SCENE I.—_MRS. ATHERTON’S drawing-room. BLANCHE, L., and her

SEEKING HIS FORTUNE,

AND

OTHER DIALOGUES.

BY

HORATIO ALGER, JR.,

AND

O. AUGUSTA CHENEY.

LORING, Publisher,

COR. WASHINGTON AND BROMFIELD STREETS,

BOSTON.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by

A. K. LORING,

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

To

MY FATHER AND MOTHER,

This Volume

IS DEDICATED, BY THEIR AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER,

O. AUGUSTA CHENEY.

PREFACE.

Nearly all the dialogues in the present collection were originally

contributed to a juvenile magazine in New York. Many of them have been

used at exhibitions in different parts of the country, and met with a

degree of favor which has led to their publication in this more permanent

form. While intended for representation, it is hoped that readers may

find them a source of entertainment.

It is proper to add that only the first dialogue belongs to me. The

remainder are written by my sister, whose name appears with mine on the

title-page. So far as these are concerned, my part has been merely that

of an editor.

HORATIO ALGER, JR.

NEW YORK, May 1, 1875.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

SEEKING HIS FORTUNE 11

ONE WEEK AN EDITOR 27

KEEPING GENTEEL BOARDERS 37

MRS. SKINFLINT’S BARGAINS 57

MRS. GRUNDY’S TYRANNY 67

AUNT HANNAH’S VALENTINE 79

MR. BLISS’ VISION 95

HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS 105

BOARDING ON A FARM 115

TAMING A WIFE 127

JOHN SMITH’S TRIALS 139

AUNT RACHEL’S FRIGHT 149

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC CURED 161

AUNT PATIENCE’S EAR-TRUMPET 169

THE GHOSTLY VISITATION 183

PRACTICAL HUSBANDRY 193

MR. SMITH’S DAY AT HOME 207

THE COUNTRY COUSIN 217

TAKING POISON 231

DEACON ROBINSON’S PRESENT 237

MRS. MARDEN’S LESSON 249

THE MAGIC MIRROR 257

SEEKING HIS FORTUNE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DEA. ELNATHAN PETERS, a Farmer.

MRS. ALMIRA PETERS, his Wife.

JONATHAN PETERS, his Son.

THOMAS HAMPTON, a Commission Merchant.

SAMUEL JENKINS, his Clerk.

SCENE I.—_An old-fashioned kitchen. MRS. P. is paring apples,

R. DEA. P. nodding over a newspaper, L. JONATHAN, a tall,

countrified-looking specimen, sits moodily, C., with chair

tipped back, and his hands in his pockets._

JONATHAN. Well, marm, I’ve made up my mind I shan’t stay in Beanville any

longer.

MRS. PETERS. Why, Jonathan, how you dew talk! What’s got into you?

J. I’ve got tired of Beanville, marm, that’s what’s the matter. I aint

goin’ to stay here all my life, raisin’ cabbages, and hoin’ taters. I’m

fit for somethin’ better.

DEA. PETERS (_rousing from his nap_). What’s the boy talkin’ about,

mother?

J. I might as well tell you fust as last, dad. I’m goin’ to Bostown.

MRS. P. Massy sakes! Bostown’s a hundred miles off. What you goin’ there

for?

J. To make my fortin.

DEA. P. ’Taint so easy as you think for, Jonathan. You’d a plaguy sight

better stay round here and help me.

J. I can’t do nothin’ here, dad. I have to work till I get all tuckered

out, just to make a livin’ and can’t never wear anything better than

overalls. Now, if I was in the city, I could wear store clothes all the

time, like that are fellow that boarded up to the tavern last summer.

MRS. P. I’m afraid, Jonathan, you’re gettin’ proud. You aint no call to

be ashamed of wearin’ overalls. They’re what me and your father always

wear.

DEA. P. (_slily_). Yes, mother, you _do_ wear the breeches sometimes.

MRS. P. (_in a deprecating tone_). Now, father, you’d orter be ashamed.

You know I didn’t mean that. (_To_ JONATHAN.) I mean, Jonathan, your

father and me aint ashamed of wearin’ workin’ clothes. I’m afraid you’re

gettin’ proud, and pride’s a deadly sin.

J. Can’t help it, marm. When that feller passed me in the field last

summer, he turned up his nose at me, and I aint goin’ to stand it. I’m as

good as he is, any day.

MRS. P. So you be, Jonathan.

J. And I want, to dress as well. So I’ve made up my mind to go to

Bostown, and go into business there.

DEA. P. What sort of business?

J. As to that, I aint partic’lar. Anything that I can make money by.

DEA. P. Perhaps you’ll lose it. They’re pooty sharp in Bostown, I’ve

heard tell. Most likely you’d get cheated out of all you’ve got.

MRS. P. Yes, Jonathan, listen to what your dad says; he’s had more

experience than you hev.

J. He don’t Know much about Bostown, anyway.

DEA. P. (_complacently_). Yes, Jonathan, I know a good deal about the

city. I’ve been there three times. Fust time was just after me and your

mother was married.

MRS. P. Thirty-one years ago.

DEA. P. Yes, Almiry, thirty-one year. Then again, I went down to sell a

yoke of oxen for Squire Peabody.

J. That time you had your pocket picked, and had to borrow money to git

home.

DEA. P. (_coughing_). Ahem! yes, I believe it was that time. Then again,

I went seven year ago, and stayed to the Mechanics’ Fair. That are was a

great sight.

J. Well, dad, I haint never been at all, and I’m goin’,—that’s all.

MRS. P. You aint nothin’ but a boy, Jonathan.

J. Aint I, though? I’m twenty-one year old, and taller’n father, and I

weighed myself down to the store, yesterday, and weighed a hundred and

eighty. I should think I was old enough and big enough to be trusted away

from home.

MRS. P. The city is a wicked place, Jonathan. Who knows but you’d get to

drinkin’ and swearin’?

J. There aint no danger of that, marm. I tasted some whiskey, the other

day, down to Hiram Johnson’s, and it most turned my stummik. I shan’t

drink anything stronger’n cider.

DEA. P. That’s right, my son. Cider’s good, for we know what it’s made

of. Apples are healthy, and when a body’s tired, a mug of cider goes to

the right spot.

MRS. P. (_doubtfully_). Yes, father, but you know Sam Wilson got drunk

on cider one town meetin’ day, and smashed forty panes of glass in the

meetin’-house.

DEA. P. Wal, wal, he drank more’n was good for him. But, Jonathan, to

come back to your plans, have you thought what you shall do when you get

to the city?

J. Why, dad, I calc’late there must be plenty of work to be did. I reckon

I should like to tend in a store.

DEA. P. Lazy business, Jonathan.

J. That’s what I like it for, dad. I’ve had hard work enough, and I want

to take it easy awhile. Maybe I shall go into business on my own hook, if

I get a good chance. There aint no reason why I shouldn’t get rich as

well as other folks.

MRS. P. (_hastily_). I hope, Jonathan, you aint goin’ to take that two

hundred and fifty dollars out of the Savings Bank, that yer Aunt Betsey

give you in her will.

J. Of course I be. How can a feller go into business without capital?

MRS. P. (_solemnly_). You’ll lose every red cent of it, take my word for

it.

J. And earn five times as much more, marm; I guess I know how to make

money as well as other folks.

MRS. P. Deacon, do say somethin’ to git him off this foolish plan. He’ll

fail, sartain, an’ it’ll make his aunt rise from her grave, if he loses

all the money that she earned by knittin’ an’ dryin’ apples.

DEA. P. (_reflectively_). I don’t know, Almiry, but the boy might as well

try his luck, seein’ he’s sot on it. Perhaps he may do well, arter all.

J. (_delightedly_). That’s the talk, dad.

MRS. P. Well, I dunno. It seems to me mighty resky. However, if he must

go, he’ll have to wait till I’ve knit him some winter stockings. He’s

most out.

J. I kin buy some in Bostown, marm. They’ve got plenty there.

MRS. P. (_contemptuously_). And what are they worth I should like to

know? Boughten stockin’s won’t stand any wear at all. Then, there’s your

shirts; you aint got but three.

J. Well, there’s enuff; I kin wear one a week, an’ three’s enough to

shift with.

DEA. P. You’ll have to be more partic’lar in the city. I’ve heard that

some folks in the city wear as many as three clean shirts in a week.

MRS. P. They must be awful dirty to need changin’ so often. But I guess,

Jonathan, you’d better have one more made.

J. Well, you kin send the shirt and the stockin’s to me by express. I’ve

made up my mind to go next week.

MRS. P. An’ what’ll Mary Jane Parker say to that?

J. I don’t care.

MRS. P. I thought you were sweet on her only a little while ago.

J. Wal, she aint anything but a country gal. Maybe I shall find a

good-lookin’ city gal that’s got the tin.

MRS. P. O Jonathan, I’m afeard you’re gittin’ vain. “Vanity of vanity!

All is vanity!” says the Scripters. Mary Jane would make you a real

capable wife. She can make butter an’ cheese equal to any gal in

Beanville, an’ she made fifteen dollars, last summer, sellin’ eggs.

J. (_contemptuously_). What’s fifteen dollars?

MRS. P. The time may come when you’ll be glad to git fifteen dollars.

J. Now, marm, don’t go to discouragin’ a feller; I’m bound to be rich,

and when I’ve made money enuff, I’m going to buy you a silk gownd.

MRS. P. Thank you, Jonathan; I allus thought I should like a new silk

gownd. I aint had a new one for twenty year.

J. Well, marm, you shall have it jist as soon as I’ve made my pile.

MRS. P. Pile of what, for the land’s sake?

J. Made my fortin, I mean. And I’ll buy father a new Sunday go-to-meeting

coat.

DEA. P. I guess you’ll want your money for other things, Jonathan. Don’t

count your chickens before they’re hatched.

J. Can I have the horse to-morrow, dad?

DEA. P. What for?

J. I’m goin’ over to the bank to get my money.

DEA. P. Yes, I reckon so.

MRS. P. You’d better go with him, father. He might git robbed on the way

home. I shan’t feel safe with such a lot of money in the house.

J. Well, ’twon’t be in the house long.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_JONATHAN, in a blue suit with brass buttons, stands

R. C., waiting for the stage. Beside him is a blue chest

containing his worldly effects. DEACON and MRS. PETERS stand

near the door, R._

J. (_looking toward L._). I hear the stage, marm.

MRS. P. Yes, it’s just comin’ over the hill. Hadn’t you better change

your mind, Jonathan, and stay to hum, arter all?

J. Not by a jug-full. No, marm, the dice is cast, and I’m bound to be

somebody. No more diggin’ taters for me.

DEA. P. Well, Jonathan, I wish you all success, but I kinder have my

misgivin’s.

MRS. P. Is the money safe, Jonathan?

J. Yes, marm, I’ve got it in my trowsers’ pocket.

MRS. P. Hadn’t you better leave part of it to hum? You might have your

pockets picked, you know.

J. They won’t catch this child so easy. Don’t you be alarmed.

MRS. P. I declare I’ve forgotten them doughnuts.

DEA. P. (_looking toward L._). Stage is just at the corner.

MRS. P. They’ll wait a minute.

J. (_starting towards L._). Can’t wait, marm. I’ll buy some dinner at the

tavern.

MRS. P. It’ll be wastin’ your money.

DEA. P. Never mind.

J. (_going slowly toward L._). Good-by.

DEA. P. AND MRS. P. Good-by. Be sure and write.

J. I’ll write just as soon as I get to the city.

(_Exit L._)

MRS. P. (_with her apron to her eyes_). It’s an awful resk, Deacon,

Jonathan’s going away from home.

DEA. P. Cheer up, mother. He’s a man grown. He may make a fortune, after

all.

(_Exeunt, R._)

(_JONATHAN returns L. for his chest._)

J. (_solus_). Good-by to Beanville. When I come back, I’ll make the folks

stare. Mary Jane’ll have to look up another feller. I’m goin’ to look

higher.

(_Exit L._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_A small room in the fifth story of a Boston hotel.

JONATHAN, C., sits poring over the advertising columns of the

Boston Herald._

J. I had no idee there was so many houses in the world. Bostown’s a

big place, to be sure. But I don’t see where they pastur’ all their

cows. I didn’t see none in that big lot in front of the State House.

I guess folks must have a power of money to live in such fine houses.

The State House must have cost twice as much as our meetin’-house, and

p’r’aps more. Anyway I’m bound to see if I can’t make my fortin here.

The landlord told me I might find a chance for business in this paper.

I guess I’ll look over it, and see what I can find. (_Reads the paper

intently for a few minutes._) Why, here’s the very thing! Let me spell it

out again. (_Reads aloud._)

“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS A YEAR! Wanted, a young man with a small capital,

to engage in a lucrative business, which is sure to pay him at least two

thousand dollars a year. Call at once on Samuel Jenkins, 15 S—— street.”

J. (_jumping to his feet in excitement_). Where’s my hat? I say that’s an

all-fired good chance! Two thousand dollars a year! Why, it takes away my

breath, thinkin’ of it. Here I’ve been workin’ for dad for ten dollars

a month, and that aint but a hundred and twenty dollars a year. Our

minister don’t get but three hundred dollars and his house-rent. Guess

he’ll hev to look up to me ef I git this chance. I must go right off, or

some other feller’ll be ahead of me.

(_Puts on hat, and exit L. Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_A small office. SAMUEL JENKINS sits R., in a

lounging attitude, smoking a cigar. A knock is heard L. He

jumps up hastily, and admits JONATHAN._

J. (_bashfully_). Be you Mr. Jenkins?

SAM. (_bowing_). I am, at your service.

J. I seen the advertisement what you writ in the papers, about wanting a

partner,—

S. J. With a small capital?

J. Yes, with a small capital, and I thought I’d call and see if you’d

take me.

S. J. (_aside_). The fellow’s just from the country. I must impress him a

little. I wonder how much money he’s got. (_Aloud._) Well, as to that, I

can’t say, positively. I must ask you a few questions. Have you lived in

the city long?

J. Wal, no, I live to Beanville, when I’m ter hum.

S. J. (_reflectively_). Beanville! I don’t think I ever heard of the

place.

J. Sho! I thought everybody’d heard of Beanville.

S. J. Then I suppose you have never been in business.

J. (_hesitatingly_). Wall, no, not exactly; but I tended in our store two

days when the other feller was gone.

S. J. That is nothing;—but perhaps you could learn.

J. (_eagerly_). Oh, yes, I kin learn pooty quick, ef you’ll only try me.

S. J. Then about the capital. How much money have you got?

J. I hed two hundred and fifty dollars when I left hum, but I guess

I’ll have to leave some to pay my board. I kin invest two hundred and

twenty-five dollars.

S. J. (_aside_). That isn’t as much as I hoped, but I’m dead broke, and

that’ll do to till I take in another flat.

J. (_anxiously_). Will that do?

S. J. Why, it isn’t as much as I expected; considering the large income

which you will receive, it is very small.

J. I will come for less than two thousand, if you’ll only take me.

S. J. No, I will pay what I guaranteed. I suppose you have references.

J. I’ll write to our minister to send me a character.

S. J. Never mind. I have a knack at reading faces, and I can tell by

yours that you are honest and industrious.

J. (_gratified_). Then you will take me?

S. J. Have you got the money with you?

J. Yes; shall I pay it now?

S. J. You might as well, and the partnership shall begin at once.

J. (_drawing out his pocket-book, and counting out some bills_). Two

hundred, two hundred and ten, two hundred and twenty-five. I guess you’ll

find it right.

S. J. (_looking over the bills carelessly_). Yes, quite correct. Stay, I

will give you a receipt. What is your name? (_Writes._)

J. Jonathan Peters.

S. J. (_passes him receipt_). Mine is Jenkins. Success to the firm of

Jenkins and Peters. I’ll see about a sign.

J. (_surprised_). Do you do it here? I don’t see nothin’ to sell.

S. J. Oh, it’s a commission business. I’ll attend to that, and you’ll do

the writing. I suppose you can write a good hand.

J. Oh, yes, I’ve been to writin’ school two winters. I can’t write very

fast.

S. J. Never mind, you’ll learn. Practice makes perfect. I think I’ll have

you begin to-day. Do you see that book? (_Points to an old ledger on the

desk._)

J. Yes.

S. J. Well, there’s a blank book. I want you to copy out of the ledger

into the book, beginning at the first page.

J. All right. I kin do it.

S. J. Be very particular not to make any mistakes.

J. I’ll do my best.

S. J. (_taking his hat_). I’ve got to go round to the bank to deposit

this money, and will be right back. See how much you can copy while I am

gone.

J. Yes, I’ll work faithful.

(_Exit S. J., L._)

J. (_solus_). Well, aint that a streak of luck! Here I am, just come to

the city, and earnin’ a salary of two thousand dollars a year. Won’t it

make dad stare? I guess marm’ll be glad I come now. Wonder what Mary

Jane’ll say? She’ll be mighty sorry I’ve gone and left her. But she aint

fit for the wife of a merchant like me! I must write to dad to-night. I

would now, only my time belongs to the firm. Two thousand dollars a year!

Why, that’s six dollars a day, and more, almost as much a day as I used

to git in a month. Guess I’ll buy a watch after I git my first month’s

pay. Holloa, what’s that?

(_Enter THOMAS HEMPTON, R._)

H. (_looking at JONATHAN with surprise_). What are you doing here?

J. (_with dignity_). Tendin’ to business.

H. And how do you happen to be attending to business in my office?

J. Look here, mister, I guess you have made a little mistake. This aint

your office. It’s mine and Jenkins’.

H. (_sarcastically_). Indeed! And I suppose that is your ledger that you

have before you?

J. Of course it is.

H. Well, you’re a mighty cool customer, though you look rather green than

otherwise. Perhaps you can tell me who this Jenkins is.

J. He’s the boss of this concern. That is, him and me are the two bosses.

H. Well, you’re about right there. You look more like bossies than

anything else. If you ever lived in the country, as I should judge from

your appearance you had, you will know what that means.

J. (_advancing in a threatening manner, and brandishing a ruler_). I say,

stranger, quit that. None of your sarse, or I’ll break yer head.

H. (_with dignity_). Enough of this, young man. Put down that ruler. Now,

tell me, have you given this man, Jenkins, any money?

J. Yes; two hundred and twenty-five dollars, and he’s took me into

partnership.

H. When did you see him last?

J. He went out an hour ago.

H. You’ll never see him, I’m afraid, or your money either.

J. (_terrified_). What’s that, stranger?

H. In short, he’s swindled you. Jenkins is not his real name. He is a

clerk of mine, of whom, for some time, I have had suspicions. He took

advantage of a three days’ absence of mine in New York, to put an

advertisement in the paper, which has taken you in. He’s got your money,

and that will be the last we shall see of him, unless the police pick him

up.

J. (_crying_). He’s carried off all my money. Boo! hoo! and I aint

earnin’ two thousand dollars a year after all. Aunt Betsey’s money gone.

Boo! hoo! What’ll marm say?

H. I’m afraid your money’s gone past recovery, but if you want to stay

in the city, there’s a friend of mine wants a good, strong fellow in a

grocery store. He will give you two dollars a day.

J. (_drying his tears_). Well, that’s pooty good. It’s a good deal more’n

I kin make in the country. I’ll take it. (_Enter boy, R., with a note._)

H. (_opening it hastily_). Young man, here is good news. The police,

having some suspicions of Jenkins, arrested him as he was on the point

of leaving the city for New York, and he is now in custody. You will

probably recover your money.

J. (_executing a double shuffle in his delight_). O crackey! my money

safe. Now I shan’t be ashamed to write home. You won’t forget about that

grocery place?

H. No, I will see my friend to-day, and I have no doubt he will take you.

By the way, where are you boarding?

J. At the Blank House.

H. The board is pretty high there.

J. My room is high, anyway, in the fifth story but they charge me only

three dollars a week.

H. Three dollars a day, you should say.

J. By gracious, you don’t mean it!

H. Certainly; some of the hotels charge four and five.

J. How do they expect a feller can eat three dollars’ worth of victuals

in a day?

H. You’d better leave there at once. I’ll give you the address of a place

where you can get boarded for six dollars a week, while you’ll be earning

twelve.

J. We kin git board up to Beanville for two dollars a week.

H. Beanville and Boston are two different places, and differ greatly in

some important respects. If you will wait here a few moments, I’ll go out

and speak to my friend about this place that you want.

(_Exit R._)

J. (_solus_). Well, I wouldn’t ’a’ thought that Jenkins was such a tricky

feller. I’d like to jist git hold of him once, and ef I wouldn’t give him

a kick that would land him in the middle of next week, it’s because I’d

lost the use of my foot, that’s all.

(_Curtain falls._)

ONE WEEK AN EDITOR.

CHARACTERS.

FERNANDO CLAPP, Editor pro tem.

EPHRAIM SIMPSON, a Country Farmer.

DR. JOHN JENKINS, Vender of Salve.

EUGENE SNOW, Printer’s “Devil.”

ARAMINTA ELLIS, a Sentimental Young Lady.

GEO. CRANE, a Mechanic.

DR. WM. RANDALL, Proprietor of Anti-Dyspepsia Pills.

HENRY PERKINS, a Fierce-looking Individual.

SCENE I.—_A country printing office. EDITOR pro tem. sitting R.

before a table C. covered with MSS. Piles of newspapers upon

the floor on either side of him. A pair of scissors in one hand

and a pen in the other. Enter EPHRAIM SIMPSON, L._

EPHRAIM SIMPSON. Is this the office of the “Petersville Post”?

EDITOR (_with some curiosity_). It is.

E. You are the editor, I reckon?

ED. You are right.

E. Well, you see my name is Ephraim Simpson, and I live over to

Greenfield. I’ve been workin’ this summer hayin’, but I found it was too

hard work, and I reckoned I’d come to you and see if you couldn’t give me

a chance to edit a little.

ED. Why, you know it is quite a difficult thing to learn to edit a paper.

It requires education, judgment, and a variety of other qualifications.

E. Oh, as to that, I guess I can satisfy you. I have tended school in our

deestrict for four winters, and can read, write and cipher like a book.

ED. That is all very well, but you know one must be able to compose as

well as write.

E. Oh, compositions you mean. Well, I have written them some. Don’t you

want me to try my hand and show you what I kin do?

ED. I am not in particular need of an assistant just now, but perhaps

you might as well sit down and try your hand at writing an editorial.

(_EPHRAIM sits down, R._)

(_Enter, L., a rusty-looking individual, with a tin trunk under his arm._)

JOHN JENKINS. Are you the editor of the “Post”?

ED. I am.

J. J. Then, sir, allow me to present you with a box of my famous salve

(_hands box to him_).

ED. Thank you.

J. J. Perhaps you’d be willing to insert this little paragraph about it.

I wrote it off to save you trouble (_hands paper to editor_).

ED. (_reading aloud_). We have received from Dr. Jenkins a box of his

Magnetic Salve, which is warranted to cure every description of cut

or bruise in an incredibly short space of time. We know a boy who

accidentally cut off one of his fingers. His mother being absent, he

bethought himself of Dr. Jenkins’s salve, which she had bought the day

previous. He applied it to the injured finger, and before night there was

not even a scar to indicate where the wound had been.

ED. (_looking up_). You want me to insert this?

J. J. (_in an insinuating tone_). Yes, sir.

ED. But I don’t know the boy referred to.

J. J. My dear sir, aint you rather new in the business?

ED. (_indignantly_). Well, and what if I am?

J. J. (_smiling sarcastically_). I thought you were, or you’d understand

that this is the way they always do things.

ED. We are a little more conscientious than editors generally. However,

you assure me that the salve is good?

J. J. (_warmly_). Nothing better in the whole world, sir.

ED. And you think it would be safe to speak well of it?

J. J. Sir, you will be conferring a blessing on the community.

ED. Very well, I will write a little puff for you.

J. J. Thank you, sir.

(_Exit, L._)

PRINTER’S DEVIL (_entering, R._). More copy, sir.

ED. Here it is (_handing him a paper_).

(_Exit P. D._)

(_A knock is heard at the door, L._)

ED. Come in.

(_Enter young lady, L._)

YOUNG LADY. Please, sir, I am Araminta Ellis, the authoress of “Lines on

a Faded Buttercup.”

ED. I am delighted to see you, Miss Ellis. Did the—the poem you speak of

appear in the “Post”?

A. E. (_surprised at his ignorance_). No, sir, it was contributed to the

“Weekly Bulletin.” I have never written anything for the “Post,” but

should be willing to do so. What are your terms?

ED. (_blandly_). Three dollars a year.

A. E. I do not mean the subscription price of the paper, but how much do

you pay your poetical contributors?

ED. We—ahem—that is, our friends are kind enough to make us a free gift

of their productions in that line.

A. E. (_insinuatingly_). But don’t you pay for superior poetry? I have

here a poem which I would like to see transferred to your columns

(_passes manuscript to him_).

ED. (_taking the poem_). Seventy-seven stanzas! That would be too long

for our columns. Couldn’t you shorten it?

A. E. Not without marring its symmetrical proportions. But I will write

another and a shorter one soon, which will perhaps suit you better.

ED. Thank you, Miss Ellis. That will undoubtedly be better suited to our

columns.

(_Exit A. E., L._)

(_Enter, L., GEORGE CRANE excitedly._)

GEORGE CRANE. Sir, don’t you regard it as a part of an editor’s duty to

unmask villany and expose it to the world?

ED. Certainly, sir.

G. C. Then I should like to furnish you with some information respecting

a neighbor of mine, named Henry Perkins. He is a hypocrite, sir! He

professes a good deal, but secretly practises petty acts of meanness.

I have every reason to believe that he beats his wife; and he has been

suspected of robbing his neighbor’s hen-roosts. Just write an article

touching him up, and I’ll subscribe to your paper for a year.

ED. (_cautiously_). Cash in advance?

G. C. (_promptly_). Yes.

ED. Very well, then. I’m your man.

