off.
MRS. BENSON
Tell him I would write some, too, only I’m such a poor writer and it
hasn’t been long since I did write. You know people like to get letters
often, so if you write now, and then me after while, he may like it
better. I want to read what you have written when you get through.
ETHEL
Sorry, mother, but I can’t let you read this one—at least all of it. You
know brother and I always did confide in each other. I’ve often thought
how much better we understand each other than most brothers and sisters,
and how much more pleasant it is. I always feel sorry for girls who have
no brothers and for boys who have no sisters.
MR. BENSON
You say you’re writin’ to Harry, Ethel? By jinks, I’d like to know how
he is getting along on the old homestead. S’pose he’s got his grain most
cleaned by now, and just waitin’ till it thaws out so he can get into the
fields. I’d sure like to see that car load of yearlin’s he says he just
bought. Bet that bunch he’s finishin’ for the June market is fine by now;
you know he wrote last spring that they were lookin’ mighty promisin’ and
he takes such pride in them, too.
MRS. BENSON
Harry does think a lot of the stock and that dear little wife he got
takes such an interest in things, too, and she’s so encouraging. Did you
notice the way she pulled him out of the blues once when they were first
married? He always goes to her for advice in everything he does.
MR. BENSON
Yes, and by Jinks, her advice is worth somethin’ too. Harry always says
that’s just the way he looks at it, but thought he’d ask her first. You
know as how I used to always be against those agricultural colleges and
never had much faith in ’em. Well, that pair has completely converted me.
Harry never did like stock till he went away to school. As soon as he got
back he began talkin’ as how we could improve ours, and as how many we
ought to have more for the size of our farm. By jinks, I’ve got to slip
out there fore long and see those cattle.
_Ethel rises with two letters in hand and rings for the butler._
MRS. BENSON
Looks as though you were confiding in someone else, too.
ETHEL
Oh no, just a letter to Mabel.
MR. BENSON
_Rising._
Ethel, if you don’t care I’ll take your letters to the box. I’ve simply
got to get more fresh air. I’ve begun to feel like a house plant what’s
bin sittin’ in the bay window all winter. When the hired man comes, tell
him to fix up the fire.
ETHEL
All right, father. Be sure you put the letters in a mail box and not in
the police telephone box like you did once. (_Exit Mr. Benson._) Mother,
father makes me think of a bee in a drone’s hive; he’s just dying for
something to do and there isn’t a thing around here to do that would
satisfy him. He’s just aching to be out among the stock on the farm. I
really feel sorry for him, but I guess there isn’t any way to better
things; he’s not able to run the farm any longer.
MRS. BENSON
No, he isn’t and I wouldn’t think of movin’ in with Harry and Jennie,
even though they wouldn’t object. It breaks up the home spirit so to
have two families in one home. I’ve never let on to your pa, but I don’t
like the city life half as well as I thought I would, and I really never
thought of what a handicap it would be to you.
ETHEL
Oh, don’t you care about me. I have a good home here as long as you live
and I don’t know of a place where I’m needed as bad as I am right here
looking after you and father. I consider it my calling.
MRS. BENSON
I don’t see how we would get along here without you, but it’s not fair,
and you don’t owe it. I was just thinking the other day about Clarence.
He must be about through college by now. There wasn’t a better fellow
livin’ than Clarence and he seemed to think so much of you. How’s come
you and him don’t write any more? You used to.
ETHEL
Yes, we did write till three years ago, when he failed to answer my
letter and I never wrote again.
MRS. BENSON
Maybe he didn’t get your letter.
ETHEL
I heard through a friend that he did. I thought that if he didn’t want
to write, that was his own business. I suppose he found another girl.
But mother, it’s hard to forget—I didn’t know I did care so much. But—oh
well, it’s too late now. I’m going to stay by you and father, so I should
worry.
(_Walks across room to desk._)
MRS. BENSON
_Speaking to self._
I wish we had never come to the city. Poor girl.
ETHEL
Mother, I’ve something amusing to tell you. What do you think, Mr. Smith,
who called to see me last night, asked me to marry him.
MRS. BENSON
What!
ETHEL
Wouldn’t that make you laugh?
MRS. BENSON
Why, you haven’t known him more than a month and a half, have you?
ETHEL
No, and I’ve only seen him a few times at that.
MRS. BENSON
That beats anything I ever heard of. Is the fellow in his right mind?
ETHEL
Oh, I guess he’s sane enough—but he’s so used to having his money get
what he wants, that I suppose he thought it would buy me, too.
MRS. BENSON
How much money has he got?
ETHEL
I don’t know, but from the way he talks he must have quite a bit.
MRS. BENSON
Well, he had better trade some of it for a little common sense.
ETHEL
By the way, mother, is this Thursday or Friday? You know we’ve invited
the Asterbilts for dinner Friday, and you know—
MRS. BENSON
_Interrupting._
That’s what’s the matter, and this is Friday and it’s six-thirty now.
They ought to have been here three-quarters of an hour ago—mighty good
thing they’re late.
ETHEL
I wonder if the maid has forgotten, too.
MRS. BENSON
My goodness, what if she has forgotten! You be straightening the
room—I’ll go and see her.