(_G. C. hands ED. five-dollar bill, and receives two dollars

back as change. Exit G. C., L. Enter WILLIAM RANDALL, L._)

WILLIAM RANDALL. Is Mr. Clark in?

ED. No, sir; but as his substitute I shall be happy to serve you.

W. R. You must know, sir, that I have been laboring for some years past

on the preparation of a remedy for dyspepsia. At length, after great

labor and research, I have prepared a pill which I am sure will prove an

infallible cure in the most obstinate cases. I have the pleasure, sir, of

presenting you with a box of Dr. William Randall’s Anti-Dyspepsia Pills

(_passes box to him_).

ED. Thank you.

DR. R. (_preparing to leave_). By the way, I suppose you will favor me

with a notice?

ED. (_hesitating_). Ye-es.

(_Exit DR. R., L._)

(_ED. sits down to write. After a moment’s pause EPHRAIM SIMPSON, who has

been writing (when not gazing at visitors), starts up._)

E. S. Well, Mister Editor, how’s that? (_handing him a paper._)

ED. (_reading aloud_). The hoss.—The hoss is a noble animal. He is also

interestin’ and knows a good deal. Some folks get very much attached to

their hosses. I knowed a Frenchman once, that thought so much of his hoss

that he even went so far as to call his own mother a _mare_ as a pet

name. Hosses are very interestin’ animals when they don’t rare up. Not

havin’ any more to say on this subjick, I will stop.

ED. (_gravely_). That is very good; but, on the whole, I don’t think

there is any need of an assistant just yet. If there should be a time

when I stand in need of one, I will certainly _think of you_.

E. S. (_disappointed_). Then you haint got anything for me to do?

ED. Not just now.

E. S. Then I must go.

(_Exit E. S., L._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_Printing office. ED., C., looking complacently at

a newspaper spread out to its full proportions on the table

before him._

ED. (_soliloquizing_). And this is the result of my first week’s labor as

an editor. Excellent as my friend Clark has heretofore made the “Post,”

I think he will acknowledge that I have made some improvements in it.

(_Glances complacently down the page. His eye is suddenly arrested by a

paragraph which startles him._) What! What’s this? (_Reads._)

“MR. FERNANDO CLAPP,—_Dear Sir_: I am instructed by your tailor

to present, for immediate payment, his bill amounting to

twenty-one dollars, eighteen cents and three-quarters. You are

requested to pay immediate attention to it, as otherwise the

law will take cognizance of your delinquency.

“TIMOTHY PETTIGREW, _Att’y at Law_.”

ED. (_furiously to P. D. entering R._). How did this get into the paper?

P. D. (_smiling_). You gave it out as copy, sir.

ED. When?

P. D. The first day you were here.

(_Exit P. D. as DR. RANDALL enters L. He is evidently very much

excited. He holds in his hand a copy of the “Post.”_)

DR. R. (_pointing to an item_). Did you write that?

ED. (_coolly_). Yes. I hope it suits you.

DR. R. Suits me! Confound your impudence! Suits me! What do you mean by

that, sir?

ED. You seem angry—why, I am at a loss to guess.

DR. R. Sir, in noticing my medicine, you have insulted me.

ED. (_surprised_). In noticing your medicine! How?

DR. R. (_placing paper within two inches of ED.’S nose, he repeats_),

“_He says it will cure the most obstinate case of dyspepsia. Perhaps it

may._” I demand an explanation, sir.

ED. (_stepping back_). It is very easily given. I only intended to say,

that personally I had no experience of the matter, and not being able to

speak positively, I said “_perhaps_!”

DR. R. (_suspiciously_). Is that true?

ED. Certainly. But, if you wish, I will recall the statement in our next

issue.

DR. R. That would be more satisfactory to me.

(_Exit, L._)

(_Enter, L., a fierce-looking individual._)

HENRY PERKINS (_in a threatening tone_). Are you the editor?

ED. (_with quaking heart_). Yes.

H. P. (_sneering_). I suppose you don’t know who I am?

ED. No, I don’t.

H. P. (_fiercely_). I am that Henry Perkins whom you have so atrociously

libelled in your paper of this morning. Don’t think, sir, that such

conduct is to go unpunished! I stand upon my rights, sir, as a citizen,

and I will not be trampled upon.

(_MR. P. seizes ED. by the collar of his coat and shakes him vigorously._)

ED. (_struggling_). Unhand me, sir!

H. P. (_still shaking him_). There, you little blackguard! I guess you

won’t slander me again in a hurry.

ED. (_passionately_). I’ll have the law of you, you villain!

H. P. You will, eh! Then I must give you your pay in advance.

(_He continues to shake him a moment. Then making a low, mocking bow, he

goes out._)

ED. (_furiously_). I won’t stand this. I’ll leave a note for Clark, and

go home this moment. There’s no knowing what may come next. It is as

much as one’s life is worth to be an editor.

(_Exit hurriedly._)

(_Curtain falls._)

KEEPING GENTEEL BOARDERS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MRS. JONES, Keeper of a Boarding-House.

AMANDA, Her Daughter.

MRS. SIMPERTON, ⎫

ISADORA MALVINA, ⎪

COUNT HENRI DE FRIPON, ⎪

ABIGAIL TRIST, ⎬ Applicants for Board

ZACHARY WINFIELD TAYLOR SCOTT, ⎪

JETHRO BURBANK, ⎪

MRS. WESTWOOD, ⎭

SHERIFF.

MR. RANDALL.

BRIDGET.

SCENE I.—_A room in the house of MRS. JONES. MRS. J., R., and

her daughter, L., present, both seated._

MRS. JONES. Well, Amanda, now that we have taken a large house and

prepared it for boarders, the next thing will be to fill it.

AMANDA. Advertise in the “Herald,” mamma.

MRS. J. It may be a good plan. We ought to make money; but when I

consider that we have a large rent to pay, I can’t help thinking that

there is some risk about it. You know we were able to live comfortably on

the money your poor father left, and without any care or exertion on our

part.

A. (_scornfully_). _Comfortably_, mamma! You know how we had to pinch

ourselves. I could hardly afford one bonnet a year, and, as to dresses,

I had to wear them so long a time I was positively ashamed. Other people

make money by keeping boarders, and why can’t we?

MRS. J. You may be right, Amanda. But about the advertisement. How shall

we express it?

(_AMANDA sits down at the table and writes._)

A. How will this do, mamma? (_Reads._)

WANTED.—A few first-class boarders, by a genteel family whose object is

to surround themselves by a pleasant social circle, rather than to make

money. Address “Boarders,” Herald office.

MRS. J. But, my dear, my object is to make money.

A. Of course, mamma; but it sounds well to seem indifferent to it.

MRS. J. Perhaps you are right. (_A pause._) I wonder when the

advertisement will appear.

A. To-morrow morning, probably, and we may expect applications at any

time afterward.

MRS. J. Then it would be best to fix on a price for board at once.

A. Yes, I suppose so.

MRS. J. How would twelve dollars a week do?

A. It wouldn’t do at all. We couldn’t pay expenses.

MRS. J. But I’m afraid if we charge such high prices we shall not be able

to fill our rooms.

A. That’s just the means to accomplish it. Many people judge of the style

and reputation of a house by the price asked. You ought to insist on at

least fifteen or twenty dollars for the best rooms, and a little less for

those not so desirable.

MRS. J. But that won’t correspond with the advertisement, where I say I

take boarders for company, rather than to make money.

A. I don’t think that will ever be noticed; but if it should, you can say

with truth, that you could not pay your expenses if you charged less.

MRS. J. Well, I hope we may be successful, for I have made such an outlay

in fitting up the house, that our income will this year be far less than

usual, and our expenses correspondingly larger.

A. There’s no doubt of our success. Three months from now we shall be

able not only to defray our necessary expenses, but also to replace the

money which you were obliged to draw to pay for the furniture.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_The same. AMANDA, L., present. She is looking over

the morning paper. Enter MRS. JONES, R._

MRS. JONES. Ah, has the paper come, Amanda?

AMANDA. Yes, and the advertisement is inserted, and reads well. (_Passes

paper to her mother._)

MRS. J. That seems to be right—(_listens—sound of bell is heard_). But

hark! Isn’t that the door bell?

A. Yes; I hope it may prove an applicant for board.

(_Servant ushers in MRS. SIMPERTON and her daughter, L._)

MRS. SIMPERTON. This is Mrs. Jones, I believe.

MRS. J. You are right. That is my name.

MRS. S. (_affectedly_). I must introduce myself as Mrs. Simperton. And

this is my daughter, Isadora Malvina. (_MRS. J. bows._) We saw your

advertisement in this morning’s “Herald,” and when we called at the

office, were directed here.

MRS. J. Yes, my daughter and myself wished for company. It is rather

lonely for two persons to live by themselves in a large house like this,

with no one near but servants.

MRS. S. It must be so, and I do not wonder that you wish for companions.

My daughter and myself are thinking of boarding this winter, and I wish

to make some inquiries concerning your rooms. I suppose they are newly

furnished.

MRS. J. Yes, they all contain new furniture.

MRS. S. And is it black walnut, with marble tops to the bureau and

tables?

MRS. J. Yes, a part of the rooms are furnished in that style.

MRS. S. I suppose we could have our meals in our own rooms.

MRS. J. (_hesitating_). Well—yes—perhaps it could be arranged so.

MRS. S. And I suppose we could have them at whatever hour we chose.

MRS. J. I think so.

MRS. S. That seems to be favorable. May I ask your terms?

MRS. J. For my best rooms, with private meals, I should be obliged to

charge twenty dollars a week apiece. If the meals came at unusual hours,

it would be worth more.

MRS. S. (_with emphasis_). Your charge is exorbitant. Such accommodations

are not worth more than half the sum you name. Still I am willing to pay

twenty-five dollars for both of us.

MRS. J. I couldn’t think of such a thing. I shouldn’t be able to pay my

expenses at such low rates for board.

MRS. S. I thought you didn’t keep boarders for profit, but only for the

sake of company.

MRS. J. That is very true. I don’t take boarders for profit, but neither

do I intend to take them at a loss. I shouldn’t consider their company to

be of sufficient value to compensate for that.

MRS. S. Very well; I see we must look further. I don’t believe we should

be suited here. Come, Isadora Malvina. (_Goes out, L., with a lofty air,

followed by her daughter._)

A. What airs people do put on sometimes! I’m glad she didn’t decide to

stay. I shouldn’t want her for a boarder at any price. (_Bell rings.

Enter COUNT DE FRIPON, L._)

COUNT (_with a polite bow_). Can madame accommodate me with a suite of

rooms?

MRS. J. I think so. What rooms do you desire?

C. I should like a _chambre à coucher_—what you call a bedroom; also a

parlor in which I could receive my friends.

MRS. J. You would require board, too, I suppose.

C. Oui, madame,—yes, you are right. I should wish board for myself, and

sometimes I might bring a friend with me to dine.

MRS. J. Certainly. We shall always be glad to see any of your friends. In

regard to terms—

C. (_with a deprecating gesture_). Pardon, madame, but—I never trouble

myself with these trifling matters. At the end of every month you will

send in your bill to me, and I shall pay it to you at once.

MRS. J. That will be satisfactory. But what name shall I put down?

C. (_with a courtly air_). Count Henri de Fripon, madame. Here is my

card. (_Passes it._)

MRS. J. (_bows, while a pleased smile overspreads her face_). And when

would you like to come?

C. I shall come to you next Monday, in the morning. I have the honor to

wish you good day, madame; bon jour, mademoiselle.

(_Exit, L., with low bow._)

MRS. J. That’s a boarder after my own mind. He never inquired the terms,

and will be ready to pay when the bill is presented. I wish we might

secure others of the same kind.

A. And he’s one of the nobility, too. His presence will give quite a

distinguished air to the house.

MRS. J. Yes; he’s quite an acquisition. (_Bell rings._) Besides, who

knows but—(_Enter MISS TRIST, L._)

MISS TRIST. Good mornin’, ma’am. Good mornin’, miss. (_MRS. J. and A.

both bow._) I’ve come to see about gettin’ boarded.

MRS. J. I think we can accommodate you. What kind of a room would you

like?

MISS T. It don’t make no sort o’ difference to me. I only want a shelter.

’Taint likely I shall be spared long to need one.

MRS. J. (_with sympathy_). Are you an invalid?

MISS T. No, I aint sick yet, but there’s no knowin’ how soon I may be. My

mother died _young_, and died suddenly, too. I expect to go in the same

way.

MRS. J. I hope not. (_A pause._) We have rooms which, with board, vary

from twelve to twenty dollars per week.

MISS T. My sakes! That’s an awful price, aint it? But then I might as

well spend my money for board as to leave it for my relations to quarrel

over.

MRS. J. That certainly is a better way.

MISS T. (_mournfully_). Perhaps you wouldn’t think it, from my comin’

here to get boarded; but I’ve got three sisters and two brothers, and

they’re all watchin’ to see if I aint goin’ to get sick an’ die, so they

can have my money.

MRS. J. You’d better come here to board, then. I dare say it would be the

means of prolonging your life.

MISS T. Do you think so? I wish I could believe it, though (_dismally_)

I haint got nothin’ to live for. But then, if I aint to live long, it

would be a comfort to spend my last days in peace. I’ve had a great many

troubles and trials in my time.

MRS. J. I am sorry to hear it.

MISS T. Yes, I lost my best friend just six days before we were to be

married. If he’d only lived one week longer, I might have been a desolate

relict instead of a lonely single woman.

MRS. J. It must have been a great disappointment.

MISS T. Yes; but then ’twas my luck. I don’t place no dependence on

anything now. (_Rising._) There’s no knowin’ what may happen; but I’ll

come, to stay, next Monday, if I’m alive an’ well.

(_Exit, L._)

A. (_drawing a long breath_). Oh, I’m so glad she’s gone. I hope

something will happen to prevent her coming. It’s as dismal to have her

round as to be alone in the house on a drizzly day in November.

MRS. J. We can’t refuse any one who is willing to pay our price. But

hark! some one is coming. (_Enter MR. SCOTT hurriedly._)

MR. SCOTT (_nervously_). I have come to get boarded here madam. (_With

deprecating gesture._) Don’t refuse me, for I shall certainly commit

suicide if you do. You see I’ve set my heart on boarding with you and

your charming daughter.

MRS. J. (_benignantly_). There is no occasion for my refusing you. We

have still a few rooms left that are not engaged.

MR. S. (_in a hurried manner_). And what are your terms—though that will

make no difference. I shall come, whatever they may be.

MRS. J. We have one room, at fifteen dollars, that may perhaps suit you.

MR. S. (_with a theatrical air_). Fifteen dollars! Ask me not to pay such

a paltry sum. I would never pay less than twenty-five.

MRS. J. Very well, you can pay any sum you choose.

MR. S. Then I choose to pay twenty-five dollars. But there’s another

inquiry that I wish to make. Can I have a piano in my room?

MRS. J. There is a piano in the parlor, which the boarders are at liberty

to use when they feel inclined.

MR. S. But that will not suit me. Perhaps I should wish to play when some

one else was using it. No, I must have one in my own room. (_Earnestly._)

I’m willing to pay extra for it—five, fifteen, or even fifty dollars a

week, rather than not to have it.

MRS. J. Certainly; if you are willing to pay for it I will have one put

into your room for you.

MR. S. You relieve my mind greatly. I will be here to commence boarding

to-morrow. Here is my card. (_Passes it._) Good-morning, ladies.

(_Exit hastily, L._)

A. What a strange man! It isn’t often that one meets with a person who

sets so little value on money.

MRS. J. His name is as strange as his actions.

A. (_with curiosity_). What is it?

MRS. J. Zachary Winfield Taylor Scott.

A. (_with interest_). Perhaps he is a son of General Scott. I’ve heard it

said that the families of great men are often eccentric.

(_Bell rings. Enter JETHRO BURBANK, L._)

JETHRO BURBANK. I’ve come to see as how, could I get boarded.

MRS. J. We have some rooms still vacant, if the price is such as to suit

you.

J. B. (_unheeding her remark_). You see, I’ve come all the way from

Hatchville, State of Maine, to see if I could get a situation here in

the city, and the fust thing is to get a boarding-place. What do you

calc’late to charge me now? Don’t set it too high.

MRS. J. The lowest-priced rooms we have left are fifteen dollars per

week, with board.

J. B. Gewhittaker! That’s an all-fired big sum. You don’t mean that’s

your lowest price.

MRS. J. Certainly. This is a first-class house, and we do not take any

boarders who can’t afford to pay our prices.

J. B. Wal, I don’t know what you call fust-class boarders, but marm

boards the schoolmaster, and the editor of the paper, and I guess they

aint second to nobody.

MRS. J. (_smiling_). And what does she charge for board?

J. B. Wal, she charges jest two dollars a week. That’s what I call a

reasonable price. But I knowed that prices were higher in the city, and

I calc’lated I’d have to pay as much as five dollars; but to pay three

times that, is more than I can stand. Why, the price of a year’s board

would buy me a good farm down to Hatchville.

MRS. J. Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go back there.

J. B. Wal, I shan’t give it up so. I’m going to try further.

(_Exit J. B., L._)

A. It is getting late. I don’t believe we shall have any more applicants

to-day.

MRS. J. You are mistaken, for here is one now.

(_Enter MRS. WESTWOOD, L._)

MRS. WESTWOOD. Good-afternoon, ladies. Am I too late for a place? Are

your rooms all taken?

MRS. J. No. We have several left. There are two in particular that I

think you would fancy. One is a very large and pleasant room. The other

is a little smaller.

MRS. W. Oh, I must have the large one, by all means.

MRS. J. The larger one, with board, will be twenty dollars a week.

MRS. W. Very well, I will pay it. I’ve got plenty of money at present.

My husband died a year ago, and left me with a large farm and a quantity

of stock. But I wasn’t going to be immured in a dismal farm-house—not

I. So I’ve sold the farm, and come to the city to board till my money

gives out. Perhaps then you’ll take me as a partner in the boarding-house

business.

MRS. J. I find it takes considerable money, even for that business.

MRS. W. Oh, well, I’ve got enough—a couple of hundred thousand dollars.

But I’m not ready to go in yet. I want to see a little of city life

first. If I meet a good-looking gentleman that invites me, perhaps I

shall become his partner instead of yours. But time will show.

MRS. J. What time would you like to commence?

MRS. W. It might as well be now as any other time. I can send for my

trunks.

MRS. J. Very well; I will show you the two rooms, though I think you will

prefer the larger one.

MRS. W. Oh, I am sure I shall.

(_Exit MRS. J. and MRS. W., L._)

A. (_sola_). Quite a number of the rooms are already engaged, and I think

we may congratulate ourselves on having made a good beginning. How much

better it will be to keep a genteel boarding-house than to tend shop or

keep school for a living.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_The same. MRS. JONES present, R. Enter AMANDA, L._

AMANDA. Did you send for me, mamma?

MRS. JONES. Yes. I think it is necessary for us to have a consultation

about our affairs.

A. (_surprised_). I thought you were getting along charmingly. I’m sure

the house is full of boarders at good prices, and has been ever since we

commenced. What more could you wish for?

MRS. J. Everything would be quite satisfactory if the boarders would only

pay up promptly. But Mrs. Westwood and Miss Trist are the only ones that

I can depend on. The butcher and baker have sent in heavy bills, and this

morning I have received grocery and gas bills, as well as bills for extra

furniture that was required. Then, too, a month’s rent is due for the

piano in the parlor and that in Mr. Scott’s room.

A. Ask Mr. Scott for the money due you for his board.

MRS. J. I have done so repeatedly, but he has such a way of evading it

that I can’t get anything. Indeed, sometimes he gets so excited that I am

almost frightened, and glad enough to leave him, even without my money.

A. But surely the count has paid you.

MRS. J. Not a cent. I was to send in my bill three days ago, but before

I was able to do so he asked for an interview, and said that he had been

disappointed about receiving money which he expected, and asked me to

wait a week longer. He seemed so sorry about it that I couldn’t help

accommodating him.

BRIDGET (_entering, R._). An’ did ye take the silver, mum? I haven’t seen

a sight of it since I left it on the table after cl’aning it this morning.

MRS. J. (_surprised_). I haven’t taken it away. Was the front door locked?

B. Yis, I thried that same, an’ it was locked as usual. But jist as I

went to look if it was fast, the postman came, an’ brought this letter.

MRS. J. (_opening it hastily, and glancing at signature_). Why, this is

from the count. (_Reads._)

“Dear Mrs. Jones: I write to let you know that I have just

received the money I expected, and which I was only able to get

by selling your silver, which I gathered up this morning for

that purpose. As the jeweller said it wasn’t first quality,

I got less than I hoped for, so I sha’n’t be able to settle

my board bill at present. You will find the silver, also your

daughter’s watch and rings, at the shop of Willis and Turner.

Yours,

“COUNT HENRI DE FRIPON.”

A. (_excited_). What! My watch and rings. How could he have got them?

B. Oh, the murtherin villain! An’ didn’t I tell Kate, the cook, that he

had too much blarny about him for an honest man?

MRS. J. (_troubled_). What shall we do?

B. Send the perlice after him.

(_Enter MISS TRIST, L._)

MISS T. Oh, my poor head! I can’t stand it any longer.

MRS. J. What’s the matter, Miss Trist?

MISS T. That Mr. Scott, whose room is right opposite mine, is all the

time playing on the piano. If it was sacred music I wouldn’t mind; but

it’s the quickest kind of dancing tunes.

A. Why don’t you knock at his door and tell him how much it disturbs you?

There is no one in the parlor, and he can play there all the afternoon if

he wishes.

MISS T. Perhaps I will do so, for I’m afraid I shall go distracted.

(_Exit, L._)

B. An’ I must tell ye, mum, that Katy an’ me’ll be afther lavin’ here

intirely, if our month’s wages aint paid by to-morrow.

MRS. J. Very well, I will attend to it. You can go now. (_Exit BRIDGET,

R._) I’m sure I don’t know what we’re going to do. I have received

two letters from Lawyer Snap about the last month’s rent. The second

one stated that if it was not paid immediately legal steps would be

instituted.

(_At this moment hurried steps are heard, L., and MISS TRIST rushes into

the room, closely followed by MR. SCOTT; her cap strings flying, and

both hands are placed on her devoted head, as if fearing a blow there.

Her companion dashes madly after her, holding a heavy music-book in a

menacing way._)

MRS. J. Miss Trist, Mr. Scott—what is the matter?

MR. S. (_standing still for a moment, speaks in a fierce manner_). That

woman (_looking toward MISS T._) has been tormenting me. I was engaged in

improvising music, an opera which would have far exceeded anything that

Verdi or Meyerbeer ever composed, and was just arranging one of the most

delicate passages, when that woman knocked at my door. (_Enter SHERIFF

and keeper by entrance back of MR. S._) Of course the interruption was

fatal to my opera. And what did she come for? Why, she wanted me to go to

the parlor piano, because my music disturbed her. And through her means,

that divine opera is lost to the world. (_In a loud tone._) I will kill

her! (_more fiercely_) I will annihilate her! I will crush her to atoms!

(_AMANDA faints, MRS. J. clasps her hands with a deprecating gesture, and

MR. S. dashes after MISS T., who has sunk with a frightened air into a

chair in the farther corner. The SHERIFF seizes MR. S. from behind. The

latter struggles furiously, but vainly._)

SHERIFF. Here, Randall, take charge of this man. He’s that lunatic who

escaped from the asylum six weeks ago. They’ve searched most everywhere

for him.

MR. S. (_who is quiet for a moment—with a smile_). I was too cunning for

them. (_Again furious._) You shall not restrain me. I must annihilate

that woman, and then finish my opera. (_RANDALL takes MR. S., screaming

and struggling furiously, from the room._)

MRS. J. (_to SHERIFF_). How can I thank you, sir, for delivering us from

that madman?

SHERIFF. I am happy to have been of service to you in that way; but

my errand here was to give you trouble. (_MRS. J. looks expectantly

toward him. MRS. WESTWOOD enters, R._) I have been instructed to levy an

attachment on your furniture, on account of your refusing to pay your

rent.

MRS. J. I am sorry it so happens. I depended on the money which I was to

receive from my boarders to pay my expenses; but, of fifteen boarders,

these two ladies are the only ones who have paid.

MRS. W. (_coming forward_). That’s a shame. Mr. Sheriff, what’s the

amount of your bill?

SHERIFF. Rent $125, and costs $25 more.

MRS. W. Here’s the money, $150. Now give me a receipted bill.

SHERIFF. Here is one, though I didn’t expect to need it (_gives bill and

takes money_). Thank you, ma’am.

(_Exit SHERIFF, L. MRS. J. gazes in astonishment._)

MRS. W. Mrs. Jones, what do your other unpaid bills amount to?

MRS. J. About five hundred dollars.

MRS. W. Well, I’ve got a proposal to make to you. In the first place,

however, I must explain a little. Do you remember hearing your husband

speak of his sister, Sarah Jane, who went to California to become a

teacher, some twenty odd years ago?

MRS. J. Yes; she went away just before I became acquainted with him. He

frequently spoke of the circumstance; but the vessel was wrecked, and he

supposed, as he heard no further tidings, that she must have been lost

with the other passengers.

MRS. W. Well, she wasn’t lost, but returned a couple of months ago, and

now stands before you.

A. And are you my Aunt Sarah?

MRS. W. Yes. I went, as you know, to San Francisco with the intention of

teaching, but on board the steamer I became acquainted with Mr. Westwood,

who had started for California to seek his fortune. He and myself and one

other passenger were the only persons saved from the wreck. He persuaded

me to abandon my original plan, and marry him. I did so, and we went into

the country, where he bought a sheep ranch. He was prospered in all his

undertakings, and, last year, died, leaving me, by will, all he possessed.

MRS. J. But why haven’t you written to us in all these years?

MRS. W. We were intending, from year to year, to come back soon to

surprise my brother, but circumstances constantly arose to prevent

it. After my husband died, I determined to come at once and seek my

relatives; but when I arrived I learned of my brother’s death. I then

sought a boarding-place, and in looking over the paper met with your

advertisement. Although the name was the same, I had no idea you were his

widow till I saw his portrait hanging in the parlor. Though grown older,

his features had not yet changed, and I recognized him at once. I engaged

board with you, thinking if I enjoyed stopping here I would propose to

become a permanent member of your family. I now propose to take the

house, pay your debts and all the future expenses of house-keeping, in

return for the society of yourself and daughter. What do you say to the

plan?

MRS. J. I should be very glad to have it so, but I am afraid you do not

realize what you are taking upon yourself.

MRS. W. Trust me for that. I know what I am about.

MRS. J. Then there’ll be no more anxiety and worriment about unpaid bills.

A. And no desire to continue the experiment of Keeping Genteel Boarders.

(_Curtain falls._)

MRS. SKINFLINT’S BARGAINS.

CHARACTERS.

MRS. SKINFLINT, a very Parsimonious Woman.

EZEKIEL ONTHANK, a Yankee Peddler.

SARAH JANE HOBBS, Ezekiel’s Sweetheart.

MRS. HOBBS, Sarah Jane’s Mother.

SCENE I.—_MRS. SKINFLINT’S sitting-room. MRS. SKINFLINT, a

tall, bony woman, with a sharp, pinched face, is sitting in a

rocking-chair, C., knitting._

MRS. SKINFLINT (_soliloquizes_). I declare I’ll never buy another thing

at Thompson’s store. I paid fifteen cents a yard for my last kaliker

dress, and Mis’ Hobbs bought one of a peddler yesterday, jest as good,

for thirteen cents and three quarters. It’s a shame! On twelve yards I

lost fifteen cents. That’s too much money to lose in these hard times. I

wish that peddler would come along. I need a sight o’ things, and if I

couldn’t beat him down, my name aint Betsy Jane Skinflint.

(_A knock is heard at the door, R. MRS. S. rises and opens it. The

visitor proves to be EZEKIEL ONTHANK, a Yankee peddler, with a large pack

on his back. He enters._)

EZEKIEL. Mornin’, marm. Anything in my line to-day? Dress-patterns,

hoop-skirts, shawls, laces, ribbons, jewelry, spectacles, buttons,

scissors, needles, pins—

MRS. S. Massy sakes! don’t tell any more of ’em. I shall forget what you

sed fust. You haint got no good clocks, hev ye?

EZEK. Haint I though! I kin beat everybody on clocks. I’ve got some that

cum clear from Switzerland. I imported ’em myself. Here’s one (_taking it

from his pack_), the pootiest and best little timepiece ever you see.

MRS. S. Does it keep good time?

EZEK. I guess it does—tip-top. It goes ahead of anything ever you set

your eyes on.

MRS. S. (_cautiously_). What d’ye charge for it?

EZEK. (_hesitating_). Well, I hev been sellin’ on ’em all along for

twelve dollars apiece, but seein’ it’s you, I’ll let you have it for ten.

MRS. S. (_throwing up her hands_). Ten dollars! D’ye think I’m made o’

money? Besides, the clock aint wuth half that. But I don’t mind givin’

you five for it.

EZEK. That don’t pay the cost of importin’ ’em; but, ef you’re goin’ to

buy consider’ble, I’ll say five for it. What’s the next thing?

MRS. S. I want ter git a pair o’ spettercles. As I was ridin’ to meetin’,

last Sunday, mine fell off, and the wheel run right over ’em, and smashed

the glass all to pieces. I cared more about ’em ’cause they’d ben in the

famerly so long. Marm and granny both used ’em afore me.

EZEK. Mebbe they might be mended. Let’s see ’em.

(_MRS. S. produces a pair of heavy, iron-bowed spectacles. EZEKIEL looks

at them dubiously._)

EZEK. I s’pose they might be fixed, but it’s my opinion ’twouldn’t pay.

Besides, the bows are too heavy to wear. Didn’t nobody ever tell ye that

wearin’ heavy-bowed specs sometimes made folks round-shouldered?

MRS. S. (_straightening up_). No. Dew tell!

EZEK. But I’ve got somethin’ here that’ll suit you to a T. Jest try ’em

on (_handing her a pair of spectacles_). That’s jest the article you want.

MRS. S. (_trying them on and looking up_). Well, they’re pooty fair. But

I s’pose you’ll charge as much as a dollar for ’em.

EZEK. A dollar! Why, woman alive, you don’t think I’d sell them specs for

a dollar. They’re the real genuine periscopic Scotch pebble. They’re well

wuth five dollars, but I shall only charge you three for them. ’Taint

often you can get such a good article so cheap.

MRS. S. I’ll give you two dollars for ’em.

EZEK. No, I can’t afford to sell ’em so low. But I’ll tell you what I

will do. I’ll split the difference, and let you have ’em for two-fifty.

They’re very becomin’ to you—make you look ten years younger than the

others did.

MRS. S. (_smiling at the compliment_). Well, I s’pose I shall have to

take ’em. But I shouldn’t think ’twould take you long to get rich at that

rate.

EZEK. The fact is, I’m growin’ poorer every day. I ought not to sell my

goods so cheap; but the wimmen have such captivatin’ ways that I can’t

resist ’em. What’s the next thing?

MRS. S. Well, I want some caliker for a new gown. I bought enough for one

at Thompson’s, the other day; but I want another.

EZEK. I’ve got jest the thing for you (_showing her a piece of calico

with stripes of red and yellow_). That’s exactly your style, and it’s

only twelve and a half cents a yard.

MRS. S. Will it wash?

EZEK. Like white cloth. I’ve sold yards and yards of that same pattern.

It takes so well that one factory don’t make nothin’ else.

MRS S. Twelve and a half cents a yard is too much. I can’t afford it, but

I’ll give you a dollar for twelve yards.

EZEK. Couldn’t do it. Think of a nice dress pattern like that

(_displaying the goods in a tempting manner_) bein’ sold for a dollar.

No, marm, I can’t sell it any less.

MRS. S. (_looking at it longingly_). I’ll give you a dollar and a quarter.

EZEK. Well, as you’re taking consider’ble, I’ll let you have it for that;

but you mustn’t say nothin’ about it. Why, Mis’ Hobbs bought some of it,

and paid full price. I’m boardin’ there at Mis’ Hobbs’s. She’s got a

pooty daughter—that Sairy Jane. Between you and me, that’s the reason I

went to boardin’ there, for Mis’ Hobbs aint much of a cook.

MRS. S. (_elated_). I allers knew that. She never did hev much of a

bringin’ up (_MRS. S. passes him money._)

EZEK. (_preparing to leave_). Thank ye, marm. Well, aint there sumthin’

more? You’ll want some hooks and eyes, and thread to make your dress

with, don’t ye?

MRS. S. Oh, you’ll throw them in, won’t ye? The store people do.

EZEK. That’s askin’ a little too much.

MRS. S. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a mince pie

for ’em. I made some fresh ones to-day. What d’ye say? You know yer

boardin’-place aint anything to boast of.

EZEK. Well, I don’t mind doin’ it for once. (_MRS. SKINFLINT passes him

pie from the table._) But I think I’d better be goin’. It don’t pay much

to trade with you. You’re a deal too sharp. (_Taking his pack, he leaves

the house._)

MRS. S. (_self-complacently soliloquizes_). I think I did make a good

trade. Trust me for that. I saved enough on them trades to buy me a set

of furs, next winter. They don’t cost but eight dollars, and I daresay I

could get ’em for five. But there, it’s most twelve o’clock. I must be

gettin’ dinner ready.

(_Exit._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_A curtain arranged from front to back, dividing the

stage into sitting-room, L., and kitchen, R., as both must be

seen at once. There must be a door between. MRS. HOBBS is in

the sitting-room, sewing, R. MRS. SKINFLINT enters, L._

MRS. S. How d’ye do, Mis’ Hobbs?

MRS. HOBBS. Why, how d’ye do, Mis’ Skinflint? I’m glad to see you.

Sit right down in the rockin’-chair, do. (_She sits down, L._) It’s a

pleasant evenin’.

MRS. S. Yes, very pleasant. I cum over this evenin’, Mis’ Hobbs, to

see if there’s a peddler stoppin’ here. I bought a clock of one, this

mornin’, and he sed he boarded here. The clock don’t go, and I want him

to come and fix it, or give me another one.

MRS. H. Yes, that’s him; jest come into the kitchen. He’ll be right in, I

guess. He always sits in here, evenin’s.

(_Just then voices are heard in the kitchen. SARAH JANE is seen knitting,

L. EZEKIEL enters, R._)

SARAH JANE. Well, what adventures have you had to-day, ’Zekiel?

EZEK. The richest was with Mis’ Skinflint. Mis’ Deacon Pettengill told me

she was as mean as dirt (_here MRS. S. starts, but, on second thoughts,

waits to hear what is coming next. MRS. HOBBS smiles, grimly_), and I

thought I see if I couldn’t sarcumvent her.

S. J. What did you do?

EZEK. I offered her a clock for twelve dollars, and she beat me down to

five. I usually sell ’em for a dollar and a half.

S. J. I suppose ’twasn’t worth even that.

EZEK. It doesn’t go much, but when it does, it makes up for lost time.

Then she wanted some _spettercles_. She took a pair for two dollars and a

half that I generally get seventy-five cents for; but I’ll warrant they

won’t magnify any too much, for there’s nothing but winder-glass in ’em.

MRS. S. (_emphatically_). The villain!

S. J. You was rather too bad, ’Zekiel.

EZEK. Not at all. She bought some calico, and asked if it would wash. I

told her it would wash like white cloth, and I guess ’twill. After two or

three washings, there won’t be a bit of color left in it.

MRS. S. Oh, the wretch! Won’t I give it to him! (_MRS. HOBBS smiles. She

evidently enjoys the scene._)

EZEK. But the cream of the joke was that she wanted some hooks and eyes

and a spool of thread, and gave me a mince pie for them. I tasted it, but

it was such wretched stuff that I couldn’t eat it, so I threw it into

the river for the fishes.

(_MRS. SKINFLINT dashes into the kitchen with arms akimbo. EZEKIEL

shrinks back with mock terror. SARAH JANE and her mother come forward,

smiling, to see what will be done._)

MRS. S. What do you mean, you wretch, by cheatin’ me in such a way?

EZEK. I didn’t cheat you. You tried to keep me from gettin’ any profit on

my goods. I put a price on them, and you could take them or not, as you

pleased. You was willin’ to pay what I asked for them; so I don’t see how

I cheated you.

MRS. S. You didn’t tell me the truth about ’em (_furiously_). Then you

called the nice pie I gave you wretched stuff. I shouldn’t ’a thought of

givin’ it to you ef ye hadn’t said you didn’t git anythin’ fit to eat

here.

MRS. H. (_starting forward_). What’s that? What did he say?

MRS. S. (_gloating over her discomfiture_). He said you wasn’t much of

a cook, and, ef it warn’t for courtin’ Sairy Jane, he couldn’t stand it

boardin’ here.

MRS. H. (_to EZEK._). So that’s the way you repay my kindness in taking

you in, is it, you miserable villain? I’m mad enough to pull your hair—if

you only had enough to pull.

EZEK. (_glancing sideways at her_). I shouldn’t dare to pull yours,

marm, for fear ’twould come off in my hand.

MRS. H. (_advancing with a threatening air, and catching up the tongs as

she goes_). Get out of the house, you insultin’ creature, and never let

me set eyes on you again!

(_EZEKIEL goes out as if in fear, R., slyly beckoning to SARAH JANE to

go too. She nods and goes out by another door, R. MRS. HOBBS throws

EZEKIEL’S pack after him._)

MRS. H. (_going toward MRS. S. with tongs upraised_). Now, old Skinflint,

do you go too. You’ve made mischief enough here. I don’t blame the man

for throwin’ your miserable pie away. I hope it wont pizen the fishes.

MRS. S. (_looking back as she goes out, R._). I guess you’ll find you’ve

got enough to look after, without ’tendin’ to your neighbors’ business

(_pointing_). There goes Sairy Jane with that peddler’s arm round her

waist.

(_Exit MRS. SKINFLINT from one door, R., while MRS.

HOBBS dashes out from another, R. Curtain falls._)

MRS. GRUNDY’S TYRANNY.

CHARACTERS.

MR. CHARLES GOODENOW, ⎫

MR. EDWARD HENDERSON, ⎬ Merchants.

MR. FRANK BURLEY, ⎭

MRS. BURLEY, Mr. Burley’s Wife.

MRS. STOCKBRIDGE, ⎫ Mrs. Burley’s Friends.

MRS. WHEELER, ⎭

JAMES, A Customer.

BRIDGET MURPHY, ⎫ Owners of Fruit Stands.

KATE O’CALLAHAN, ⎭

SCENE I.—_CHARLES GOODENOW, R., sits in a chair, tipped back,

gazing thoughtfully into the upper distance. His head rests

upon his hands which are clasped behind it. Enter FRANK BURLEY,

L._

FRANK. Hallo, Charlie. In the land of dreams? If so I won’t disturb you.

CHARLES (_not answering immediately_). Not exactly dreaming. There was

too much reality about my thoughts for that. But sit down, Frank.

F. (_sitting down_). And what were you thinking about, if I am allowed to

ask?

C. I was thinking what slaves we were to Fashion and Mrs. Grundy. I don’t

know of one of my acquaintances who would have courage enough to do

anything which would conflict with the usages of so-called good society.

F. Don’t include me in that category. I have too much independence to be

subject to the dictation of others.

C. You think so, my dear fellow; but you don’t realize your own weakness.

F. On the contrary, I am confident of my strength, and am willing to

wager you one hundred dollars against fifty that I will follow out any

plan you may promise to test my courage.

C. I accept the stakes, and feel sure of winning them. Now what shall the

plan be? Let me see. (_Covers face with his hands for a moment—pauses._)

I have it. Frank, you must tend a peanut and apple stand in the Park for

one whole day.

F. (_quickly_). I am willing to do it.

C. (_emphatically_). Remember, you must tend it the whole day long,

without absenting yourself for any cause, except to take an hour for

dinner.

F. I agree to that; nay, I will go further, and will promise to dine at

the stand.

C. When shall the trial take place?

F. As soon as possible, that you may know how well I shall succeed. Let

_to-morrow_ be the day.

C. Very well; but there is to be one condition about the matter. No one

must suspect your reasons for doing this, as, in that case, there would

be no test at all. If you even hint anything about it, you will lose the

wager.

F. I agree to that.

C. Well, I’ll call round on you to-morrow, occasionally, to see how you

make out in the new business.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II. _In the Park. Two apple-stands at the back of stage.

They are several feet apart, and presided over by BRIDGET

MURPHY, R., and KATE O’CALLAHAN, L. Enter FRANK BURLEY, who

stands a little in front, but between them, gazing first at one

and then at the other._

MRS. O’CALLAHAN (_rising—with her knitting in her hand_). Some peanuts,

sir, or apples—nice apples three cents apiece?

MRS. MURPHY (_wiping apples on apron_). Here’s where you’ll find your

nice apples—three cents apiece, and a good deal bigger than the other

woman’s.

F. (_approaching MRS. M.’S stand_). What will you sell your whole stock

to me for, my good woman?

MRS. M. (_regarding him attentively_). And what do the likes of you want

of it?

F. I want to buy your stock, and tend this stand to-day.

MRS. M. (_doubtfully_). Honor bright?

F. Yes. To-morrow you can have it back again, and I’ll give you the stock

that’s left over.

MRS. M. (_shrewdly_). What’ll you give for it?

F. I don’t know what it’s worth, but I’ll give you ten dollars for the

lot.

MRS. M. (_quickly_). You can have ’em all for that.

MRS. O’C. That’s four times more’n they’re all worth.

MRS. M. You’d better mind yer own business, O’Callahan. There comes a boy

that wants an apple maybe. (_Boy comes in, looks at apples and passes

out._)

F. You’ll have to tell me how you sell the things. I don’t know anything

about the prices.

MRS. M. The apples are three cents apiece. Some of the peaches are three

cents, and some two cents, and them bananas are ten cents apiece. If you

sell a dozen of ’em at once, you’ll sell at a little less price.

F. That’ll do. I guess I shall get along well now.

MRS. M. Shan’t I lend you my apron to shine the apples with?

F. No, I thank you; I guess they look well enough.

(_MRS. M. went out, L., going past MRS. O’C.’S stand, and holding the

bill which she had received exultingly towards her. JAMES enters, L._)

JAMES (_to O’C._). How do you sell your apples?

MRS. O’C. Three cents apiece.

J. (_to F._). How do _you_ sell _yours_?

F. Two cents apiece.

J. Well as yours are bigger and lower priced I’ll take four of them.

(_Takes them and pays for them and exit._)

(_Several other persons pass in and buy of FRANK, to all of whom he sells

under price._)

MRS. O’C. (_coming towards him with threatening gestures_). What do you

mean by coming here, and interfering with a respectable woman?

F. I am not interfering with you.

MRS. O’C. Aint you, though? I call it interferin’ with my rights when you

come and sell your apples under price.

F. I’ll tell you what it is, my good woman, I’ve sold most of my apples,

and I will buy some of yours.

MRS. O’C. (_somewhat mollified_). And what’ll ye pay me for them?

F. Three cents apiece.

MRS. O’C. (_surprised_). And you’re goin’ to sell ’em agin for two cents?

F. Yes, there’s nothing like keeping trade lively.

MRS. O’C. Well, you’re the quairest man I ever did see.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_MRS. BURLEY’S parlor. MRS. B. present, R. MRS.

STOCKBRIDGE and MRS. WHEELER enter L. They cross the room and

shake hands cordially with MRS. B._

MRS. STOCKBRIDGE. How do you do, my dear Mrs. Burley?

MRS. WHEELER (_to MRS. B._) How do you do? I am delighted to see you

looking so well.

MRS. BURLEY. Thank you; I am well, and glad to see you both. Take seats,

won’t you?

MRS. S. (_aside to MRS. W._) _She_ doesn’t know of it, I’m sure. (_To

MRS. B._) Have you heard the news about Mr. Walters?

MRS. B. (_interested._) No. What is it?

MRS. S. He is hopelessly insane.

MRS. B. That is very sad. But what was the cause?

MRS. S. Overwork, I believe. Is it not so, Mrs. Wheeler?

MRS. W. That is the report, and it is said his wife doesn’t dare to be

alone with him.

MRS. S. I heard that, yesterday, he jumped from a window in the second

story, and injured himself very much.

MRS. B. How shocking!

MRS. W. He said he intended to kill himself, and was sorry he didn’t.

MRS. B. No wonder his wife feels timid. I dare say he will make another

attempt at suicide.

MRS. W. There’s no doubt of it. In fact he told his wife so.

MRS. S. He has threatened her life too; several times I believe. (_To

MRS. B. in significant tone._) By the way, Mrs. Burley, is _your_ husband

well?

MRS. B. (_startled_). Certainly. But why do you ask?

MRS. S. Oh, I merely inquired.

MRS. B. But you had some motive in asking. What was it?

MRS. S. Tell her, Mrs. Wheeler.

MRS. W. Oh, it’s nothing I dare say. Still, some things look a little

singular.

MRS. B. (_anxiously_). Pray explain.

MRS. S. Was your husband at home to dinner to-day?

MRS. B. No, he said he should be too busy, and would dine down-town.

MRS. S. He didn’t state the nature of his business, did he?

MRS. B. No, but I supposed he was detained at the store. Do you know

anything of it?

MRS. S. Yes; he’s been tending an apple-stand all day to-day.

MRS. B. (_surprised_). It cannot be. You are surely mistaken.

MRS. S. Not at all. It has been the town talk.

MRS. B. (_meditatively_). It is very strange.

MRS. S. Insanity is not hereditary in your husband’s family, is it?

MRS. B. Oh, no; and yet—let me see. Yes, I am sure he told me that his

grandfather died insane. But Frank never could be in such a state. He has

too strong a mind for that.

MRS. S. Still, you can’t help thinking it is a little singular.

MRS. B. Ye—es. But I cannot credit it. It seems impossible.

MRS. W. Suppose you walk down to the Park and satisfy yourself.

MRS. B. (_eagerly_). I will do so if you will go with me. I am too

nervous to go alone.

MRS. S. We are willing to accompany you. Is it not so, Mrs. Wheeler?

MRS. W. Certainty. We could not desert you while you are in such trouble.

MRS. B. (_excitedly_). I will get my bonnet at once. I will not detain

you but a moment.

(_Exit MRS. B., R. Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_Same as Scene II., except that MR. B. has charge of

MRS. MURPHY’S stand. Enter JAMES, who examines fruit at each

of the stands. MRS. B. and two companions are seen at side

entrance, L., looking furtively at MR. B. They talk aside._

MRS. S. Arc you satisfied that it is he?

MRS. B. Yes, it is certainty Frank; but (_perplexed_) what can he be

there for?

MRS. S. Why don’t you ask him?

MRS. B. I hardly know what to do.

MRS. S. There are two gentlemen coming. Wait and see what they say.

(_Enter MR. GOODENOW and MR. HENDERSON. MRS. B. beckons to policeman, and

talks with him._)

MR. HENDERSON. Hallo, Mr. Burley; haven’t you got into a new business?

MR. B. Yes, I have (_smiling_).

MR. H. (_quizzically_). How do you enjoy it?

MR. B. Very much, of course, or I should not have entered into it.

MR. H. Going to make a permanent business of it?

MR. B. Can’t tell till I have tried it a week or two.

MR. H. (_amused_). Burley, you play your part well, that’s a fact.

MR. B. (_in apparent surprise_). Play my part well! What do you mean?

MR. H. Well, this is what I’ve got to say: If you are not tending this

stand you must be insane. (_Turning to MR. G._) Don’t you think so,

Goodenow?

MR. GOODENOW. It looks like it, certainly. (_Enter MRS. G. and her

friends, L._) Ah! here comes Mrs. Burley.

(_MR. G. and MR. H. gaze at them with curiosity. MR. B. looks

apprehensively._)

MRS. B. What are you doing, Frank?

MR. B. Tending an apple-stand, my love.

MRS. B. And pray what do you mean by disgracing your family in such a way?

F. I don’t see any disgrace about it. A dollar earned in this way is as

good as one gained in Pearl street.

MRS. O’C. (_who has been listening interestedly_). An’ it’s little enough

money you’ll make out of this business. Sure an’ the sooner you give up

yer stand the richer you’ll be.

JAMES (_to F._). Here you, I say give me two of them bananas. (_Pays for

them, and exit, eating._)

MRS. B. (_aside to ladies_). Well, I can’t bear this any longer.

Something must be done.

MRS. W. What shall it be?

MRS. S. One can see plainly enough he is insane.

MRS. B. (_turning to policeman_). You can see that he is evidently insane.

POLICEMAN. He does act strange, don’t he? A rich merchant like him, to

tend an apple-stand! But what shall I do?

MRS. B. I don’t know. This is probably the first stage of the disease.

I’m afraid he may become violent.

P. Would you advise me to arrest him?

MRS. B. (_whose thoughts revert to MR. WALTERS_). I am so distressed I

hardly know; but it seems as if he ought to be prevented from doing any

mischief. Perhaps it would be better to do so. That would bring matters

to a crisis, and we should know the worst.

(_Policeman goes round and comes in at an entrance back of MR. B.

Before the latter realizes it, he is handcuffed. He starts up at once,

indignant._)

MR. B. What do you mean by insulting me in this manner? Take these irons

off this instant. Do you hear?

MRS. S. (_to MRS. B._). He is getting worse, you see.

P. I couldn’t do it, my man. You better come with me. (_Takes him by the

shoulder._)

MR. B. Stop. First tell me what all this means.

P. Certainly. No gentleman in your position would think of leaving his

business and tending an apple-stand if he was in his right mind. So I

have put on these bracelets to prevent your doing any violence.

MR. B. Ha, ha, ha! “So fades my dreams!” Goodenow, you must give me

credit for sustaining my part of the agreement, as far as I alone am

concerned. But circumstances have conspired against me. (_Turning to

his wife._) My friend and myself laid a wager that I had not sufficient

courage to tend an apple-stand one whole day without giving any

explanation thereof. In attempting to do this it seems I have laid

myself under suspicion of being insane. I therefore abdicate in favor of

Mrs. Bridget Murphy, trusting she may find the position a pleasant and

more lucrative one than I have done. (_He comes forward and MRS. MURPHY

enters and takes his place._) Henceforth, like a dutiful subject, I will

restrain all improper inclinations, and confess that, like my friends and

neighbors, I, too, am a slave of Mrs. Grundy.

(_Curtain falls._)

AUNT HANNAH’S VALENTINE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MRS. CYNTHIA LELAND, a Farmer’s Wife.

MRS. MONTGOMERY, a Friend and former Schoolmate of Mrs. L.

HANNAH LELAND, Mr. Leland’s Sister.

OBADIAH RAKESTRAW, a Bachelor.

CARRIE LELAND, Mrs. L.’s Daughter.

HERBERT WALTON, Carrie’s Lover.

ADOLPHUS FITZ-WILLIAM, Mrs. M.’s Nephew.

CALEB LELAND, Carrie’s Brother.

SCENE I.—_In the field. CARRIE enters, R._

CARRIE (_soliloquizing_). So Mrs. Montgomery’s nephew is coming to-day.

I hope he is agreeable. I wonder if he is engaged. It must be nice to

marry a rich man, and live in the city, and go to balls, parties, and

the theatre. I don’t understand why Mrs. Montgomery doesn’t feel so. She

married a merchant, and can live in fine style in the city, but yet she

prefers the country. And to-day her nephew is coming here. He thinks

people on a farm are countrified, but I guess we can show him they are

not all so. I’ve a good mind to flirt with him a little, by way of

variety. I don’t believe it would be very difficult to captivate him.

Perhaps, I can teach him a lesson. (_Enter HERBERT, L., with a rake in

his hand._) Ah, Herbert—just going to work?

HERBERT. Yes. Won’t you go, too?

CAR. What inducement have you to offer?

H. A ride home on the hay after it is put into the wagon.

CAR. That might be sufficient sometimes, but not now, for I must hurry

home. Do you know, Herbert, we are to have a new-comer at our house, this

afternoon?

H. No. Who is it?

CAR. Mrs. Montgomery’s nephew. Adolphus Fitz-William is his name, I

believe. His aunt says he has never been in the country at all, and he

thinks farmers’ families are countrified to the last degree. She has his

picture, and it looks very foppish.

H. And he is coming to-day, is he?

CAR. Yes; he’s expected in the first afternoon train, and it’s about time

for that to be here. (_Hears a step, and turns toward L._) I guess that’s

he now. I must go. (_She hurries out, R._)

(_ADOLPHUS enters, L. He wears eye-glasses, and carries a cane; speaks

affectedly._)

ADOLPHUS. Can you tell me, aw, where Fawmer Leland lives, Jawnathan?

H. (_leaning carelessly on rake—aside_). I think I’ll humor him.

(_Aloud._) Wal, there now, who’d ’a’ thought you’d known what my name

was? Who told yer?

A. (_disdainfully_). You’re vewy familiah. Do you know where Fawmer

Leland lives?

H. (_eagerly_). You aint come to court his daughter, be ye?

A. Ah, has he a daughter?

H. He has that, an’ a pooty one, too. Rosy cheeks an’ bright eyes she’s

got. I tell ye, she’s harnsome. I think some o’ sparkin’ her myself.

A. (_contemptuously_). You, aw! Impossible! She wouldn’t look at such a

fellaw.

H. You dunno. Love goes whar it’s sent, an’ mebbe it’ll be sent to me.

A. But, aw, you haven’t answered my question. Can you tell me, aw, where

Fawmer Leland lives?

H. Oh, yes, I remember. But, ’say, did yer come from the city to-day?

A. No, aw didn’t.

H. Is that so? I swar, I thought yer did—yer look so ’mazin’ spruce. How

long be yer goin’ to stay, now?

A. No mattaw.

H. Sho, now, don’t go ter gittin’ mad over it.

A. (_angrily_). Will you tell me, aw, where Fawmer Leland lives or will

you not, aw?

H. In course I will; but you needn’t git so mighty mad. Ye haint asked me

yit.

A. (_emphatically_). I’ve asked you fower sevewal times.

H. It’s no sich a thing. Ye asked me if I could tell yer where he lived

and ef I knowed where he lived. In course I couldn’t arnser a question

’fore ’twas put. I was eddicated to be perlite even ter my inferiors.

When yer _ask_ the question, I’ll arnser it.

A. (_in a loud voice_). You impertinent fellaw, where does Fawmer Leland

live?

H. Don’t go to puttin’ on airs, now. D’ye see them chimblys over there?

(_pointing R._).

A. Yes, aw do.

H. Well, then, make a bee-line for ’em. Them’s the chimblys to Farmer

Leland’s house. (_Exit A., R._ _H., solus._) If he’d been a civil feller,

I’d ’a’ shown him the path. Now he’ll have to climb four rickety stone

walls, and I dunno as how he can do it safely with them tight breeches

on. But I must go to work. _Tempus fuggit_, as the schoolmaster says.

(_Exit, L., with rake on his shoulder. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_MRS. LELAND’S sitting-room. CALEB, sitting, R. C.,

peeling apples. CARRIE, L. C., dusting furniture. Enter AUNT

HANNAH, R._

AUNT HANNAH (_in a complaining tone_). Well, I declare, haint you begun

your baking yet, Car’line? It’s nigh onto noon, and you won’t get dinner

ready in season.

CAR. Well, you know I can’t make my pies till the apples are ready.

You’ll have to talk to Caleb. I’ve been trying to hurry him.

A. H. (_to CAL., severely_). I should be ashamed, if I was a boy, to be

so long peeling a few apples.

CAL. Oh, what’s the use in hurrying? There’s plenty of time.

A. H. (_testily_). In my young days things didn’t go on so. Good

house-keepers got their bakin’ done by eight o’clock in the morning. They

didn’t spend all day in the kitchen, as they do now.

CAR. Don’t be troubled, Aunt Hannah; everything will be finished early,

and dinner on the table at the usual time.

A. H. Well, I hope ’twill, but things don’t look much like it now.

(_Exit A. H., L._)

CAL. Aunt Hannah is never happy except when she’s finding fault with

somebody. She’s gone off mad, and I’m glad of it. I hope she’ll stay away.

(_Enter ADOLPHUS, L._)

ADOLPHUS. I’ve been looking for you, Miss Carwy. Will you, aw, go out and

walk with me this morning?

CAR. I don’t think I could. Mother is away, you know, and I have all the

housework to do.

A. Couldn’t I, aw, assist you, so you could go?

CAR. I think not. I’m afraid there’s none of my work that you could do.

CAL. (_shaking his head in a significant way_). You jest make me that

offer, Mr. Fitz. I’ll warrant you I won’t refuse. I know you’ll be able

to do _my_ work. And I can show you round a great deal better than Carrie

can.

(_A. deigns no reply to CAL., but gazes earnestly at CAR._)

CAR. I declare, I’m afraid my bread is burning. I nearly forgot it.

(_Goes out, R._)

CAL. Heigho! I don’t feel like peeling apples. I guess I’ll see what girl

loves me best. (_Lifts the entire skin of an apple, which he has taken

off in one long strip, and swings it slowly three times round his head,

then drops it on the floor behind him. He stoops and examines it eagerly,

then claps his hands._) Sure’s the world, that’s an L, an’ stands for

Lizy Blake. I was most sure ’twould be so. That sign always comes true.

A. (_who had been looking on with interest_). What are you doing, aw,

Caleb?

CAL. I’ve been finding out who was my true love. Want to try your hand at

it?

A. (_glancing round to see that no one else is present_). Well, aw, I

might try.

CAL. That one’s broken, but I’ll soon make you another. (_Takes an apple,

peels it, and passes the skin to A. The latter swings it very awkwardly

round his head, staggering as he endeavors to do so without breaking it.

At last he drops it on the floor behind him._)

CAL. I declare, Mr. Fitz, you’re about as graceful as a cow.

A. (_unheeding his remark, and examining the skin, which lay curled up on

the floor_). That’s a C, aw, plain enough.

CAL. (_looking at it closely_). It’s an exact H. Who can that stand for?

Oh, I know. It must be that you’re going to marry Aunt Hannah.

A. What do you mean, aw, by such a fawlshood? (_Attempts to strike CAL.

with his cane, but CAL. leaps behind a chair, which he lifts, and uses as

a protection. Enter CAR._)

CAR. Why, what’s the matter?

CAL. Nothing, only Mr. Fitz has been telling me who his sweetheart is,

and he don’t like it ’cause I won’t promise not to tell anybody.

CAR. You’d better go out in the kitchen, and finish your work. I’m in a

hurry for the apples.

(_Exit, CAL., R. CAR. sits down, C._)

A. You must be tired, aw, with your labors.

CAR. Oh no, indeed; but I am waiting for that lazy Caleb to finish the

apples, so I can be making my pies.

A. (_deliberately spreading his handkerchief upon the floor before her,

and kneeling upon it_). Miss Leland—Carwy, I have long sought, aw, this

opportunity to confess, aw, my love for you. Do not deny me, aw, and doom

me to dwead despair.

(_A sound of approaching footsteps is heard._)

CAR. (_hurriedly_). Mr. Fitz-William, rise, I beseech you.

A. Not until you give me a favorable answer to my suit.

CAR. I cannot—I—(_Enter CAL., R. A. rises._)

CAL. (_laughs quite loud_). Ha! ha! ha! (_Enter MRS. MONTGOMERY and AUNT

HANNAH, L._)

MRS. MONTGOMERY. What can be the matter?

A. H. What’s all this noise about? Anybody’d think the house was afire,

to hear such a racket.

A. It’s that impertinent young wascal, aw, who’s been scweaming like a

locomotive whistle.

CAL. Who wouldn’t ’a’ laughed, if they’d come in, as I did, and seen Mr.

Fitz-William on his knees asking Carrie to marry him?

MRS. M. Why, Adolphus, I thought you were engaged to Helen Lindsay, who

lives in the city.

CAL. And ’twarn’t more’n ten minutes ago that he spoke about marryin’

Aunt Hannah. (_The spinster smiles benignantly._)

A. I did not, aw. I’d sooner marwy Beelzebub’s daughtaw than such a

she-dwagon.

A. H. (_seizing a broom and chasing him around the stage._) You would,

would ye? Then, you just git out o’ this house. You shan’t stay in it a

minute longer.

CAL. (_waving his hand_). That’s it, Aunt Hannah. Pitch into him lively.

Go ahead, an’ I’ll help yer.

(_Exit A., L., followed by A. H. and CALEB._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_The same. Time, six months later. MRS. LELAND,

sitting at table, R. C., and CALEB, L. C. Enter AUNT HANNAH, R._

A. H. (_going to MRS. L._). Is this stockin’ goin’ to be large enough for

Calup?

MRS. LELAND (_examining stocking_). I guess so. It is larger than the

last pair.

CAL. Aunt Hannah thinks my understanding is increasing pretty fast.

A. H. (_bluntly_). It’s a pity ’taint your politeness instid o’ your feet

that’s agrowin’.

MRS. L. (_looking up_). Take another chair, Caleb, and let your aunt have

the rocking-chair.

CAL. (_rising and taking another chair_). Of course—age before good looks.

A. H. (_sinking down into rocking-chair_). In my day, children warn’t

allowed to make fun of their relations.

MRS. L. Caleb doesn’t mean anything, Aunt Hannah, but he ought not to

speak so.

A. H. (_severely_). P’r’aps he don’t. This aint the fust time he’s been

sassy to me.

CAL. Well, why can’t you be jolly, like other folks? I have to make fun

so’s to make up for your lookin’ an’ talkin’ so dismal.

A. H. (_sighing_). Well, I shan’t always be here to trouble you with my

looks. When I’m gone, maybe you’ll wish you hadn’t laughed at me as you

have. (_Bell rings._)

CAL. (_eagerly_). There’s the door-bell. Shall I go, mother?

MRS. L. Yes, for I must go upstairs to get some pieces to mend this coat

with.

(_Exit_, R.)

(_CAL. goes out, L., and immediately returns with a letter. He pretends

to be studying the address._)

CAL. M-m-iss Lel-land.

A. H. Calup, that letter’s for me. Give it to me this minute.

CAL. (_holding it behind him_). It aint a letter; it’s a valentine. It’s

got all sorts of pretty figures on the envelope. Promise, Aunt Hannah,

that you’ll let me see the inside of it, and I’ll give it to you right

off.

A. H. (_rising, and laying knitting on the table_). I shan’t make any

promises. Give me that letter, Calup. (_CAL. runs round stage with

letter. His aunt, running after him, tries in vain to catch him._)

MRS. L. (_from outside_). Ca-leb! Ca-leb!

CAL. (_darting across the room in a tantalizing way, lays letter on the

table_). By the time you get it read, Aunt Hannah, I’ll be back all ready

to see it.

(_Exit, R._)

A. H. (_takes letter eagerly, and sits down, L. C._). It is a valentine,

as sure as I’m alive. Who could have sent it? (_Reads._)

“My dearest One: This is St. Valentine’s, the day when every

person is privileged to write tender epistles to their loved

ones. So I have seated myself to write to you. I did think of

asking you a question which my past attentions have, no doubt,

led you to expect. But, on second thoughts, I have concluded to

call on you and ask the question in person. I am sure you will

have no difficulty in recognizing

“YOUR DEVOTED VALENTINE.”

A. H. (_laying valentine on table, sits back in chair, clasps her

hands together, rocking, and apparently meditating_). Well, there’s a

perspective proposal, and I’m sure it couldn’t come from anybody but

Obadiah Rakestraw. His mother’s just died, and he used to go to singing

school with me when I was a girl (_complacently_), and he’ll be here

to-night. I guess I’ll go and fix up a little, as long as he’s sent me

word he’s coming.

(_Exit A. H., R. Enter CARRIE by same door._)

CAR. (_soliloquizing_). Oh, dear, how unhappy I am! it is six months

since Herbert went away, and I know it was because he thought I liked

that popinjay Adolphus. Of course, he doesn’t know that it was nothing

but a flirtation, and that I couldn’t endure the sight of Adolphus

afterwards. I didn’t think Herbert would have gone off so suddenly,

without even writing me a note to say he was going. Six months ago, and

I’ve been so miserable all this weary time! (_Suddenly sees the letter._)

What’s this, a valentine, addressed to Miss Leland? Why, that’s my name,

and, of course, I have a right to read it. (_Opens it, and notices

contents._) Yes, it was intended for me, and is in Herbert’s handwriting

(_joyfully_), and he is to be here this evening! But how came it opened?

(_With sudden thought._) It must be that Aunt Hannah has opened and read

it, thinking it was intended for her. I guess I’ll place the letter where

I found it (_lays it down_), and leave the room till the time comes for

Herbert to arrive.

(_Exit CARRIE, L., and enter CALEB, R._)

CAL. Well, that’s pretty treatment, for Aunt Hannah to go off when I told

her partic’larly I was coming right back; and most likely she has carried

the valentine with her. (_Looking round, his gaze falls on the letter._)

No, she hasn’t, either. By George! she was quite good, for her. (_Takes

letter, which he opens and reads. Looks up with ludicrous expression._)

So Aunt Hannah has really got a beau! Who can he be? I guess he don’t

know her as well as some folks do. Let’s see (_Consulting the letter._)

He’s coming here to-night to ask her that question. It’ll be worth a

great deal to see anybody making love to Aunt Hannah. How can I manage

to be round to see how it’s done? (_Looks around._) Oh, this is just

the thing. (_Goes behind a curtain, which he draws, thereby concealing

himself. A. H., dressed in black silk and wearing a gay headdress,

enters, R._)

A. H. (_taking letter, which she puts in her pocket_). Well, there, I was

rather ventur’som in leaving this valentine on the table. It’s a wonder

that Calup didn’t come in an’ get hold of it. If he had, I’d never have

heard the last of it. (_A knock at the door, L. A. H. opens it, and

ushers in OBADIAH RAKESTRAW._)

A. H. Good evening, Mr. Rakestraw.

OBADIAH RAKESTRAW. Good-evening, Miss Leland. So you’re all alone

this evening. (_They sit down with their backs to CALEB’S place of

concealment._)

A. H. Yes, I happen to be just now, but I suppose the rest of the folks

will be in soon. (_Aside._) I wonder if he won’t take the hint.

CAL. (_aside._) Oh, my! aint she sly?

O. R. I thought I’d just come in and make a neighborly call this evening.

A. H. Just so. I’m glad the spirit took ye. It be kind o’ lonesome for

you at home.

O. R. Wall, ’tis so sometimes.

A. H. Ye ought to get married.

O. R. I’m afraid nobody’d have me.

A. H. Oh, you’re too shy. There’s nothin’ like tryin’. To-night is St.

Valentine’s, and there aint no time like the present. All ye’ve got to do

is jest ask the question. I’ll warrant you’ll get a favorable answer.

CAL. (_aside_). Don’t she drive business?

O. R. Wall, I’ve a good mind to take your advice. As you say, ’tis kind

o’ lonesome, an’ I can’t more’n get refused (_rising_); so I’ll jest go

over an’ ask Hitty Trumbull if she’ll marry me.

A. H. (_indignantly, rising_). Mehitable Trumbull! You don’t mean you’re

going to offer yourself to her.

O. R. That’s jest what I mean.

A. H. Well, it’s downright dishonorable treatment, after the letter you

sent me to-day.

O. R. (_surprised_). I haven’t sent you any letter.

A. H. (_taking it from pocket_). Didn’t you write that valentine?

O. R. (_glancing over it_). I never saw it before; and, between you and

me, I don’t think it was intended for you.

A. H. Do you mean to insult me by saying I open other folks’ letters?

O. R. Not exactly, but I think this was written to your niece. It aint

the kind o’ valentine one would be likely to send to a person of your age.

A. H. (_in a high tone_). You mean to twit me about my age, do you? I’ll

just let you know that I’m six years younger than Mehitable Trumbull. But

I won’t listen to any more of your insultin’ remarks; so just leave this

house, or I’ll call somebody to help you.

O. R. It’s lucky I didn’t offer to marry you, as you asked me to. I see

your temper hasn’t improved any since we used to go to singing-school

together.

(_Exit O. R., L. A. H., almost frantic, paces back and forth._)

A. H. The villain! to treat me so. But it’s lucky none of the folks know

anything about it. I must change my dress before any of them come in.

(_Exit A. H., R._)

CAL. (_coming forward_). Wasn’t that rich? To think of Aunt Hannah, who

“wouldn’t marry the best man living,” offering herself, and then, after

all, that her love should be refused. (_Voices outside._) But who’s that?

Perhaps, she’s coming back again. She mustn’t find me here. (_Hides

behind the curtain. Enter HERBERT and CARRIE, talking earnestly._)

CAR. It was only by accident that I happened to see your letter at all.

Aunt Hannah received and read it, and thought it was sent to her.

H. Who could she have supposed sent it?

CAR. I don’t know, I’m sure.

CAL. (_peeping out, aside_). I know all about it.

H. But you haven’t answered the question it contained.

CAR. (_demurely_). Did it contain one? I thought the note said you

intended to ask a question; but, as you didn’t do so, I supposed you’d

changed your mind.

H. You needn’t pretend ignorance. I can’t propose with the same grace

that Adolphus did, but you can’t help knowing that I meant to ask you to

marry me. (_Taking her hand._) Will you be my wife, Carrie?

CAR. (_archly_). I suppose it wouldn’t do to say anything but “Yes,”

especially as, if I refuse, I couldn’t return your letter, since Aunt

Hannah has taken possession of it.

H. I shouldn’t be satisfied with any other answer. Now, let’s go and tell

your mother about it, and then we’ll set the wedding day.

(_Exeunt, arm in arm._)

CAL. (_coming forward_). Well that was a little addition I didn’t expect.

I’ve always wondered how folks popped the question, but I’ve found out

all about it, and now I can do it like a book. I guess I’ll go down and

see ’Lizy Blake before I forget how it’s done. If she says “Yes” we’ll

have a loaf of wedding-cake as big as our new school-house. (_With sudden

thought_) I don’t know though, but I ought to write a valentine, and send

to her, first, to let her know I’m coming. That’s the way Herbert did.

But then, just as likely as not, her aunt Lizy’d get it, thinking ’twas

for her. She’s cross-eyed, an’ wears false hair an’ store teeth, an’ I

couldn’t have her on my hands. No, I guess I’ll go right down, an’ do my

sparkin’ in good style, an’ wind up by askin’ ’Lizy if _I_ shan’t be her

Valentine.

(_Exit L. Curtain falls._)

MR. BLISS’ VISION.

CHARACTERS.

MR. HIRAM BLISS, A Wealthy Bachelor.

DICK WELLINGTON, His Nephew and Prospective Heir.

MRS. MARIAN PAYNE, A Widow.

SERVANT.

SCENE I.—_MR. BLISS’ parlor. MR. B. present, pacing back and

forth._

MR. BLISS (_soliloquizing_). Sixty years old to-day! Well, well, how

time passes! It seems but yesterday since I was a lad, going to school,

and making love to the girls, instead of studying the lessons which

Master Winthrop gave out. It seems strange how persons change as they

grow older. Then, I was a favorite with the girls, and always escorted

one or more to every party, husking, or apple-bee. Now, when called upon

to entertain a marriageable person of the other sex, I’m thrown into a

decided flutter. It’s ridiculous for one of my age and experience, but

still it is a lamentable fact. There was Minnie Warren, a blue-eyed

little fairy to whom I got very much attached; in tact, we were engaged.

I believe if she hadn’t left Cherryville as she did, I should have

finally married her. I was indignant enough when I heard that her father

had bought the Union Mills, and the family were going to leave town. She

finally married, I heard, and made some man happy. (_A pause._) Well,

some say every one has their share of good and ill fortune; but the fact

is, I believe that some are fated to be happy, and some to be miserable

in this world.

DICK (_entering, L._). Hallo, uncle; have you got the blues? What right

have you to talk about being miserable—you, who have everything that

wealth can procure to make you happy?

MR. B. I know I have everything comfortable here, but the fact is, Dick,

I’m lonely in this great house. You, who pass most of your time in a

store, with people constantly coming and going, take pleasure in spending

a week or two in a quiet place, and among new scenes; but there’s no

novelty in it to me, who have lived here for twenty years with no one in

the house but servants.

D. It must be rather lonesome to live here all the time (_glancing

furtively at his companion_). I expect you’ll be marrying one of these

days, uncle.

MR. B. I might have done so once, but it’s too late now. I’ve got settled

down in my bachelor ways, and cannot depart from them.

D. (_mischievously_). You may be forced to depart from them, uncle.

MR. B. (_alarmed_). What do you mean, Dick?

D. You remember the widow Payne, that we have met several times lately?

MR. B. (_interested_). Yes. What of her?

D. She has been heard to express a very favorable opinion of you.

MR. B. That amounts to nothing.

D. But you know that this is leap year, when ladies are privileged to

propose.

MR. B. (_startled_). But you don’t think she would do such a thing?

D. (_solemnly_). It is impossible to say. She is a widow, and you know

the race of men has been warned, by an astute observer of human nature,

to beware of that class of humanity. If she has any sympathy with the

“Woman’s Rights” movement, I’m afraid you’re fated, uncle.

MR. B. I couldn’t stand that. But what shall I do, Dick? Leave town?

D. There wouldn’t be any use in that, unless you staid away the remainder

of the year.

MR. B. (_nervously_). I couldn’t do that.

D. Then be courageous and bear it like a man. Of course you’d refuse the

honor (_questioningly_)?

MR. B. Of course I should. I wouldn’t accept under any consideration.

D. Then that’s all settled. But if you should get into any kind of a

scrape, just let me know, and I’ll get you out of it—trust me, uncle.

MR. B. Well, I think I will. No doubt you know more about those things

than I do.

D. (_smiling_). I dare say I do.

MR. B. (_rising_). Well, I must go and take my morning walk. Will you go

too?

D. (_rising_). Yes; where shall we go?

MR. B. We might as well go and call on the widow, and take a survey of

the situation, as I don’t mean to be entrapped by any of her wiles.

D. (_sharply scrutinizing MR. B.—aside_). I must look out for this uncle

of mine. He may himself propose to the widow, instead of her proposing

to him, and that would be death to my prospects. I must look out and not

lose the property. (_Takes out a couple of cigars, which he offers to his

uncle.—Aloud._) Have a cigar, uncle?

MR. B.—Thank you, I don’t care if I do. (_Takes one._)

(_Exeunt, L. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_The same. Time, evening. MR. BLISS sits alone, R.,

with his feet resting on the table, smoking and reading the

evening paper. A lady (DICK disguised as MRS. PAYNE) enters L.,

wearing bonnet and shawl, and closely veiled. MR. BLISS starts

up in excitement and offers his hand._

MR. B. Good-evening, Mrs. Payne. I am very happy to see you. (_Leads her

to a seat._) Lay aside your bonnet and shawl, won’t you?

MRS. PAYNE. No, I thank you. I cannot stop long. I only came in to make a

call.

MR. B. I am afraid this smoke is offensive to you.

MRS. P. Oh, not at all. I enjoy the fragrance of a good cigar.

(_MR. B. lays down his cigar._)

MRS. P. It is quite cool out, this evening.

MR. B. Yes—no—that is, it may be—but I haven’t been out this evening.

MRS. P. I haven’t seen you at our house for several days.

MR. B. (_nervously_). No—I—have been very busy and couldn’t come, but

have thought of you, and meant to come.

MRS. P. So you have thought of me. I am glad of that. I have thought of

you, also.

MR. B. (_startled_). Ah! Th—thank you, but—

MRS. P. (_interrupting_). I dare say you couldn’t guess my errand

to-night.

MR. B. (_nervously_). Oh—no, of course not.

MRS. P. I have long loved you, and have felt certain that I was not

disagreeable to you—and, knowing your timidity, I have availed myself of

the privileges of Leap Year to come and offer myself to you. (_Rises and

throws her arms around his neck._) Hiram, I love you,—do you reciprocate

my affection?

MR. B. (_almost overpowered, and looking around, nervously_). I—I—must

take time to think of it—it is so sudden.

MRS. P. It may be sudden—and yet why delay our happiness? (_Her head

droops on his shoulder._)

MR. B. I—I need time to consider (_a sound of approaching footsteps is

heard_)—I—I must go—let me go. I have an engagement at nine.

MRS. P. Then give your consent to our marriage.

MR. B. (_struggling frantically to free himself_). I cannot—I—(_a sound

is heard as of a person at the door_). Let me go—let me go—(_in an

imploring tone_) quick—somebody’s coming.

MRS. P. Say yes, then, dearest Hiram.

MR. B. (_in an agony of fear_). Yes, yes—anything, if you will only

leave me. (_MRS. P. imprints an audible kiss upon his forehead and turns

to leave the room. Apparently by mistake she grasps the bell-knob and

pulls it vigorously. She goes out by one door, L., as servant enters by

another, R._)

SERVANT. Did you ring, sir?

MR. B. Ring? N—no. I don’t wish for anything.

S. That’s strange. The bell rang distinctly, and so loud that I thought

you was in a hurry.

MR. B. Well, it’s of no consequence. I don’t need anything.

(_Exit SERVANT, R._)

MR. B. (_pacing the room and soliloquizing_). What have I done? Engaged

myself to this widow, notwithstanding all my resolutions to the contrary.

But something must be done about it. What shall it be? I might leave

town—but that would be cowardly. Besides, I shouldn’t want to shut up

the house. I might write, saying I had changed my mind; but I’m afraid

that wouldn’t be just the thing. (_Paces back and forth a few moments

without speaking._) The fact is, I shall be obliged to marry the widow.

There seems to be no other way left me, after giving my promise to her.

But I won’t say a word to Dick about it. (_A pause._) After all, I might

do a worse thing. She would be a credit to my establishment, and the

presence of a woman _would_ brighten up the house. I guess I must go

there in the morning and talk the matter over.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_MRS. PAYNE’S sitting-room. MRS. PAYNE present

sewing, R. MR. BLISS enters, L._

MRS. P. Good-morning, Mr. Bliss.

MR. B. Good-morning, and a charming morning it is. I came, Mrs. Payne, to

speak further on the matter we were talking of last evening.

MRS. P. Last evening? You mean a week ago.

MR. B. No, I mean last evening.

MRS. P. But you were not here last evening.

MR. B. (_perplexed_). Certainly not; but you called on me.

MRS. P. What do you mean, Mr. Bliss?

MR. B. (_smiling_). I mean that you made a leap-year call on me last

evening, and offered me your heart and hand, which I accepted.

MRS. P. (_casting down her eyes_). I am sorry to dispute you, but I had a

severe headache last evening, and did not leave the house.

MR. B. (_in a disappointed tone_). Is that so? But certainly some one

bearing your semblance called on me last evening. (_A pause._) It must

have been one of Dick’s harum-scarum tricks.

MRS. P. No doubt it was. He is full of mischief.

MR. B. Mrs. Payne—

MRS. P. (_smiling_). Well, Mr. Bliss.

MR. B. (_fidgeting nervously_). Couldn’t we make my vision of last

evening a reality?

MRS. P. Possibly we might, if you desired it very much. But I’m afraid

you haven’t counted the cost. You have been a bachelor so long, that you

might soon tire of a wife, and consider her an intruder.

MR. B. I am satisfied it would not be so. Besides it seems as if I had

known you before; where can I have met you?

MRS. P. Why, don’t you remember? I knew you at once—I was formerly Minnie

Warren.

MR. B. Then I claim you by right of an engagement made between us

forty-six years ago—when you were twelve and I was fourteen. Have you

forgotten it?

MRS. P. Oh, no, I remember it perfectly well; and how I cried when we

left town because you could not go too.

MR. B. (_drawing his chair nearer and placing his arm around her_).

There is a good deal of change in the age and size of your lover as he

was and as he is. Are you not afraid of repenting if you should marry him?

MRS. P. (_archly_). Oh, no. It is a good trade to exchange a little Payne

for a greater bliss. I am satisfied as far as I am concerned.

DICK (_entering, L._). Hallo! What’s all this? I’m afraid I’m intruding.

(_Looks anxiously at his companions._)

MR. B. Not at all. Allow me to present you to your future aunt.

DICK (_bowing low—aside_). There’s my inheritance gone to the dogs, and

by my own act. (_Aloud to uncle._) This is something new, isn’t it? How

did it all come about?

MR. B. (_significantly_). I had a leap-year vision last evening, and have

concluded, this morning, to make it a reality.

(_Curtain falls._)

HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MISS EVELYN MONTAGUE, A lady of Wealth.

KATY MAGUIRE, ⎫

ANN FLAHERTY, ⎪

BRIDGET MAGLONE, ⎬ Her Servants.

MARY FINNEGAN, ⎪

JAMES DUNN, ⎪

PAT. GARVEY, ⎭

ELLEN SWEENY, ⎫

JULIA GRIFFIN, ⎬ Servants of Mrs. Bradley.

CORNY REILLY, ⎭

SCENE I.—_MISS EVELYN’S chamber. KATY MAGUIRE, R., dressed in

blue silk, standing before a mirror. She is putting on a lace

collar._

KATY. It is my private opinion that this blue dress is the purtiest of

the lot, an’ as long as Miss Evelyn won’t wear it, there’s no reason why

Katy Maguire shouldn’t. It won’t be long before it’ll be out of fashion;

an’ it might as well be doin’ a little good to somebody, first.

(_She takes out from jewel-case several sets of jewelry, and fastens

them in conspicuous places on the waist of the dress. She puts all the

bracelets she can find on her wrists, and places around her neck a gold

chain, and also a string of cornelian beads. Taking a richly-embroidered

handkerchief in her hand, she gazes complacently at herself in the

mirror._)

K. There, Katy Maguire (_courtesying to the image reflected_), you look

like a lady born and bred. If your mistress should see you now, she

wouldn’t need to ask if you was an experienced dressing-maid. There aint

many that shows such fine taste in dressin’, or has enough jewelry to

set off the dress with. What an ilegant trail it has, sure! (_glancing

complacently back at the dress, and taking two or three steps forward to

see the effect. Enter MARY, R._)

MARY (_starting back in surprise_). Well, Katy, who ever’d ha’ thought of

this being you? What are you rigged up in Miss Evelyn’s finery for?

K. (_loftily_). I am Miss Maguire, now, and I expect you’ll treat me

like a lady, as I am. I shall give a reception this evenin’ in the

drawin’-room, an’ when you go downstairs, you can invite Miss Flaherty,

Miss Maglone, an’ Mister Dunn to be present. An’ if Miss Flaherty thinks

best, she might send in to the next house, an’ invite our friends there

to come in.

M. What do you suppose Miss Evelyn will say?

K. (_sarcastically_). If you feel anxious to know ye might ask her when

she gets home. The entertainment’ll be over before that time. But yer

better be goin’ down now to deliver the invitation, as it’s gitting late

(_walks along a few steps, swinging her dress_).

M. (_with a look of hatred which changes to a malicious smile_) I’ll be

after goin’, thin, Miss Maguire. (_With a mocking bow she leaves the

room, R._)

K. It’s aisy to see that Mary is jealous of my good looks. But I pity the

poor crathur, for she’s as homely as a sick duck. I must go downstairs

now. It’s most time for James to be home from drivin’ Miss Evelyn to the

party. He’s a nice lad, an’ I’ll be much surprised if he aint took wid my

charms.

(_Exit, R._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_Kitchen. ANN FLAHERTY, R., BRIDGET MAGLONE, R. C.,

JAMES DUNN, L. C., and PAT. GARVEY, L., present. Enter MARY, L._

M. (_excitedly_). Well, I never seen sich doin’s before! (_All come

forward expectantly._)

BRIDGET. An’ what is it, Mary?

PATRICK (_eagerly_). What’s the row upstairs? Anybody kilt?

M. Katy’s been up to Miss Evelyn’s chamber an’ rigged up in her clothes,

an’ she says she’s goin’ to give a grand party in the drawin’-room this

avenin’, an’ invites all to be prisint.

JAMES (_rubbing his hands_). Ah! Katy’s a jew’l.

ANN. Av course we’ll all accept the invitation.

M. She says if ye thought best, he might sind in to the next house an’

invite the frinds there.

B. Sure an’ we _do_ think best. Pat., jist run over to Mr. Bradley’s an’

ask the cook an’ all the rest to come over here an’ pass the avenin’.

We’re going to have a grand party here. Tell ’em to come right away.

P. I’ll bring ’em all in, in five minutes.

(_Exit L., swinging his hat._)

M. An’ what d’ye think Miss Evelyn will say?

B. Arrah now, Miss Evelyn will niver know anything about it. We’ll be all

through with the party before she comes home.

A. Indade an’ ye may trust Katy to get through’t safely. She’s lived with

the quality before now, an’ knows how things is done. She’s shrewd, Katy

is.

J. That’s thrue for you. An’ how can Miss Evelyn come home till I go

after her? She tould me to have the carriage there at half-past twelve

o’clock, an’ it isn’t ulleven yit.

A. I’m thinkin’ we ought to have a trate before the party is over.

B. Av coorse we must have some refrishments.

J. I ixpect you ladies can manage that.

A. We’ve got plinty o’ presarves and cake an’ wine. But we’ll want some

ice-crame.

J. I’ll furnish that same. I’ll sind Pat. for it whin he comes back.

B. Thin we’ll go upstairs now.

A. The rest of yez go, an’ I’ll lay the table all ready for the trate. It

won’t be long before I’ll be wid yez.

(_Exit all but ANN. Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_MISS EVELYN’S drawing-room. KATY seated on sofa,

C., with the skirts of her dress spread out so as to make as

great a display as possible. Enter ANN, BRIDGET, MARY and

JAMES, R. All but MARY make low bows to her. She acknowledges

the salutations by a slight inclination of her head._

J. This must be a very select party, when Miss Maguire didn’t invite more

persons to be prisint.

B. Sure we don’t know how many invitations she has sint out. Fashionable

people don’t come very airly. We’ll have more byme-by. (_Bell rings._)

They’re beginnin’ to arrive now.

K. Misther Dunn ye’ll oblige me by goin’ to the door, if ye plaze.

(_JAMES goes out, and soon returns L., with CORNY REILLY, ELLEN SWEENY

and JULIA GRIFFIN. He conducts them to KATY._)

J. Miss Maguire, this is Miss Sweeny, Miss Griffin, and Misther Reilly.

CORNY (_bowing with many flourishes_). My respects to yez, Miss Maguire.

(_The other two visitors bow, and KATY returns the salutations of all._)

J. Miss Maguire, won’t ye favor us with a little illegant music?

M. It’s little enough of that kind ye’ll get.

K. If ye’ll esquort me to the pianner, I’ll play pervidin’ yez will all

sing.

A. (_who has just entered_). Av coorse we will.

M. I aint a-goin’ to sing anyway.

K. (_sarcastically_). Yer vice won’t be missed, Miss Finnegan.

J. Allow me to lade yez to the pianner.

(_KATY takes his arm and goes to the piano, L. C., where she seats

herself._)

K. (_turning around_). What can ye sing, ladies?

J. You choose the song for us.

K. Well, thin, it’s a midley I’ll play, an’ then ye can sing what ye

plaze.

(_She commences drumming on the piano, and her companions, grouped around

her, sing, each one a different piece, a short one. Enter PAT., R., who

dances round the stage till the close of the singing._)

P. (_going to KATY and speaking in a low tone, but loud enough for all

to hear_). Say, Katy, I’ve been down-town, an’ got some ice-crame. It’s

downstairs now. We’re going to have a big trate byme-by.

K. (_smiling graciously_). Is that so, Pat.?

P. Yis, an’ the things on the table looked so timptin’ that I stopped an’

refreshed mesilf wid a little cake an’ wine. (_Begins to sing some Irish

air._)

J. Look here, Pat.; what did ye meddle with that wine for? Ye spalpeen, I

b’lave ye’re dhrunk.

P. (_slyly_). Sure, that’s where ye’re wrong, Misther Dunn. I jist took a

wee dthrop to keep my sperits up. (_Begins to dance._)

J. It’s more like ye’ve put all the sperits down yer throat, yer thafe of

the world!

P. Owin’ to my partic’lar good nature, I shan’t notice that little

insinivation o’ yours. But say, now, let’s have a dance. If you aint

goin’ ter play, Katy, jest be my partner, will yer?

J. Miss Maguire’s engaged ter me.

K. Yis, I’m engaged to Misther Dunn.

P. Whew! That’s the way the wind blows, thin. Well _dunn_, Jimmy! (_All

laugh._)

J. (_pushing PAT._). Jist be a little more respectful to your betters, ye

blackguard! (_Turning to KATY politely_) Will you allow me, Miss Maguire?

(_Offers his arm, which KATY takes, and they take their places for the

dance._)

P. Say now, who’s goin’ to fiddle for us? Or is we goin’ ter dance widout

any music?

C. Miss Sweeny plays on the pianner at our house.

K. Then perhaps Miss Sweeny will do us the favor ter play for us.

(_In imitation of JAMES’ example, PAT. immediately rushes up to ELLEN,

saying with many flourishes:_)

P. Allow me, Miss Sweeny. (_She takes his arm and goes to piano and seats

herself._)

(_PAT. goes to MARY, and offers his arm for the dance, but she turns

disdainfully from him, and goes out with a lofty air. PAT. then goes to

JULIA, who accepts him as a partner. CORNEY, at the same time, takes

BRIDGET and ANN (one on either arm), and all have taken their places. At

the sound of the piano, they break into an Irish jig of the wildest sort.

PAT. cuts up the maddest capers. A bell rings outside, but in the uproar

it is unheard by the dancers. A moment later, MISS EVELYN appears at the

door, L. She stands for a moment, dumfounded at the scene before her. At

first she is not seen by any of the company, but ELLEN, happening to look

up, beholds her and clasps her hands in alarm. The dancers, not hearing

the sound of the piano, look toward it to discover the cause. They

observe the dismay pictured in ELLEN’S face, and, following the direction

of her eyes, they behold MISS EVELYN. They stand with startled faces._)

MISS EVELYN (_sternly_). What does all this mean?

M. (_triumphantly_). It’s all Katy’s doin’s, miss.

K. (_Darting a withering glance at the speaker, and then turning to MISS

E._). We were only indulgin’ in a little innocent amusement, ma’am. I

hope you’re not offended.

MISS E. But who gave you leave to deck yourself in this manner?

K. Sure I was only airin’ the dress, ma’am, as it had hung so long in the

closet.

MISS E. Well, I don’t approve of any such airs. Leave the room, every one

of you! The idea of my drawing-room being the scene of a servants’ party!

You will all receive your discharge to-morrow morning.

(_The servants leave the room, R., looking crestfallen enough—all but

KATY, who sweeps out of the room with a lofty air, determined to keep up

her character to the last._)

P. (_aside to ANN, who goes out last_). An’ aint we goin’ to have our

trate then?

A. (_aside_). Whist! Yis. Say nothin’. We’re goin’ to have it right away.

Miss Evelyn never comes down below at this time o’ night.

(_Exeunt._)

MISS E. (_seating herself C. in disgust_). Was there ever any annoyance

equal to that of keeping servants? Mine are a constant source of trouble.

I have threatened to discharge them all to-morrow morning. But what shall

I gain by it? I shall have another set who will perhaps try my patience

even more than these have done. Servants understand their importance,

and realize their power over their employers. It is becoming a species

of tyranny. If I could only do without them I most assuredly would do

so. (_A shout of laughter is heard in the distance. MISS E. stands up._)

What! haven’t they done yet? Probably they are gormandizing, downstairs,

at my expense. (_To the audience—a little sarcastically:_) I have heard

some persons wish for wealth, so that they could afford to keep servants

to wait on them. They do not realize the emptiness of their desires.

A person who has few wants, and can minister to them himself, is more

independent than the wealthiest person living. Those who keep a multitude

of servants are dependent on _their whims_, and should not be surprised

at frequent outbursts of High Life Below Stairs.

(_Curtain falls._)

BOARDING ON A FARM.

CHARACTERS.

MRS. MONTGOMERY, A Lady who is seeking Country Board.

MR. MONTGOMERY, her Husband.

FLORENCE MALVINA, ⎫ Their Children.

GEORGE ALEXANDER, ⎭

MRS. JONES, A Farmer’s Wife.

JONATHAN, ⎫ Servants.

PATTY, ⎭

SCENE I.—_Parlor. MR. MONTGOMERY, L., reading paper. MRS.

MONTGOMERY, R., sewing._

MRS. MONTGOMERY. Mr. Montgomery.

MR. MONTGOMERY. Well, my dear.

MRS. M. We must go into the country this summer.

MR. M. Is it absolutely essential to your happiness?

MRS. M. (_with suppressed eagerness_). Of course I should enjoy it very

much. But I wasn’t thinking of myself. The children need it far more than

I do. They are both quite feeble and need fresh air and country living.

MR. M. I hadn’t noticed that the children were not as well as usual.

MRS. M. No, I dare say not. Men never notice such things. But they are

both ailing; and if I didn’t doctor them all the time, they’d be down

sick.

MR. M. We can’t afford to pay the extravagant prices charged for country

board.

MRS. M. I don’t expect to go to a fashionable place. But we might get

boarded, at a low rate, at some farm-house where we could get fresh

fruits and vegetables, and those things which can only be found in the

country. I’m sure it’s better to pay one’s money for such things than to

spend it for medicine.

MR. M. The sea-breeze is better than the country air. You might take a

trip with the children to Hingham or Nahant once or twice a week.

MRS. M. (_slightly ruffled_). How foolishly you talk! But then it’s what

I might expect. These short trips always fatigue people more than they

benefit them. When it’s too late to help the children, perhaps you’ll

think of my advice and wish you’d followed it.

MR. M. If it’s as serious a matter as you suppose, and this is the only

remedy, I should say go, by all means.

MRS. M. You must judge for yourself.

MR. M. But I don’t believe it is possible to find such a place as would

suit you at a reasonable price.

MRS. M. (_eagerly_). I found an advertisement in last week’s paper

describing a place that I thought would be just such us we would like.

Here it is. (_Takes paper from table—reads._)

“COUNTRY BOARDING.—Those who are leaving behind them the noise

and dust of the city, and wish to refresh themselves by a

communion with nature, will find a desirable summer retreat at

Honeysuckle Villa, in the beautiful town of Hillsdale. It is

within five minutes’ walk of the railroad, in the midst of a

country rich in vegetation, and smiling under the liberal eye

of a bountiful Providence. A beautiful lake, at the distance

of a quarter of a mile, presents strong attractions for the

angler, while a boat which has recently been placed upon it

will enable the visitor to enjoy the luxury of a sail. No pains

will be spared to render this a delightful retreat for the

denizens of the metropolis.

“ELIPHALET JONES.”

MR. M. That sounds well enough. But what proof have you that things are

as represented?

MRS. M. I wrote to Mr. Jones, and received a very gentlemanly reply. As

he says, the terms are quite moderate. Mrs. Livingston pays nearly twice

as much.

MR. M. What are the terms?

MRS. M. Thirty dollars per week for you, myself, and the two children.

MR. M. But are there trains at hours to accommodate me?

MRS. M. Yes, I took pains to ascertain that.

MR. M. Very well, then, make whatever arrangements you choose. We can but

give it a trial.

(_Exit MR. M., L._)

MRS. M. (_triumphantly_). That’s one point gained. The next thing is to

make preparations for our journey. I was determined not to be cooped up

in the city another summer, when all our acquaintances are boarding in

the country.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_Country railway station. MRS. MONTGOMERY, C., and

two children, R., sitting with outer garments on. Two trunks, a

bandbox and travelling-bag on the floor. Enter JONATHAN HODGE,

L., wearing a coarse frock and carrying a whip._

JONATHAN (_to MRS. M._). Be yeaou the folks what’s going to the Joneses?

MRS. M. Yes, we wish to go to Mr. Jones’, at Honeysuckle Villa.

J. Honeysuckle Villa. Wal, that’s a good un. Ha, ha, ha!

MRS. M. (_aside_). Is it possible that they have deceived me? But I shall

soon learn. (_Aloud._) Is the carriage ready?

J. (_laughing_). Ya—as, the kerridge is waitin’. You can see it from the

door (_nods toward door, L._)

MRS. M. (_looks out with some curiosity_). I don’t see any carriage.

There’s nothing but a farm wagon in sight.

J. That’s the kerridge that’s come for ye, anyway. Mr. Jones thought

mebbe you’d hev a lot of baggage, so he sent the hay-riggin’.

MRS. M. But there are no seats.

J. Yes, there’s a board to put across, after we get loaded up.

MRS. M. (_indignantly_). And we are expected to ride in such a vehicle as

that?

J. There aint no use in callin’ it names. It’s easy enough ridin’ in it.

MRS. M. But we cannot all sit on one seat.

J. The children can set on the trunks. (_Takes up one of the trunks to

carry it out. Exit, L._)

GEORGE. Say, mother, have we got to ride in that old, ricketty wagon?

It’ll jolt like everything, I know ’twill.

MRS. M. (_in a soothing tone_). We’ve only got to ride a few steps.

J. (_entering_). Don’t know ’bout that. I reckon it’s a good mile down

there, and the roads aint none of the best.

MRS. M. (_indignantly_). Mr. Jones’ advertisement stated that his house

was only five minutes’ walk from the station.

J. Mr. Jones got the schoolmaster to write that notice for the paper. He

came up to the house one night and did it. Jones told him to put it in

pretty strong. The marster read it out ’loud after he’d writ it, an’ I

declair to goodness, I shouldn’t ha’ knowed ’twas the same place we lived

in.

MRS. M. (_decidedly_). Well, if I don’t like the place, we shan’t stay,

that’s all.

J. (_smiling incredulously_). Oh, mebbe you’ll like it, after all. Folks

need a change sometimes. (_Takes out another trunk, L._)

FLORENCE. Mother, I’m thirsty.

MRS. M. There isn’t anything to drink here. We’ll soon get to Mr. Jones’.

FLOR. (_impatiently_). I want something to drink now.

MRS. M. Wait patiently a little longer, and then you can have a drink of

nice, fresh milk. (_Enter JONATHAN._)

J. (_aside_). I shouldn’t be a mite surprised if they was disapp’inted in

their expectations. I guess they won’t find many delicacies at Joneses.

Leastways, I never did. (_Aloud_) Kerridge is ready, folks. (_Takes

bandbox and bag and goes out L., MRS. M. and children follow._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_Dining-room at country farm-house. Table is set for

dinner. MRS. JONES brings in pie, R._

MRS. JONES (_turning as she enters, and addressing PATTY in next room_).

Dish up the beans, Patty, and be spry now. (_Places pie on table and goes

out, R. FLORENCE enters L., and sits down._)

(_MRS. J. enters with potatoes, and PATTY with a dish of baked beans,

both of which are placed on table. PATTY goes out, R._)

MRS. J. (_addressing FLORENCE_). Go and tell your mother dinner’s ready,

child.

FLOR. (_bridling_). My name’s Florence Malvina Montgomery.

MRS. J. (_glancing over the table to see if everything needful is upon

it_). Yes, I know it. Go and tell your mother dinner is ready.

(_FLORENCE goes out L., and soon returns with her mother and brother._)

MRS. J. Dinner’s ready, Mrs. Montgomery. Take that chair if you’re a mind

to (_indicating it_), and the children can set, one on each side of you.

(_They sit._) Will you have some baked beans, ma’am?

MRS. M. Thank you, no, I never eat them.

MRS. J. Don’t eat beans! Why, they’re the wholesomest victuals there

is. I’m sure I don’t know what I can give you to eat, then. I haint got

nothin’ else but some cold corned beef, and was savin’ that for dinner

to-morrer.

MRS. M. I might, perhaps, eat a little of the cold meat.

MRS. J. (_in a loud voice_). Patty, bring in the cold beef that was left

yesterday.

PATTY (_outside_). Yes’m. (_Brings in meat R., then exit._)

MRS. M. Haven’t you any new potatoes yet?

MRS. J. Yes, but we thought, as we had these left, we’d use ’em up first.

MRS. M. But these are watery, and not fit to eat.

MRS. J. Oh, they aint bad for the time o’ year. Mr. Jones carried the new

potatoes to market this morning. They bring a good price now.

MRS. M. Well, I’m sure I cannot eat these. You may give me a piece of

pie, if you please.

GEO. Mother, I can’t cut the pie-crust.

MRS. M. I’ll cut it for you. (_Tries to cut it, but it is so tough the

knife slips and falls to the floor._)

MRS. J. Let me cut it. (_She, with some effort, cuts it and returns it to

GEORGE._)

MRS. M. Haven’t you any strawberries?

MRS. J. Yes, we’re goin’ to have some on the table Sunday. We send them

to market every day, the first of the season, they bring such a good

price.

MRS. M. (_sarcastically_). I suppose you sell your cream too.

MRS. J. Yes, we find we can make more money that way than by makin’

butter and cheese. So we buy our butter at the store.

MRS. M. (_indignantly_). We came to the country expecting to get fresh

fruit and vegetables. But it seems we are more likely to find them in the

city. I am half inclined to go directly back; however, I will perhaps

remain one week. It depends on how we are treated whether we stop any

longer.

(_Exit with children, L._)

MRS. J. Lor’ now, what airs these city people do put on! Seems to me

there’s no end to their whims and wants. They don’t have the least

thought about economy. (_In a loud voice_) Patty, you and Jonathan come

to dinner.

P. (_outside, R._). Comin’, ma’am.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_Sitting-room. MRS. M. present, R._

MRS. M. I can’t stand boarding here much longer, that’s a fixed fact.

Mrs. Jones sets a most wretched table, and the children are really

growing thinner every day. If it hadn’t been for the name of it I should

have left Hillsdale before this. The reputation of going to the country

for the summer is hardly sufficient to pay for living in small rooms,

sleeping on stifling feather-beds, and enduring such execrable cookery,

and not a book but the Farmer’s Almanac to be found in the house.

(_FLORENCE runs in L., with a terrified expression of countenance.

Her hat is hanging down from her neck, and her hair flying in all

directions._)

FLOR. Oh! oh! I’m so scared. (_Runs to her mother._)

MRS. M. Why, Florence Malvina, what a fright you make of yourself! Pray

what is the matter?

FLOR. I guess you’d be frightened if you’d been where I was. I just went

outside of the road to find some blackberries, when I thought I heard

somebody coming. I looked round, and there was a great ugly-looking

cow running after me. I ran as fast us I could till I couldn’t go any

further, and then I crept underneath the bars, and came up through the

field.

MRS. M. It’s a shame for people to allow their cows to run around the

streets in such a way. It’s lucky that you were not killed.

FLOR. The cow would have taken me up on her horns if she had caught me,

I know she would. She held her head down all ready to do it. (_Enter

GEORGE, L., covered with mud and water_). Why George, did you almost get

drowned? Just look, mother. George is just as wet as he can be. (_GEORGE

looks askance at his mother, but says nothing._)

MRS. M. (_severely_). Well, George Alexander, this is a pretty plight for

you to be in. What have you been doing now?

GEO. (_defiantly_). I wasn’t doing anything, only building a dam down by

the spring, and pretty soon some boys came along, and they laughed at me,

and said they bet I couldn’t jump the ditch there. So I meant to show

them I could, and I did do it too; but the ground was all soft and wet

the other side, and when I tried to jump back again I fell into the ditch.

MRS. M. What boys were they?

GEO. The Dunn boys. They knew it was wet the other side, and when I fell

in, you ought to have heard them laugh.

MRS. M. They are nothing but ill-bred country blockheads. (_To GEORGE._)

But don’t stand there any longer with those wet clothes on. Go and change

them at once.

(_Exit GEORGE, L. FLORENCE follows him._)

MRS. M. (_sola_). What a wretched place this is! If I was obliged to live

in such a way at home, I shouldn’t think I could bear it. The family

here haven’t even _decent_ accommodations for keeping boarders.

(_Enter FLORENCE, L., in state of great excitement._)

FLOR. O mother, two men are coming, and they are bringing father in. I’m

afraid he’s killed.

MRS. M. (_starting up_). What do you mean, child? (_Enter men, L.,

bearing MR. M. MRS. M. clasps her hands in anxious suspense; goes up to

her husband._) What is the matter, Henry? Has there been an accident?

(_The men place MR. M. on sofa and exit L._)

MR. M. It isn’t quite as bad as it seems. I was a little tired and

thought I’d ride up from the village to-night, instead of walking. But

the stage broke down, and I was thrown out. I was a good deal bruised,

but I believe there are no bones broken. Dr. Bryant examined me, and said

I would be all right in a few days.

MRS. M. Well, as soon as you are able to leave, I’m going back to the

city. I can’t stay here any longer.

MR. M. (_smiling_). You don’t mean that you are willing to go back to the

city, and endure all its discomforts again.

MRS. M. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are as many annoyances in

the country as in the city.

MR. M. But you forget that the children cannot have country fare after

our return.

MRS. M. No, I do not. I find that the country fare we sought is all sent

to the city, and we must return there in order to enjoy it. After two

weeks’ trial of living in the country, I am thoroughly tired of it, and I

think a long time will elapse before I again wish to try the experiment

of Boarding on a Farm.

(_Curtain falls._)

TAMING A WIFE.

CHARACTERS.

MR. GROVER, a Merchant.

MRS. GROVER, his Wife.

MRS. ROSS, Mrs. G.’s Mother.

BRIDGET, their Servant.

MR. FARWELL, ⎫

MR. HUNTLY, ⎭ Mr. G.’s Friends.

SCENE I.—_A room at MISS DANE’S boarding-house. MR. FARWELL,

R., half reclining on the sofa. MR. GROVER, C., sitting in a

chair, with his feet on the table. Both smoking._

MR. FARWELL. Why don’t you get married, Grover? I suppose you intend, at

some time, to take to yourself a wife.

MR. GROVER. I might if I could find a woman to suit me. But I don’t want

any of the vain and frivolous creatures we constantly meet in society.

MR. F. They are not all of this description. Now, there’s Gertrude Hobbs.

She is a pretty girl.

MR. G. And when you’ve said that, you’ve said all there is to say.

MR. F. I’m sure she is pleasant and agreeable.

MR. G. And weak-minded.

MR. F. Ah! I see, you would like a girl of spirit. Then, why not take

Kate Ross? The only objection to her is, that she has an imperious

temper. I should not care to cross her if I were her husband.

MR. G. (_contemptuously_). Pooh! that is your spirit, is it? For my part,

there would be no pleasure in subduing a tame, spiritless creature; but,

if somewhat mettlesome, there would be some excitement in it. I am half

tempted to offer my hand to Kate Ross, to show you what a simple affair

it would be to tame a spirited woman.

MR. F. I hope you _will_ do so, as I shall not change my opinion till it

is practically refuted. And I will wager a hundred dollars that you will

talk in quite a different way after marrying her.

MR. G. You will probably lose your money. When I undertake anything, I

usually bring it to a successful termination.

MR. F. (_smiling_). I am willing to take the risk. Theory is very well in

its way, but it is practice that tells the story. I confess I have some

curiosity to see how the matter ends.

MR. G. Well, you will probably have that satisfaction within six months,

as Kate Ross will, without doubt, be Mrs. Grover before that time.

MR. F. You seem quite confident. Have you proposed to Miss Ross?

MR. G. No; but she would not think of refusing my offer. An opportunity

of gaining such a position is seldom presented to a poor girl.

MR. F. Very well. If you do not talk in quite a different way after

marrying Kate Ross, the money is yours.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_MRS. GROVER’S kitchen. Time—one month after

marriage. BRIDGET, R., washing dishes. MR. GROVER enters, L._

MR. G. Bridget, I find that for two days past dinner has been served

before I came home. Hereafter, you must wait till I return before doing

so.

BRIDGET. But it was kept warm for ye’s. An’ the misthress told me to do

it.

MR. G. I know that; but you are bound to obey me rather than her.

B. (_bewildered_). Sir?

MR. G. To-day I shall not be at home till four o’clock. Four, remember.

On no account must you serve up dinner before that time.

B. (_astonished_). But what shall I say to misthress when she tells me?

MR. G. Say? You must tell her that I threatened to dismiss you if you did

so. Will you remember?

B. (_confusedly_). I’ll try.

MR. G. (_going toward door with satisfied smile_). There, I think that

will set matters right. I would give something to see how Mrs. Grover

will take it, when Bridget, by my direction, refuses to obey her. She

will begin to find out whom she has to deal with then.

(_Exit, L._)

MRS. GROVER (_enters by another door, R., in season to hear her husband’s

last words_). Has Mr. Grover forbidden you to follow my directions,

Bridget?

B. Yes, mum. He told me he shouldn’t be at home until four, and he should

send me away if I took up dinner before that time.

MRS. G. (_coolly_). Indeed! he is interfering beyond his province.

However, you are to obey me, not him. Be sure to have dinner on the table

at two o’clock precisely.

B. But he will send me away if I do.

MRS. G. And I will send you away if you don’t.

B. (_in ludicrous dismay_). Och, what will I do? It’s turned away I’ve

got to be whether I do it or not.

MRS. G. Better obey me, Bridget. If he should turn you away, you shall

be back again in less than a week, and, meanwhile, I will pay you wages;

but, if I turn you away, it will be for good.

B. Faix, mum, you’re a jewel. An’ if dinner isn’t on the table at two

o’clock precisely, then my name isn’t Bridget McDermott.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_MRS. GROVER, R., and MRS. ROSS, L., who is visiting

her daughter, are seated in the dining-room. The table is

spread, but there is no food on it. MR. GROVER enters, L._

MR. G. (_triumphantly_). You may order up dinner now, Mrs. Grover.

MRS. G. (_surprised_). Dinner! Is it possible that you have not eaten

dinner at four o’clock?

MR. G. (_in an appalling voice_). Have you eaten dinner?

MRS. G. (_coolly continuing her sewing_). Certainly. The table was

cleared an hour ago. Bridget kept the meat at the fire, but I was sure

you had dined down town. Shall I ring for it?

MR. G. (_frowning_). No. May I inquire if Bridget served up the dinner?

MRS. G. Of course you may. I have no objection.

MR. G. (_in a loud voice_). Madam, enough of this trifling. Did Bridget

serve up dinner?

MRS. ROSS (_expostulating_). Really, Kate and Mr. Grover, you should not

disagree.

MRS. G. (_interrupting her_). Goodness! Mr. Grover, I could hear

distinctly enough if you spoke a great deal lower. Of course, Bridget

served up dinner. You don’t suppose I did it?

MR. G. At two o’clock?

MRS. G. Certainly.

MR. G. (_rings bell violently. BRIDGET appears, R._). Bridget, do you

recollect my telling you this morning I should not be home till four?

B. Yes, sir.

MR. G. And that dinner was not to be served up till that time?

B. Yes, sir.

MR. G. Then, why did you dare to do otherwise?

B. (_undaunted_). The misthress tould me to.

MR. G. Then I wish you to understand that I am the master, and my orders

are to be obeyed. I dismiss you from my service.

B. (_courtesying_). Yes, sir.

MR. G. (_angrily_). This instant. Do you hear?

B. (_courtesying again_). Yes, sir. My clothes are all packed. (_Turning

to MRS. G._) Good-by, mum.

MRS. G. (_unconcernedly_). Oh, good-by, Bridget. So you are going, are

you?

B. Yes, mum.

MRS. G. Perhaps you would like a recommendation.

MR. G. I shall give none.

MRS. G. Because, if you would, I will give you one very willingly.

B. No, mum; I don’t think I shall live out ag’in just yet. I’m goin’ to

stop wid my sister a while.

MRS. G. Very well, Bridget; (_in a significant tone_) you must call again

soon.

(_Exit BRIDGET, R._)

(_A pause in which MR. G. seats himself, L., leaning back exultantly._)

MRS. G. (_as if unconscious of what had passed_). Is there any news from

abroad?

MR. G. (_crustily_). No.

MRS. G. What course is Germany expected to take?

MR. G. (_in a forbidding tone_). I don’t know.

(_MRS. G. rises and folds up her work. MR. G. thinks, with a thrill of

gratification, that, in the absence of BRIDGET, MRS. G. will be obliged

to get supper._)

MRS. G. (_having reached the door, turns back_). By the way, Mr. Grover,

my mother and myself are going out to tea. We are invited to Mrs. Haven’s.

MR. G. (_startled_). But what am I to do?

MRS. G. (_carelessly_). I don’t know, really, unless you come up with us.

I presume Mrs. Haven will be very much pleased to see you. Will you come?

MR. G. (_sharply_). No. (_MRS. G. opens the door, preparatory to going

out._) Mrs. Grover, I have invited two gentlemen to dine with me

to-morrow, and it will be your duty to prepare dinner for them. You will

receive articles from the market by nine o’clock. You understand me, do

you not?

MRS. G. Perfectly.

MR. G. And know what I expect?

MRS. G. Certainly.

MR. G. And you understand also, that I am a man of my word.

MRS. G. I am very happy to hear it. I have always considered it a very

desirable quality.

(_Exeunt MRS. GROVER and her mother, R._)

MR. G. (_complacently soliloquizes_). I think that will settle the

matter. If Mrs. Grover married me with the idea of being a fine lady,

and having an easy time, she is quite mistaken. I don’t intend to

encourage female insubordination. I believe the man was made to govern,

the wife to obey. If more husbands had my firmness, things would go on a

little better in the world. But it isn’t everybody that has my tact at

governing.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_Dining-room at MR. GROVER’S. The table is laid for

four persons. MR. FARWELL, R., MR. HUNTLY, L., and MR. GROVER,

C., present._

MR. HUNTLY. Have you heard how Brown’s wife has treated him?

MR. F. Not a word.

MR. H. She has deserted him, and gone, no one knows whither. After dinner

yesterday, Brown went to his room a moment, leaving his pocket-book on

the table. When he returned, his wife, and his pocket-book—containing

several hundred dollars—were gone. And although a thorough search has

been instituted, no tidings have been had of either.

MR. G. It seems to me that a woman who would do such a thing has not been

properly trained by her husband.

MR. F. In my opinion, there are some women of such a nature that they

will not brook subjection even from their husbands; or, in fact,

subordination of any kind.

MR. G. (_firmly_). I would like to see any woman whom I could not bring

under subjection. I cannot conceive of a man surrendering the authority,

which is his natural right, into the hands of a woman.

MR. H. (_smiling_). Do you intend, Grover, to carry out your theory of

domestic government under your present circumstances?

MR. G. I certainly do not mean to submit to petticoat government. In my

eyes the husband should be at the head of the household, and, while I

occupy that position, I shall delegate my authority to no one. (_MRS.

GROVER enters, R._) My dear, allow me to present to you, my friends, Mr.

Farwell and Mr. Huntly.

MRS. G. I am happy to see you, gentlemen. As friends of my husband, I am

glad to make your acquaintance.

MR. G. (_turning to his wife_). Is dinner ready?

MRS. G. (_promptly_). It is on the table.

MR. G. (_with a smile of exultation_). Sit down, gentlemen. Mr. Huntly

will take a seat on my right (_indicating it_), and Mr. Farwell on my

left (_indicating it_). I have provided a dinner to-day, gentlemen

(_sharpening the knife preparatory to carving_), which is an especial

favorite with me—I mean roast turkey. (_Lifting the cover, his astonished

gaze rested on an uncooked turkey. He lifts, successively, the covers of

the other dishes, and sees uncooked squashes, and potatoes with their

skins on._)

MR. G. (_sternly to his wife_). Will you explain the meaning of this,

madam?

MRS. G. (_smiling blandly_). Certainly. Bridget left me yesterday

afternoon, by your direction. I have done what I could toward supplying

her place. I am truly sorry if the dinner is not to your taste.

MR. G. What do you intend by this insult which you have put upon me in my

own house?

MRS. G. (_fanning herself_). You are a little excited, Mr. Grover. You

remember that I warned you I should not supply Bridget’s place.

MR. G. (_angrily_). So it seems you want to rule me.

MRS. G. Not at all. I only object to being ruled.

MR. G. It’s the same thing, madam. You would like to have me become a

miserable, hen-pecked husband. But that will never happen. (_Turning to

guests_) Gentlemen, I regret that circumstances have conspired to render

useless the invitation I gave you to dine with me. I cannot, in such

case, invite you to stay longer, but shall renew the invitation at a more

convenient opportunity.

MRS. G. (_turning toward them_). I, too, shall be glad to see you,

gentlemen, and hope, on the next occasion, to offer you a more attractive

collation. That, however, depends entirely on whether my husband decides

to leave the management of the household where it belongs—in my hands.

(_Exeunt MESSRS. FARWELL and HUNTLY, L._)

MR. G. (_angrily_). Well, madam, I hope you are satisfied with this

disgraceful exhibition.

MRS. G. (_quietly_). I am not responsible for it.

MR. G. You have disgraced me before my guests.

MRS. G. Then why did you interfere with Bridget?

MR. G. I am the head of the household.

MRS. G. I beg your pardon. I imagined that Bridget was under my orders.

MR. G. You are right, as long as your orders do not conflict with mine.

MRS. G. Very well, sir, I leave you, then, to the sole management of the

household. (_Moves to go out._)

MR. G. Where are you going?

MRS. G. Home to my mother.

MR. G. (_alarmed_). Would you desert your husband?

MRS. G. Yes, until he knows his place. (_Opens the door, R._)

MR. G. But—what will the world say? Don’t go, Kate!

MRS. G. (_turning_). I will stay on one condition, and on one only.

MR. G. What is it?

MRS. G. That you will never, again, interfere in the affairs of the

household, and will agree to my recalling Bridget, at once.

MR. G. (_rather sheepishly_). Very well, anything for peace.

(_Exit, L._)

MRS. G. (_sola_). There, sir, I have taught you a lesson. I understand

you proposed to tame me. My impression is, that it is the husband that

has been tamed. There is truth in the old couplet:—

“When a woman says she will, she will, depend on’t,

And when she won’t, she won’t, and there’s an end on’t.”

(_Curtain falls._)

JOHN SMITH’S TRIALS.

CHARACTERS.

MR. SMITH.

MRS. SMITH.

SHERIFF BAILEY.

BRIDGET.

SCENE I.—_In the parlor. MR. SMITH reclining on the sofa. He

has a newspaper in his hand, but is not reading. MRS. S. enters

L., wearing a plain dress._

MR. SMITH. Seems to me, Amanda, that for one who runs up such a bill as I

paid yesterday, you don’t appear remarkably well dressed. What have you

done with all the gay garments Madame Dubois has lately made for you?

MRS. SMITH. I haven’t run up any bill, and I don’t patronize Madame

Dubois. She is too high in her charges for people in our circumstances.

MR. S. But why should she send her bill here? It was directed in full, to

John Smith, Taylor’s Block, Central Street.

MRS. S. I’m sure I don’t know. All I can say is, there must be some

mistake. She never made any garments whatever for me. By the way, have

you the bill with you?

MR. S. Yes, here it is. (_Takes bill from his pocket, unfolds it, and

shows it to his wife._)

MRS. S. What is the amount?

MR. S. One hundred and twenty-five dollars and forty-seven cents.

MRS. S. (_surprised_). And you paid it?

MR. S. Certainly; I supposed it was all right.

MRS. S. Well, I don’t know what can be done about it. I never had any of

the articles mentioned.

MR. S. Do you suppose there is another person of the same name on this

street?

MRS. S. Yes, Bridget told me, last evening, there were three other John

Smiths on this street, two of whom live in this block.

MR. S. Then there’ll be no end of mistakes.

MRS. S. None as serious as this, I hope.

(_Enter BRIDGET, R., bearing a letter, which she passes to MR. S._)

BRIDGET. An’ here’s a letther the postman brought, sir.

MR. S. (_examines superscription, which he reads aloud_). “Mr. John

Smith, Taylor’s Block, Central Street, B——.”

(_Exit BRIDGET, R._)

MRS. S. Where is it from?

MR. S. It is postmarked Ramsey, Minnesota.

MRS. S. Have you acquaintances there?

MR. S. It seems so, though I wasn’t aware of it.

MRS. S. Do open the letter. I’m really curious to know whom it is from.

MR. S. Ah, yes, woman’s curiosity! How do you know but it may be privacy?

MRS. S. I am satisfied that it is not. At all events, I’m willing to run

the risk.

MR. S. Courageous woman! Then I will venture to open it. (_Cuts off edge

of envelope and draws out a small, square piece of paper which he begins

to read aloud._)

“You thief, you! You villain, you! So you’ve basely gone off

and taken my best dress and bonnet, and all the silver my

father gave me when I was married! I suppose you intended to

adorn your wife with the clothes you stole! But you shan’t

do it, as sure as my name is Dorothy Ann. I’ve got track

of you, and just as quick as I can get money enough, I’m

coming right along after you. You’re a mean, shiftless, lazy,

good-for-nothing villain, and if you don’t send all back within

a week, I’ll send the police after you.”

MR. S. (_turns towards his wife, smiling_). There’s quite an inducement

for John Smith. What do you think of that for a character? I’d better

not have read the letter aloud. Perhaps you will begin to repent having

married me.

MRS. S. I ought to, certainly, if this letter is true. But you haven’t

given me the dress and bonnet yet.

MR. S. No, I never thought of it. I wonder if it was the wife of this

John Smith whose bill I paid.

MRS. S. Don’t know. I think it’s doubtful if you ever find the one to

whom it rightfully belongs.

MR. S. I must try, at all events. I don’t feel like losing so much money,

or paying other people’s dressmaker’s bills.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_MRS. S. is seated, R., sewing. MR. S. enters, L._

MR. S. What vile odor is that I smell? What have you for dinner, Amanda?

MRS. S. (_complacently_). What you sent, of course.

MR. S. And that is—

MRS. S. Corned beef and cabbage.

MR. S. I knew it. I thought I could not be deceived. Such a villanous

smell!

MRS. S. (_surprised_). Of course you knew it. Did you not send it to me

this morning?

MR. S. (_excited_). Never! I sent you a pair of the plumpest wild-fowl to

be found in the market. My mouth fairly watered for a taste of them as I

entered the door, when I was saluted by the scent of that odious cabbage.

MRS. S. What do you suppose has become of them?

MR. S. (_indignantly_). Some other John Smith is doubtless regaling

himself on them.

MRS. S. Wouldn’t it be a good plan to send Bridget to see?

MR. S. Yes, and let her go at once.

(_Exit MRS. S., R._)

MR. S. (_soliloquizing_). Some one asks, “What’s in a name?” If his name

happened to be John Smith, he wouldn’t have to inquire. Why couldn’t my

parents have called me Hezekiah, Ezekiel, or any other heathenish name

rather than plain John? Then I should not have been victimized in this

way.

(_Enter MRS. S., R., followed by a stranger._)

MRS. S. This gentleman wishes to see you, John.

STRANGER (_inquiringly_). Your name is Smith, sir? (_MR. S. nods._)

_John_ Smith, I believe.

MR. S. That is my name, though I wish to goodness it wasn’t.

STR. No wonder, sir, no wonder. When I call on professional business,

people almost always wish they were somebody else.

MR. S. And what is your business, if I may be allowed to inquire?

STR. Certainly you may, though there’s no doubt you’d soon learn it

without inquiring. I am Sheriff Bailey, and I came to levy an execution

on your furniture.

MR. S. And what is that for?

STR. Because it is not paid for. Messrs. Phillips & Hoffman sold you,

some time since, a quantity of furniture amounting to two hundred and

fifty dollars, which was to be paid for in thirty days. Here is the bill

of it. (_Passes to MR. S._) This was three months ago, and though they

have repeatedly sent letters calling your attention to it, no notice has

been taken of them. Have you anything to say in regard to this matter?

MR. S. (_dryly_). I think I have. In the first place, I haven’t bought

any furniture for a year. In the second place, I never heard of Messrs.

Phillips & Hoffman, and therefore, of course, never bought anything from

them (_sighing_). The fact is, sir, you’ve got hold of the wrong John

Smith.

STR. You can’t come that dodge on me. The John Smith that I was looking

for lived in Taylor’s Block, and as this is the place, you must be the

man I am seeking.

MR. S. (_indignantly_). Do you doubt my word, sir? Let me inform you

that there are two other John Smiths living in this block, as I know to

my sorrow. Besides, if you’ll take the trouble to look at the furniture,

you’ll see that it has been used a much longer time. I notice by the

bill (_glancing at it_) that it was a suite of parlor furniture that

was bought, and this is the only furniture of that description which we

possess.

STR. (_looking around him_). This is not a new style of furniture,

certainly. It is possible that I may be mistaken in the person. If so, I

beg your pardon. I will make inquiries before proceeding further in this

matter.

MR. S. (_with an injured air_). You need make no apologies, sir. I’m

getting used to this sort of thing.

(_Exit SHERIFF, L., and enter BRIDGET, R._)

B. It was to number seven that the fowls went, sir.

MR. S. (_eagerly_). Did you bring them back with you?

B. No, sir, they’ve eaten ’em up. Ann McKay said Mrs. Smith thought

somebody sent ’em as a present. But she told me privately that they had

dinner an hour earlier than usual.

MR. S. A present indeed! They knew very well it was a mistake, and took

occasion to eat their dinner earlier, in order to have a nice meal before

the mistake could be rectified. Bridget, take the corned beef and cabbage

over, and tell them we have no use for it. Then come back and open all

the windows, and see if we cannot get rid of this intolerable smell.

MRS. S. But what are we to have for dinner?

MR. S. Boiled eggs—some of yesterday’s roast—or anything you may happen

to have in the house. For my part, I haven’t any appetite now.

(_Exit BRIDGET, R. Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_MRS. SMITH’S sitting-room. MRS. S. present, C._

MRS. S. (_soliloquizing_). I don’t see where Mr. Smith can be. It is

seldom he is out so late. (_Calls the servant, who is passing the door._)

Bridget!

B. (_enters, R._). Yes, mum.

MRS. S. Did Mr. Smith say where he was going when he left home?

B. No, mum. He axed me “was you out,” and I told him you had gone into

Mrs. Clarke’s for a few minutes. He said it was no matter; he only wanted

to know had you mended the pocket of his weskit.

MRS. S. I entirety forgot it. Just pass it from the hall-closet, Bridget,

and I will mend it at once. It will serve to pass the time away.

(_Exit B., R._)

B. (_enters, R._). Here it is, mum (_passes vest to MRS. S._). An’ I

think I’ll be goin’ upstairs, if ye don’t want me any more. It’s gettin’

late.

MRS. S. Very well, Bridget. I believe that is all I need.

(_Exit BRIDGET, R._)

MRS. S. I think it was the pocket on the right side that needed mending.

(_Turns pocket inside out._) What is this? (_Picks up a letter in a small

envelope, directed in a lady’s hand._) It cannot be a letter from his

sister. I must open it. (_Unfolds the letter and reads_):—

“DEAREST JOHN,—It is a long time since the sight of your face

has gladdened my heart. Cannot you call on me this, evening? I

will refuse myself to every one else. Remember I have not seen

you for a whole week. Notwithstanding your protestations of

devotion to me, I fear you are too attentive to your wife, and

you know she does not appreciate your love as I do. Do not fail

to come. If it is necessary to make any excuses, say that you

are obliged to be away on business. I count the moments till we

meet.

“LILLIAN PERCIVAL.”

MRS. S. (_bitterly_). Is it possible that John has deceived me, and is

carrying on an intrigue with such a woman as that?—I cannot believe

it,—and yet it must be so. (_Hears sound of a latch-key,—listens._) That

is his step now. (_Puts letter back in another pocket of vest, and begins

to sew._)

MR. S. (_enters, L._). What? Amanda—up yet. I expected to find you

asleep. Don’t trouble yourself with mending that vest to-night. I have

several others.

MRS. S. (_coldly_). Where have you been to-night, John?

MR. S. I was out on business.

MRS. S. It must have been important business to keep you out till this

hour.

MR. S. To tell the truth it was so. But it isn’t a matter you would be

likely to understand.

MRS. S. I understand it only too well. (_Passes letter to him._) Who

wrote that letter? (_Eyes him sharply._)

MR. S. (_bursting into a laugh_). I understand it all now,—you’ve read

that letter, and are jealous. Confess, now, that that’s the case. But I

didn’t suppose you’d be so ridiculous.

MRS. S. (_bridling_). Ridiculous indeed! When one’s husband receives such

letters as that, it’s about time for his wife to inquire into the matter.

MR. S. I received the letter this morning, but, satisfied that it was

written to some other John Smith, I thrust it hastily into my pocket, not

dreaming that it would stir up such a breeze as this.

MRS. S. I wish, John, that you would have your name changed.

MR. S. That is what I am intending to do. At the next session of the

Legislature, I have determined to apply for a change of name. I believe

there are more rascals by the name of Smith than any other one name in

the world. And if there is any villain who is brought before the police,

he is sure to give his name as John Smith. I don’t care what the new name

is,—Snooks, Jenkins, or Tubbs,—there isn’t one of them that would bring a

man into trouble half as soon, as to be called plain John Smith.

(_Curtain falls._)

AUNT RACHEL’S FRIGHT.

CHARACTERS.

MR. CAMPBELL, A Returned Traveller.

MR. LEWIS, The Head of the Family.

MRS. LEWIS, His Wife.

AGNES, ⎫

PHILIP, ⎭ Their Children.

MISS RACHEL, A Spinster Sister of Mr. L.

SERVANT.

SCENE I.—_Parlor at MR. LEWIS’. MR. C. enters, L._

MR. CAMPBELL. Well, I must say it seems pleasant to be home again,

once more. After travelling two years through foreign countries, it is

really refreshing to reach one’s native land. (_Throws himself into an

easy-chair, C._) But I wonder where Maria and her husband are? They will

be somewhat surprised to see me here a month earlier than they expected.

Fortunately, through all my travels I have kept my latch-key, and was

able to gain an entrance without the aid of a servant. However, now that

I am here, I feel impatient to see Maria and Arthur. I think I will ring.

(_Rings; servant enters, R._)

MR. C. Are Mr. and Mrs. Lewis at home?

SERVANT. No, sir, the family are all away at a party. You are Mrs.

Lewis’s brother, I suppose?

MR. C. Yes. (_Surprised._) Did she expect me to-night?

S. Yes, and she bade me say they were sorry to be obliged to be away. But

they wished you to make yourself comfortable. Here is the evening paper,

sir. (_Hands it to him._) As they will not be home till late, I will

conduct you to your room when you wish to retire.

MR. C. There’s no occasion for that. I remember my old room very well.

I will read a while before I go to bed. I may possibly sit up till they

come home. At all events, I shall not need any further service from you.

(_Exit_ SERVANT, L.)

Well, I must say I’m mystified. In the first place, I don’t see how

Maria heard I should arrive to-day. In the second place, when I asked if

Mr. and Mrs. Lewis were at home, the servant said _all the family_ were

away. Now people don’t use such an expression as that when the family

consists of only two members. I wonder whether they have company? I

wish I might meet my sister Eliza here. But I won’t trouble myself with

needless conjectures. I shall learn all about the matter in the morning.

(_A pause._) I believe I’ll put on my slippers. (_Opens bag, from which

he takes slippers. He takes off boots, puts on slippers, then takes up

evening paper._) I wonder what the news is. In fact, it will be all news

to me. Ah! here’s the announcement of the arrival of the Rosamond. But

if Maria had seen it she wouldn’t have supposed that I was a passenger.

How _could_ she have heard of my arrival? That is a mystery to me. (_He

commences reading, but in one or two minutes his eyes close, and he

begins to nod. Suddenly his head falls back, and the paper drops from his

grasp. He wakens with a start._) Why, bless me, I nearly lost myself!

I feel very sleepy. (_Looks at his watch._) No wonder—it is nearly

half-past eleven o’clock. I think I will go to bed. (_Picks up paper, and

puts it on the table, then takes his bag—a small one—and a light, and

leaves the room, R._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_A chamber. There must be a bed in the room, C. This

may be a lounge, but it must have curtains around it. These are

necessary, and can be arranged on a light, portable frame. MR.

C. enters the room, sets down the lamp on table, R., and looks

around, in astonishment._

MR. C. It seems Maria has entirely refurnished this chamber. I can hardly

recognize the room I have occupied so many times. But I am too sleepy

to take much account of surroundings. If the bed is only comfortable, I

shall not take much notice of anything else. (_Takes off coat, vest, and

slippers, which he puts near head of bed, and extinguishes the light.

He then parts the curtains and throws himself upon the bed, drawing the

curtains to after him._)

(_A pause. Then the door opens, L., and an ancient maiden, in party

attire, enters. She sets lamp down on the table. Sits down, herself, and

proceeds to divest her head of its adornings. She takes off two sets of

curls, two or three braids, and numberless hairpins. Also takes from her

mouth a set of false teeth. While these preparations are going on, she

soliloquizes_:)

AUNT RACHEL. What senseless people one meets at a party, to be sure!

MR. C. (_peeping from between curtains, aside_). Who the deuce is this?

A. R. (_continuing_). There was that Fitznoodle, the puppy, trying to

make himself agreeable to our little Agnes. To be sure, she’s old enough

to have a beau, but I hope to goodness she won’t marry _him_. I wouldn’t

if he was worth his weight in gold.

MR. C. (_again peeping out,—in a low tone_). What a fate it would be for

a man to marry such a woman as that! Though, for that matter, there won’t

be much left of her, if she keeps on. She’s got her head most taken to

pieces, already.

(_AUNT R. puts on a very large night-cap, so that only a small portion

of her face is visible. She suddenly discovers the other lamp. MR. C.

frequently peeps out._)

A. R. (_in dismay_). Where did that other lamp come from? I know it

wasn’t here when I dressed for the party. (_Looks around. MR. C.’S head

disappears, and the curtains are closed. She discovers a coat and vest on

the chair near head of bed. Her eyes are fixed on them in horror. She

wrings her hands._) Oh, there’s a man in the room, I know there is! I

shall faint. (_She suddenly considers that, under the circumstances, this

would be improper._) If I only dared to go and look! (_Stands a moment,

with hands tightly clasped together, grows courageous, and slowly walks

toward the bed, peeps through the curtain, and, darting back, screams._)

Oh! oh! oh!

MR. C. (_parting the curtains a little_). Don’t be so foolish, madam. I

assure you it is all a mistake.

A. R. That’s what they always say. (_Runs to door, L., looking back now

and then, to see if she is pursued; screams_:) Emmeline! James! Help!

Murder! Thieves!

(_Exit AUNT RACHEL._)

(_MR. C. parts the curtain, and looks forth._)

MR. C. Well, I must say, that’s rather curious. The mystery thickens.

Pray who could that female be? I’m sure it’s no one that I ever saw

before. Perhaps she’s left a handkerchief with her name written on it.

I guess I’ll reconnoitre a little, as she has left me a light. (_Goes

to table, lifts, successively, the braids and masses of curls._) Here

is part of her make-up. But there’s no name on it. In fact, there is

nothing to give any clue to the mystery. But there’s one thing I can do.

I’ll fasten the door so that I shall not be interrupted again. (_Goes to

door and locks it._) Now I believe I will retire once more, and see if

I cannot get a little rest. And for fear I may be routed again, I will

leave the light burning. (_He goes to bed._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_Parlor at MR. LEWIS’. MRS. L., R., AGNES, C., and

PHILIP, L., present. They are engaged in taking off their outer

garments._

MRS. LEWIS. How glad I am to get home again! I feel very tired.

PHILIP. I don’t feel tired a bit. I wanted to stop longer. Didn’t you,

Agnes?

AGNES. I had a nice time, and enjoyed myself very much. (_Smiling._) I

don’t suppose I should seriously have objected to stopping longer. Do you

know, Phil, I made a good many new acquaintances this evening?

PHIL. Yes, you seemed to be having a splendid time, talking with

Fitznoodle. I can’t say I admire your taste.

A. Oh, as for that, I don’t fancy him much, myself, but you know one must

be civil, even if they don’t like those they are talking with.

(_Enter AUNT RACHEL, R., with night-cap on, in a state of great

excitement._)

A. R. Oh, murder! Help! Thieves!

MRS. L. What is it, Rachel?

A. R. (_gasping_). Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

MRS. L. Why, Rachel, what is the matter?

A. Do tell us, Aunt Rachel.

PHIL. (_sturdily_). I’ll protect you, Aunt Rachel. Where’s the robber?

A. R. Oh, there’s a man in my room—and he spoke to me. (_Clasping her

hands._) What shall I do? Oh! oh!

MRS. L. A man in your room! It can’t be. How could he get in with the

doors all locked?

A. R. (_tartly_). I tell you there is a man there. Don’t you believe me?

He spoke to me too.

PHIL. What did he say, Aunt Rachel?

A. R. I’m sure I don’t know. I didn’t wait to hear.

MR. L. (_entering, L._). Pray what is the matter? You all look frightened.

MRS. L. And well we may. There’s a man in Rachel’s room.

MR. L. That’s all imagination. It is simply impossible that any one could

get in, under the circumstances.

A. R. (_in a high tone_). What! Do you mean to insinuate that I don’t

know what I’m talking about? I guess I haven’t lost the use of any of my

faculties yet. And I saw him with my own eyes.

MR. L. Don’t get disturbed, Rachel. We can easily learn whether there is

any one there or not. I will go myself and see.

MRS. L. Don’t go, Alfred. If there is a man there, of course he is armed.

What could you do to protect yourself against the assault of a desperate

man, and one well armed too? Take my advice and call a policeman.

MR. L. Well, perhaps that would be a better way. (_Starts to go out, L._)

MRS. L. But what shall we do? We can’t be left alone. He might murder us

all and escape before you got back.

MR. L. That is true.

MRS. L. Why can’t we arm ourselves, and all go, in a body? There wouldn’t

be much chance for him to escape, and we could, all together, overpower

him.

MR. L. Very well. I’ll take the carving-knife. (_Takes it from, table._)

MRS. L. I’ll take the poker. (_Takes it._)

PHIL. I’ll take the tongs. (_Takes them, and stepping up behind AUNT

RACHEL, pretends to take off her night-cap with them._)

A. R. I’ll take the broom, and use it well, too. (_Takes it from behind

the door._)

A. I’ll get the clothes-line to tie him with. (_Exit AGNES, R. The rest

go out, R., in the following order—MR. and MRS. L., AUNT R., and PHILIP._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_Same as Scene II. Bed with curtains drawn. Some one

tries the door, L. MR. C. parts the curtains, and looks out._

MR. C. What’s to pay now, I wonder? I believe I shall have more

adventures in this one night than I met with all the time I was abroad.

(_Great pounding at the door._) Halloo there! Don’t break the door down.

What’s wanted?

MR. L. (_outside_). Open this door at once, in the name of the law.

MR. C. Well, well, wait a minute. (_He steps out of bed, thrusts his

feet in slippers, then goes and opens the door. Seems astonished at

seeing so many strange faces. They enter,—MR. L. and PHILIP pass to R.;

the rest remain at L.,—eying him cautiously, but concealing their weapons

behind them._)

MR. L. Well, sir, what do you mean by entering my house at night, and

frightening this lady (_turning to AUNT R._) in such a manner?

MR. C. I think I can explain it satisfactorily, sir; but I must first ask

a few questions. Is your name Lewis?

MR. L. It is.

MR. C. How long have you occupied this house?

MR. L. (_puzzled_). About a month.

MR. C. What was the name of the former occupant?

MR. L. His name was Lewis, also. I bought the house of him.

MR. C. _My_ name is Campbell. I am a brother of the other Mrs. Lewis. I

have been travelling abroad for the last two years, and arrived here late

last evening. Having a latch-key, and being ignorant of the change of

owners, I entered, but was disappointed at not finding any one at home.

The servant said the family were away at a party, and offered to conduct

me to my room when I was ready to retire. She said Mrs. Lewis _was

expecting her brother_.

MRS. L. I was expecting him, but he didn’t come.

MR. C. Under these circumstances, and misled by the name, I had no

suspicion that I was trespassing. I therefore told the servant I could

easily find the way to my room, as I had slept there many times before. I

must apologize to this lady (_turning to AUNT R._) for giving her such a

fright, which I assure her was entirely unintentional on my part.

MR. L. (_laughing_). Your explanation is perfectly satisfactory, sir. Mr.

Arthur Lewis lives three blocks farther down-town. But it is late, and

you must be our guest for the remainder of the night. We will furnish you

with another bed, and——

A. R. (_interrupting him indignantly_). Do you suppose I would sleep in

that bed after a man had slept there? Never! Let him stay here the rest

of the night, if he wants to. I shall sleep in the other chamber myself.

PHIL. That’s it, Aunt Rachel. Stand up for your rights.

MRS. L. Very well, let it be arranged so. And we’d better all retire, for

it is already an hour past midnight.

MR. C. I thank you all for your hospitality, and hope in the morning to

be able to vindicate my character more fully.

MR. L. That is quite unnecessary. Your statement is entirely

satisfactory. (_Turns to go out, L._)

PHIL. (_to A. R._) Hadn’t you better take your braids and curls and

things, Aunt Rachel? Mr. Campbell won’t have any use for them, and you

look better with them on than you do without.

A. R. (_hastily putting her hand to head—mortified_). I didn’t expect,

when I put this cap on, to receive callers. (_Goes and gets things from

table._)

MR. C. You are very excusable, under the circumstances.

A. R. (_bowing_). Then I will bid you good-night.

MR. L. ⎫

MRS. L. ⎬ (_bowing_). Good-night.

AGNES ⎪

MR. C. ⎭

PHILIP (_bowing_). Good _morning_.

(_Exeunt, L., MR. L., MRS. L., AGNES, AUNT R. and PHILIP. MR. C.

remains._)

(_Curtain falls._)

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC CURED.

CHARACTERS.

MR. CROWELL, A Hypochondriac.

MARIA DAVIDSON, His Niece.

MRS. FOSTER, His Housekeeper.

MR. PRESTON, A Friend, disguised as a Policeman.

SCENE I.—_The house-keeper’s room. MRS. FOSTER (an elderly

person wearing spectacles) sits knitting, L. MARIA enters R.,

and sits down, wearily._

MRS. FOSTER. Well, Maria, you look tired enough.

MARIA. I do feel rather tired.

MRS. F. (_emphatically_). It’s a shame for any man to be so trying as

your uncle is. He hasn’t any business to be so, even if he is sick. It’s

nothing but scold and fret from morning till night. And the more you do,

the more you may. You can’t please him any way you can fix it.

M. I’ve tried to please him, but haven’t succeeded. Now I’m going to see

if I can’t cure him both of his fault-finding and his sickness.

MRS. F. How is that?

M. I think of inviting him to go away on a visit.

MRS. F. I don’t believe he will go. He has an idea that he’s very sick;

but, for my part, I think it’s because he wants to make himself a

nuisance.

M. Hush, Mrs. Foster! You forget he is my uncle, and therefore entitled

to my respect and attention.

MRS. F. Well, I don’t see how you can stand it. I’d as soon wait on the

old boy himself.

M. (_smiling_). I hope you don’t compare my uncle to that renowned

personage?

MRS. F. Well, I don’t know which I’d rather wait on. He’s the most

contrary man I ever knew. (_A knock is heard on the floor outside, R._)

M. Hark! (_In listening attitude, and with uplifted finger. Knock

repeated._) There’s my uncle’s knock. He’s awake and wants me.

(_Exit, R._)

MRS. F. It’s a wicked shame for him to make such a slave of her. He’s a

real torment. (_Knits vigorously—starts as if suddenly remembering._)

But there, I promised to go over and sit with old Miss Barnard this

afternoon. I guess I’ll go, and take my knitting.

(_Exit. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_MR. CROWELL’S chamber. MR. C. apparently asleep, on

lounge, C. He opens his eyes. No one else present._

MR. CROWELL (_in a querulous tone_). Where’s Maria? She’s always gone

when I want her. I might die here, and nobody’d know anything about it.

(_Knocks on floor with cane. MARIA enters, R._)

M. Are you awake, uncle?

MR. C. Awake? Of course I am. I’ve been awake this half hour. You might

have heard me knocking long ago, if you were not deaf.

M. I came up as soon as I heard your knock. And how does your head feel?

MR. C. A great deal worse. And my face is hot. I’m sure that I am going

to have a fever.

M. The doctor said it was only a cold.

MR. C. Doctors don’t know everything. Did you bring me up a cup of tea?

M. No; you didn’t say anything about it, did you?

MR. C. Well, I supposed you’d know that I should need something by this

time.

M. It was only an hour ago that you took a bowl of gruel, and I didn’t

think you would wish for anything more so soon.

MR. C. It was full three hours ago. And I want a cup of tea,—hot, mind

you,—just as soon as I can have it.

(_Exit MARIA, R._)

MR. C. (_soliloquizing_). It is strange that some people haven’t sense

enough to know what a sick person wants, without being told everything. I

always thought Maria was a good nurse; but she is no better than the rest

of them. (_Enter MARIA._)

M. Here is a nice cup of tea for you, uncle.

MR. C. (_tastes it—throws down the spoon and turns his head away_). It’s

hot enough to take the skin off my mouth. I don’t want any more. Throw it

away.

(_MARIA pours it away. She then takes a fan, and gently fans the invalid.

He bears it a moment, then says_:)

MR. C. Don’t keep that fan going; I shall take more cold.

M. You said your face was hot.

MR. C. Well, I don’t want to be cooled off so suddenly. Let me taste of

that tea again.

M. I threw it away.

MR. C. (_in surprise_). Threw my tea away?

M. Yes, you told me to. You said you didn’t want it.

MR. C. I should think you might know by this time that I don’t mean what

I say. Get me some more, quick.

(_MARIA goes out. During her absence MR. C. remains quiet, and with his

eyes closed. She soon returns._)

MR. C. Why didn’t you stay all day?

M. I hurried all I could, uncle; you know I had to wait for the tea to

get hot. (_Tasting._) It’s very nice.

MR. C. (_shaking his head_). I’ve got all off the notion for it, now.

M. Won’t you have some of it?

MR. C. No; I’ve lost all desire for it. (_M. places tea on the table. A

knock is heard._) Who’s that making such a racket?

M. I’ll go and see. (_Goes out—soon returns._) It’s Mr. Preston, uncle.

He wishes to know how you are.

MR. C. Tell him it’s none of his business.

M. Yes, uncle. (_Goes out—soon returns._)

MR. C. Well, what did he say?

M. He seemed quite angry.

MR. C. Angry at what, pray?

M. I suppose at being told it was none of his business.

MR. C. Maria, you didn’t tell him that?

M. Yes, I did, uncle. You told me to tell him it was none of his

business, and he said he shouldn’t trouble you by calling again.

MR. C. (_angrily_). Haven’t you got sense enough to know that I don’t

mean what I say?

M. I supposed, of course, you meant what you said, though I didn’t

exactly like to repeat your message to him.

MR. C. (_after a pause_). I guess I’ll try a little of the tea, Maria.

(_She brings it._)

MR. C. (_languidly_). You’ll have to feed me, Maria, I’m so weak.

M. Yes, uncle. (_Places napkin under chin, and proceeds to feed him._)

MR. C. Stop—stop—it’s hot. You’re choking me. (_But MARIA keeps on._)

MR. C. (_moving quickly one side_).—Sto-op. Can’t you understand plain

English? I don’t believe there’s a particle of skin left on my tongue.

What do you mean?

M. You told me I ought to know by this time that you didn’t mean what you

said. So I supposed I was to go on, at any rate.

MR. C. It’s horrible tasting stuff. You’ve been putting pepper into it.

While you were about it, why didn’t you put in vinegar, too?

(_MARIA, without a word, goes to the table, takes up the vinegar-cruet,

and pours vinegar into the cup._)

MR. C. (_starting up_). Maria Davidson, I believe you are either a fool

or insane.

(_MARIA sits down, and begins to cry. MR. C. gazes at her in

astonishment. A drumming is heard outside, R._)

MR. C. (_putting his hands to his head_). Oh, my poor head! my poor head!

Maria, take my pistol from the closet, and shoot the rascal. (_She goes

to the closet, gets the pistol, and fires, according to his direction._)

MR. C. What the deuce has got into the girl! (_He starts up, and goes to

the window, L.,—mechanically takes up the pistol which MARIA had laid

down. She glides out by one door, R., and immediately a policeman enters

by another, L._)

POLICEMAN. So here you are. I’ll just slip on these bracelets, so you

won’t do any more mischief.

MR. C. (_drawing back_). What do you mean by insulting me in such a

manner?

P. You’ve been attempting to murder a man.

MR. C. No, I haven’t.

P. Didn’t you fire a pistol from the window just now?

MR. M. No, I didn’t fire it.

P. Who did fire it, then?

MR. C. (_hesitating_). Why, I—you see—it was—my niece that fired it.

P. (_looking around room_). That’s a likely story. If she fired the

pistol, where is she now?

MR. C. She went out a few minutes ago.

P. You can’t come that dodge on me. It was only a moment ago that it was

done, and there’s no one but you in the room, and I found you with the

pistol in your hand. You must come along with me.

MR. C. But I can’t—I’m sick.

P. (_taking a look at him_). You don’t appear to be dangerously sick. I

guess you’re able to go with me.

MR. C. But I had the doctor this morning. I’m quite feverish, and it

might cause my death to go out.

P. If you’re sick you shall have a doctor to prescribe for you. Come

along. (_Takes him by shoulder._)

(_Exeunt, L._)

MARIA (_entering, soliloquizing_). My plot has been carried out well thus

far. I don’t think uncle recognized the policeman. It is astonishing how

the habit of complaining gains on one. But if a person is unreasonable,

and given to complaining, there is nothing that will effect a cure so

soon as _taking him at his word_. (_Uncle enters, L._) Ah, have you

returned so soon, uncle? I have felt quite anxious about you, fearing

you might take more cold.

MR. C. You are a very successful little manager, Maria, upon my word. I

felt mortified enough on starting from my own house in the character of a

criminal. But I could blame no one but myself, since my orders were all

obeyed, not only very promptly, but _very literally_. Then I thought what

an unreasonable bear I was, and what a patient little nurse you were, and

by the time we stopped I had become quite subdued. Then I discovered that

the policeman was my old and valued friend, Mr. Preston. It all flashed

upon my mind that it was a plot to bring me to my senses, and to show how

unreasonable I was.

M. Oh, no, uncle, not that exactly. We only aimed to show you that you

imagined yourself worse than you really were. But hadn’t you better lie

down awhile? You are not accustomed to such exertion.

MR. C. No; I am thoroughly cured in mind and body. Nothing would tempt

me to personate again the miserable hypochondriac I was when I left the

house. I am cured, and I mean to stay so.

(_Curtain falls._)

AUNT PATIENCE’S EAR-TRUMPET.

CHARACTERS.

MRS. GRANBY.

CLARA, Her Daughter.

AUNT PATIENCE BURTON, a Lady of Property.

ERNEST MONTGOMERY, Clara’s Suitor.

SERVANT.

SCENE I.—_MRS. GRANBY’S sitting-room. MRS. G., C., with sober

countenance, holds in her hand an open letter, on which her

eyes are fixed. Enter her daughter CLARA, R._

CLARA. Does your letter contain any sad news, ma?

MRS. GRANBY. Not exactly _sad_ news,—but _disagreeable_, to say the least.

C. (_interested_). What is it?

MRS. G. (_glancing at letter_). This is a letter from Aunt Patience

Burton. She is coming to make us a visit.

C. That is _horrible_ news. I shouldn’t want Ernest to see her—she is so

fussy and homely.

MRS. G. He will, no doubt, feel as we do, that money is of more

consequence than a handsome face. Besides, we shan’t be troubled with her

long.

C. How long do you suppose she will stop here?

MRS. G. A week or two, I suppose. That is the usual length of her visits.

C. (_with the air of a martyr_). Well, I suppose we must try to endure

her presence for that length of time—hoping for our final reward.

MRS. G. (_in a brighter tone_). If she could only be persuaded into

making her will in our favor, I shouldn’t consider the trouble of having

her here anything.

C. How much is she supposed to be worth?

MRS. G. About thirty thousand dollars.

C. Just think how much more that amount would benefit us than it does

her. I dare say she hoards it up like a miser.

MRS. G. (_smiling_). That will be all the better for us.

C. Yes, if we get it. But when does the letter say she is coming?

MRS. G. I did not notice particularly. Let me see. (_Looks over

letter—reads_:) “You may expect me Friday, the twenty-fifth, wind and

weather permitting.”

C. (_interrupting_). The twenty-fifth! Why, that’s to-day! (_Bell rings

outside._)

MRS. G. And there is the bell. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that

were she. (_Both rise._)

(_Enter, L., a prim, elderly lady, with corkscrew curls, and wearing an

old-fashioned bonnet._)

MRS. G. (_greeting her with a smile of welcome, and shaking hands

warmly_). Why, Aunt Patience, how glad I am to see you! Clara and I were

just speaking of you.

AUNT PRUDENCE (_diving into the recesses of an ample pocket_). Wait a

minute, Elviry. (_Takes out an ear-trumpet, which she adjusts to her

ear._) There, now we can talk.

MRS. G. (_in a loud tone_). I had no idea you were so deaf, aunt.

A. P. I’m getting old, you know, and can’t expect to keep my faculties

like younger people. But where’s Clara?

MRS. G. This is Clara. (_Steps aside for her daughter to approach._)

Didn’t you recognize her?

A. P. No, she’s grown so I didn’t know her. How d’ye do, dear?

C. (_shaking hands_). How do you do, aunt? I’m glad to see you here.

A. P. Thank ye, child. It’s pleasant to find that old folks aint always

forgotten and wished out of the way.

MRS. G. (_in a loud voice_). Let me assist you in taking off your bonnet.

A. P. You needn’t speak so loud when I have my trumpet.

MRS. G. Then you can hear without using it?

A. P. Yes, but not without you speak pretty loud. (_Lays her trumpet

down._)

MRS. G. (_taking aunt’s bonnet, and carrying it to table. Addressing

daughter._) You see, she’s as deaf as can be. (_Old lady sits down._)

C. That’s lucky. We can relieve our minds without her hearing us. Is she

going to stay long?

MRS. G. I don’t know. I will ask her. (_In a loud voice:_) I hope you are

going to make us a long visit.

A. P. I shan’t be able to stop more than a month. But perhaps it won’t be

convenient for you to have me with you so long.

MRS. G. (_in a loud tone to aunt_). We shall be delighted (_in a lower

tone to her daughter_) when you go away. That’s true, isn’t it, Clara?

C. Yes, indeed. But (_dismally_) do you suppose we can live through the

month?

MRS. G. We must try to, for the sake of the money. (_To AUNT P._) Have

you been well, lately, aunt?

A. P. No, I’ve enjoyed dreadful poor health this winter. I’ve been most

dead with roomatiz and I haven’t got over it yet.

MRS. G. It must have been hard to bear.

A. P. Yes, it made me feel as if I ought to make my will, and I think I

shall make it as soon as I get home again.

MRS. G. Oh, you have many years yet to live, aunt.

A. P. I can see well enough that I am getting old, and cannot live long,

anyway. I get tired out very easy. I think I shall have to ask you to

show me to the room I am to occupy, and I will lie down awhile. I aint

much used to travelling, and it tires me.

MRS. G. Shan’t I get you a cup of tea, aunt?

A. P. Oh, no. All I need is a little rest.

(_Exit, R._)

MRS. G. There, I think we have made a good impression. If she only makes

a will in our favor, I shall consider the attentions we pay her a good

investment.

C. But suppose she shouldn’t leave her money to us?

MRS. G. Oh, don’t let your imagination run in that direction. We must

manage to get into her good graces, so that we may become her heirs.

C. Well, I will do all I can to bring about so desirable a result.

(_Exit MRS. G., R. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_The same. AUNT P., R., knitting. Clara, C., sitting

idly, with book in her hand._

A. P. Didn’t you hear the bell just now, Clara?

C. Yes, I am expecting a friend here to-night. Ah (_rising as ERNEST

MONTGOMERY enters, L._), good-evening, Ernest.

ERNEST MONTGOMERY. Good-evening. You were expecting me, I suppose.

C. Of course I was. I always remember appointments. But I suppose I must

introduce you to my aunt. (_In a loud tone_:) Aunt Patience, this is Mr.

Montgomery.

A. P. (_extending her hand to the young man_). I am very glad to see him.

C. (_to E. M._). We shan’t need to take any further notice of her. She’s

deaf as an adder, and can’t hear a word without her trumpet unless we

scream at her. I believe you never saw her before.

E. M. No.

C. She isn’t very handsome, is she?

E. M. Aren’t you afraid she’ll hear you?

C. Oh no, she’s too deaf.

E. M. But deaf people generally hear things that are not intended for

their ears.

C. Well, I’ll run the risk. When we speak to her she seldom hears the

first time.

A. P. What was that you said?

C. (_in a loud tone_). Only that it was so long since you had been here

that we should try to make you have a pleasant time.

A. P. (_in a satisfied tone_). Oh, was that it? Thank you, child.

E. M. (_with admiration_). You got out of that well.

C. Trust me for that. When one has a rich aunt, it is the best to keep on

the right side of her.

A. P. Did you speak to me, Clara?

C. No; I was telling Mr. Montgomery how fond I was of cider.

A. P. I used to like cider when I was a girl; but that was the genuine

article, and we used to go to the mill where they made it, and take it

through a straw.

E. M. (_interested_). So your aunt is rich?

C. Yes; she is said to be worth thirty thousand dollars.

E. M. That’s quite a fortune.

A. P. (_as if talking to herself_). Yes; deafness is quite a misfortune;

but one doesn’t mind it so much when they’re stopping among their own

relations.

C. (_smiling_). Yes, it is quite a fortune, and of course we put up with

her oddities for the sake of the money, which will, most of it, come to

us.

E. M. She may outlive you.

C. That’s what I’m afraid of. It would be just our luck to have her live

to be a hundred.

E. M. How old is she now?

C. About sixty-five.

E. M. Then you would only have to wait thirty-five years for it.

C. We might as well never have her money as to wait so long as that for

it.

E. M. It would be rather a long while, that’s a fact. By that time you

would look as your aunt does now. Do you know, I think you resemble her

very much?

C. (_tapping him playfully with her fan_). Take that for your

impertinence, sir. I must be a charming damsel, if that were the case.

E. M. So I thought; which was why I made the remark.

C. (_flushing_). I don’t esteem it any compliment.

A. P. What was that you said, Clara?

C. I was saying to Mr. Montgomery that people seldom say what they mean.

A. P. (_nodding_). That’s true—that’s true enough. (_After a

pause—holding up knitting._) Well, there, I’ve got that stocking pretty

well along, and haven’t been knitting a great while, either. Mr.

Montgomery, may I trouble you to tell me what time it is?

E. M. It is no trouble, madam, I assure you. (_Looks at watch._) It is

about (_hesitates_) five minutes past ten.

A. P. Five minutes past ten! I had no idea ’twas so late. (_Gathers

up her knitting._) That’s long past the time I usually go to bed.

Good-night, Mr. Montgomery; good-night, Clara.

C. Good-night, aunt.

E. M. Good-evening, madam.

(_Exit AUNT PATIENCE, R._)

C. What made you tell her it was so late? It isn’t more than nine o’clock.

E. M. (_looking at watch_). It is just half-past eight. But although

I enjoyed her society exceedingly, I was willing to deny myself that

pleasure for the sake of having a little private conversation with you

on a very important matter. (_CLARA casts down her eyes. MR. MONTGOMERY

draws his chair near hers, and takes her hand._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_The same. MRS. GRANBY, R., and CLARA, L., present._

C. Doesn’t it seem a great relief to have Aunt Patience gone?

MRS. G. I must say that it does. I was constantly anxious for fear she

would learn our real feelings, though I flatter myself we concealed them

quite carefully.

C. I don’t believe she suspected at all that we were glad her visit was

over. Deaf people are most always obtuse.

MRS. G. I hope it may prove so, for her money would be a great help to

us. In fact, I don’t see how we can get along without it.

C. It would be very convenient if she would let us have an instalment of

a few thousands soon—before my marriage, for instance.

MRS. G. Yes, in that case we could afford to send to Paris for your

trousseau. But has the time for the wedding been fixed?

C. Yes; Ernest wishes it to take place in June.

MRS. G. I spoke of your marriage as liable to take place soon, and hoped

Aunt Patience would take the hint; but she didn’t seem to.

C. What reply did she make?

MRS. G. She said she hadn’t anything special against Mr. Montgomery, but

that _she_ would never think of choosing _him_ for a husband.

C. Perhaps he reciprocates her feelings. I don’t think it would be a

suitable match myself.

MRS. G. (_smiling_). Being an interested party, perhaps you are not a

suitable judge.

(_SERVANT enters, R., bearing a letter, which she passes to MRS. G._)

MRS. G. (_surprised_). A letter from Aunt Patience, as I live!

SERVANT. Yes, ma’am, and there’s a box downstairs, with one end of the

old lady’s ear-trumpet sticking out of it.

MRS. G. Very well, you may let it remain there for the present.

(_Exit SERVANT, R._)

C. (_clasping her hands, while an expression of horror overspreads her

face_). Don’t say Aunt Patience is coming back again. I certainly think I

couldn’t survive such an event.

MRS. G. (_who has read the letter—quite soberly_). It is worse than that.

C. Worse! I don’t know of anything that could be worse than another visit

from Aunt Patience.

MRS. G. Very well—read the letter and satisfy yourself.

C. (_Taking the letter, which she reads aloud:_)

“NIECE ELVIRA: Thinking you might be anxious to hear from me, I

write to say that I reached home safely. But since my arrival I

have had an attack of rheumatic fever. Therefore, feeling that

life is uncertain, yesterday I made my will. Before visiting

you I had decided to leave my property to you; but I changed

my mind, and have concluded to leave it to the Home for Aged

Women, a charitable institution, where it will, I hope, do a

great deal of good.

“I shall not visit you again. It would be too much of a tax on

you to ask you to put up with my odd ways. As you remarked to

Clara when I came that you would be delighted to have me go,

this information will doubtless be pleasing to you. Besides, I

have a presentiment that I shall not live long, notwithstanding

Clara’s fears to the contrary.

“Although deaf as an adder when I came to visit you, my hearing

has been wonderfully restored, so that I can now dispense with

my ear-trumpet. I therefore send it to you, hoping it may do

you as good service as it did me, in showing me for what I was

valued most.

“AUNT PATIENCE.”

(_MRS. G. and CLARA look blankly at each other._)

MRS. G. So it seems we are not to have any of Aunt Patience’s money after

all.

C. (_indignantly_). It’s a real mean thing for any one to be so

deceitful—going round pretending to be deaf. I’m glad she isn’t coming

here again. I couldn’t endure the sight of her.

SERV. (_entering, R._). Here’s a note that Mr. Montgomery left for you.

C. (_surprised_). Has he been here?

SERV. Yes, he came just after the expressman brought the box.

C. But why didn’t he stop?

S. He heard you reading the letter, and he said he couldn’t stop but a

moment; a message would do just as well as seeing you. So he wrote this

note in the drawing-room, and asked me to give it to you. (_CLARA gazes

at the note. SERVANT goes out, R._)

MRS. G. Why don’t you read your note?

C. I am so surprised. (_Unfolds the paper—reads aloud:_)

“MISS CLARA GRANBY: I have received an appointment which

will carry me to India, and I am to sail for that place this

afternoon. I called to bid you good-by, but finding you

engaged, and being myself in great haste, I make my adieu on

paper. As I may be gone for a long time, perhaps a number of

years, I deem it my duty to release you from your engagement.

“ERNEST MONTGOMERY.”

MRS. G. What does it mean?

C. (_contemptuously_). It means that he overheard enough of Aunt

Patience’s letter to know that we are not to have any of her property; so

he has magnanimously released me from my engagement.

MRS. G. But what are you going to do about it?

C. Do? I don’t know as there is anything to be done. In fact, my present

feelings of indifference towards him show that my affections were not

involved, and I am well satisfied to have him leave me as he has done. As

to Aunt Patience, I guess we can get along without any of her money. I

have several accomplishments that can be turned to account if necessity

requires it.

MRS. G. (_with motherly solicitude, and looking at the matter from a

practical point of view_). But young ladies who earn their own living are

considered strong-minded, and never get married. I couldn’t bear to have

you an old maid.

C. (_calmly_). Well, I don’t know as that would be a terrible fate. It

would be a more independent life than marriage would give me. On the

whole, I think I shall decide to live a single life. (_Smiling._) Still,

as an old lady of eighty once said: “I’ve made up my mind not to get

married, and I don’t expect to; but if the Lord should see fit to send me

a good husband, I should try to be resigned.”

(_Curtain falls._)

THE GHOSTLY VISITATION.

CHARACTERS.

MRS. FLORA WILLIS, A Young Widow.

MRS. LAWRENCE, Her Mother.

ALFRED PERCIVAL, Flora’s Suitor.

SCENE I.—_MRS. LAWRENCE’S parlor. MRS. L., R., FLORA, C., and

MR. PERCIVAL, L., present._

FLORA. Oh, yes, mother believes in ghosts, and haunted houses, and all

those things, and I suppose that, as a dutiful daughter, I ought to do

the same; but I haven’t very much faith in them.

MR. PERCIVAL. Perhaps, if you had had any experience in that direction,

you might feel differently about the matter. I never believed in haunted

houses till I visited Charlie Baldwin, my former chum, last summer.

F. Do tell us all about it. I should like to hear a real nice ghost story.

MRS. LAWRENCE. I think we’d better wait till daylight before listening to

a story of that character.

F. No, it’s just the time for it; it is cold and dark outside. We can

more easily imagine the events real. So go on, please, Mr. Percival.

MR. P.—But my story is not a ghost story at all, and there is really

very little to tell. But we heard strange noises for which we could not

account. For instance, a door, which led from the house into the shed,

had swollen so that it was difficult to shut it, and whenever it was

opened and shut it creaked most musically, so that it could be heard in

all the lower rooms. One evening we were seated at the tea-table, when we

heard the door creaking. “Who is that coming in?” asked Mrs. Baldwin. “It

is very strange,” answered Charlie; “I am sure I closed and locked that

door not ten minutes ago.”—“Suppose we go out and see what it is,” said

Mr. Baldwin. “It certainly had a natural sound.” We all went out in a

body, and behold! the door was shut and fastened and everything all right.

F. (_interested_). Did you hear any other noises while you were there?

MR. P. Oh, yes, we frequently heard footsteps going up and down stairs

after we had gone to bed. Sometimes we could hear the chairs moved about

in the rooms below. And once, I remember, we heard a terrific noise, as

if the side of the house had fallen in. But the next morning everything

seemed as usual, and we laughed about the matter.

F. But were you not startled?

MR. P. Well, I cannot say I should like to live in that house long.

MRS. L. If you had heard all these things, Flora, don’t you think you

would have faith to believe that there are some strange things which one

cannot account for?

F. Oh, yes; “seeing is believing,” as the old saying is, and I suppose

_hearing_ is believing also. But I must ask you to excuse me now, Mr.

Percival, as I have a letter to write, which must go out by the next mail.

MR. P. Though we are sorry to lose your company, we will grant you leave

of absence for a short time. (_Rises and opens the door for her, L. Exit

FLORA._)

MR. P. (_sitting down near MRS. L._). The turn which the conversation

took just now suggested a plan to me, which, with your permission, I

should like to carry out.

MRS. L. What is it?

MR. P. You are, of course, aware that I love your daughter, and would

gladly marry her. She has rejected me, but still I think she likes me as

well or better than any one else. Now, cannot I, by stratagem, bring her

to consent to a marriage with me?

MRS. L. I wish you might do so, and will gladly assist you in any way I

can. But what is your plan?

MR. P. I thought I might, with your assistance, personate the spirit of

her former husband, and appear to her to-night while this conversation

is fresh in her mind, and warn her, if she wishes him to rest in peace,

that she must marry a certain Alfred Percival, who will make her a good

husband.

MRS. L. It is a capital idea. I think the conversation seemed to affect

her considerably. Suppose you come here at ten o’clock to-night. I will

remain up, and arrange your ghostship.

MR. P. Very well, I will do so. And I believe I will go now, as I have

some preparations to make.

(_Exit MR. PERCIVAL, L. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_A curtain is arranged from front to back, dividing

the stage into two rooms, as both must be seen at once. There

must be a door between. In right-hand room is a lounge with

pillow and blanket. FLORA sits in rocking-chair, soliloquizing._

F. There’s something going on, I’m sure, but what it can be isn’t

quite clear to me. Mother has asked me half-a-dozen times if it wasn’t

bed-time; and yet she, herself, hasn’t made any preparation toward

retiring. I shall lie down, with my clothes on, ready for any emergency.

There’s no danger of sleep overtaking me. I feel as if I shouldn’t sleep

any at all to-night.

(_She lies down on lounge, in right-hand room, and covers herself with

a blanket. A moment after, MRS. L. looks into FLORA’S room and seems

satisfied at seeing her apparently asleep. She goes out into left-hand

room. A tap is heard at outer door of left-hand room. Exit MRS. L._)

F. Hark! what noise is that? (_Assumes a listening attitude._)

(_Voices of MRS. L. and MR. P. are heard from behind the scenes._)

MRS. L. (_outside_). I am glad you are so punctual. Everything is in

readiness. I just looked into Flora’s room and found she was fast asleep.

MR. P. (_in rather a high key_). Where shall I go to arrange my costume?

MRS. L. (_deprecatingly_). Hush! you mustn’t speak so loud, as her door

is ajar. Come with me, and we’ll soon have you fitted out.

(_They enter left-hand room cautiously. A sheet lies unfolded on a chair.

This MRS. L. drapes around her companion. He gathers it together so as to

conceal his clothes._)

MRS. L. It will never do to allow your features to show so plainly. You

are only Alfred Percival, after all. Flora would recognize you at once.

MR. P. Suppose I put the sheet over my head? (_Does so._) Is that any

improvement?

MRS. L. Yes; but still I think your features would betray you. Let me

think a moment. I have it. I will get Mr. Willis’s wig; that will be just

the thing.

MR. P. So it will. That’s a good idea. (_She takes wig out of box. MR. P.

puts it on._)

MRS. L. That’s capital. Now stoop a little, and no one would be likely to

recognize you, particularly if they had just waked.

(_FLORA covers herself again and feigns sleep. MR. P. enters her room and

advances to lounge. FLORA moves uneasily; then opens her eyes, and fixes

them upon her visitor._)

F. (_in apparent horror_). Who are you?

MR. P. (_in sepulchral voice_). Flora Willis, I am the spirit of your

dead husband.

F. But why do you appear to me in this way? If you are really he, why

should you come to me at the dead of night?

MR. P. (_in hollow tones_). We, who are tenants of another sphere, mingle

not with mortals; and it is only when all eyes are closed in slumber that

we are permitted to walk the earth.

F. (_gaining confidence_). But what is your object in coming?

MR. P. (_slowly_). I come to warn and advise you. You are young, and, I

know, cherish my memory fondly; but I feel sure that you would be happier

and enjoy life more, if you should marry again.

F. But who is there I should be happy with?

MR. P. You have many suitors; choose among them.

F. I’m afraid they want my money more than myself, and such a union would

cause a lifetime of misery.

MR. P. You are mistaken. There is Alfred Percival. He would be a kind

husband. It is my wish that you marry him. Promise me that you will do so.

F. I cannot promise; it is too sudden.

MR. P. Think of it, then. One week from to-night I will visit you again.

(_Passes slowly out into left-hand room._)

F. (_musing_). Well, that’s curious. I’ve heard ghost stories of almost

every description, but never before did I hear of a ghost making love.

For, though he intended to personate a spirit, he certainly spoke of

himself. And I suppose he is congratulating himself on having completely

deceived me. (_Suddenly._) I’d like to know what he and mother are saying

about it. And why can’t I? They are only in the next room.

(_She rises and creeps cautiously to the door, which stands ajar. MR. P.

has laid aside his ghostly covering and is in the act of passing his wig

to MRS. L. FLORA listens._)

MRS. L. Then you think she did not suspect you?

MR. P. Apparently not. She appeared quite startled at first, but soon

regained her composure.

MRS. L. I suppose it would be better not to allude to the subject

to-morrow.

MR. P. Not on any account. That would tend to arouse her suspicions. I

wouldn’t have her know that I took part in the stratagem.

MRS. L. And what do you expect will come of it? Of course she would not

be likely to come forward and tell you that she was willing to marry you,

even if she felt favorably inclined toward you.

MR. P. (_hesitatingly_). I think I shall call upon her to-morrow, and

then I shall be governed entirely by circumstances.

(_FLORA hurries back to the lounge. MR. PERCIVAL

goes out, L. MRS. L. cautiously goes and looks in

at FLORA, who appears to be asleep. Exit MRS. L., R.

Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_Parlor. FLORA present, C. She is arranging flowers

in a vase._

F. (_soliloquizing_). So Mr. Percival is going to call on me to-day. It

is quite fortunate I happened to overhear his plans. I suppose he will

repeat that momentous question again, and I’ve about made up my mind to

accept him. Then the matter will be settled, and I shan’t be worried any

more by his importunities. Besides, he is a person of good standing,

and I don’t know as I love any one else more; and I don’t think he is

after my money. (_A pause in which she completes the arrangement of the

flowers. MR. P. enters._)

F. (_advancing toward him_). Ah, Mr. Percival, I was just thinking of

you, and you know the old saying, “If you think of the angels, you’ll

soon hear the rustling of their wings.”

MR. P. Excuse me, but I never heard it expressed in that way before. It

has been told me in this wise: His Satanic Majesty is always near when

you’re talking of him.

F. I must say my version is more complimentary than yours.

MR. P. So do I, and I draw encouragement from that fact. If you were

thinking of me, I take it as a favorable omen, and shall consider that I

am not so disagreeable to you as I feared I was.

F. (_interrupting_). Oh, by the way, Mr. Percival, I had quite an

adventure last night. I saw a real, _bona fide_ ghost.

MR. P. Did you really?

F. Yes; as I was quietly dozing, a tall figure, clad in white, stalked

into my room, and when I opened my eyes I beheld him close beside me, and

looking down upon my face.

MR. P. (_avoiding her eyes_). And what did he say?

F. (laughing). Oh, he pretended to be the spirit of my former husband,

and said I must marry again.

MR. P. (_taking both her hands in his_). Why will you not heed his

advice? Let me, too, add my solicitations. Marry me, Flora, and you shall

never have cause to regret it. (_He anxiously waits her reply._)

F. (_looking up into his face with an amused smile_). Why, Mr. Percival,

how much you remind me of my last night’s visitor! The expression of your

face, and the lines about your mouth—all but the white sheet and wig.

MR. P. (_changing color_). I see that you know all; but grant me a

favorable answer, and I shall be well satisfied.

F. (_smiling_). I suppose I ought to, since it is decided on high

authority that it is right and proper I should do so. In that way, if

in no other, I shall convince you that I am not afraid of ghosts, if I

promise to marry one.

MR. P. (_warmly_). And I shall feel well repaid for personating one by

the promised reward. Henceforth I shall look with kindness on shadowy

apparitions, feeling that, in other cases as well as my own, even ghosts

may be of some practical use.

(_Curtain falls._)

PRACTICAL HUSBANDRY.

CHARACTERS.

FRANK WEBSTER, A Young Man from the City.

EDWIN ALDRICH, His Friend.

MRS. LEIGHTON, A Farmer’s Wife.

ANNIE MONTGOMERY, Her Niece.

SCENE I.—_FRANK is seated, R., in the depths of an arm-chair,

his feet resting on the table. He is smoking a cigar. Enter

EDWIN, L._

EDWIN. Well, Frank, you look decidedly cosey and comfortable, that’s a

fact.

FRANK (_not altering his position, but motioning his visitor to a seat_).

That’s the way to do. One might as well enjoy life as he goes along. Have

a cigar, Aldrich? (_Offers him an open case, in which are cigars._)

E. (_throwing himself on a lounge, L. C._). No, Frank, I believe not. The

fact is, I’ve reformed—given up smoking.

F. Whew! I’ll wager that’s one of the consequences of matrimony.

E. I don’t deny it. But I think smoking is a bad habit, and have thought

of giving it up before, but never could persevere till now. That reminds

me, Frank; why don’t you marry? I dare say you could find some one in the

city foolish enough to take you for better or worse. And you don’t know

what a comfort ’tis to a man to have a good wife and a pleasant home.

F. That’s where the trouble is (_fondly stroking his mustache_). As

you say, I could easily persuade some one to marry me, knowing as they

do that I possess plenty of money. But don’t you think it would make a

difference if I were a poor man?

E. I dare say it might with some persons; but all are not alike. I am

sure there are many who esteem wealth of less importance than personal

worth.

F. (_assuming a sitting posture, and laying cigar down_). I have often

thought I should like to marry; but when I looked around among the ladies

with whom I was brought in contact, I became disgusted to see what

frivolous lives they led.

E. But all women are not alike, Frank.

F. That may be so, but where shall I go to look for a different class? I

have strong domestic tastes, and would be glad to change my present state

of single blessedness for a married life. If I could find my ideal of a

wife, I would marry at once.

E. I’ll tell you what it is, Frank. You must go into the country. The

girls are mostly sensible there, and think less about dress and fashion.

You can assume another name, and then look around you, and become

acquainted with some of the country girls. My wife was born and brought

up in the country, so I can speak from experience.

F. But how could I manage? I couldn’t go to a hotel and stop with nothing

to do. Country girls are ambitious as well as those who live in the city,

and if I remained there with no occupation, I should be supposed to be a

man of some property, and I shouldn’t be much better off than I am here.

E. That’s so, my friend. I never gave you credit for so much shrewdness.

But isn’t there anything you could do,—any kind of business, I mean?

F. I have it. I’ll hire myself out on a farm. In that way, as one

of the family, I shall become more intimately acquainted with the

neighborhood—girls included.

E. Imagine fastidious Benjamin Franklin Webster dressed in coarse

clothes and cowhide boots! (_Looking upward._) Shades of the illustrious

men whose names he bears, look down with benignity on the depth of

degradation to which he proposes to descend!

F. (_smiling_). That’ll do, Ed. I am only following the example of at

least one of those illustrious men in working on a farm.

E. And those delicate hands, that never did any manual labor, are to be

used in milking the cows and holding the plough!

F. Laugh away, Ed. I’ve made my plans, and now I’m going to carry them

out.

E. But, seriously, will your strength hold out?

F. Without doubt. Besides, every one says farming is the most healthful

occupation any one can follow. So you may expect to see me back in the

fall so stout and fleshy that my friends will hardly know me.

E. And perhaps you will bring Mrs. Benjamin Franklin Webster with you.

F. That’s very uncertain. I haven’t really very great faith in the

project myself; but I’m tired of my present way of living, and any change

will be welcome, even if it does not bring about the desired result.

E. But how are you going to obtain the situation?

F. How am I? (_Smiling._) That’s the question before the meeting.

E. Suppose you advertise for one. That would be the best way, I think.

F. The very thing. Couldn’t you write an advertisement for me, Ed? You

know I’m modest, and couldn’t, of course, speak of my qualifications as

well as you could.

(_EDWIN takes sheet of paper from the table, and writes for a few

moments; then reads it._)

E. (_reading_). “WANTED—By a young man, a situation on a farm. Is willing

to work for moderate wages, provided he can learn the business. Address

Franklin Forrester, Box 68.” How will that do, Frank?

F. I guess that’ll answer. But what paper would it be best to insert it

in? The evening “Herald”?

E. Oh no, that wouldn’t do. It must be an agricultural paper. Better put

it into several; then you will be more sure of a reply.

F. I’ll insert it in every agricultural paper in the city. If I get one

reply from each, I shall have at least six.

E. Very well. If one has an object in view, there’s nothing like taking

every method to accomplish it.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_FRANK seated C., before a table covered with

letters. Enter EDWIN, L._

E. Well, I must say the agricultural papers in the city have a goodly

number of subscribers, judging from appearances. This is the first

edition of letters, I suppose.

(_Exit, L._)

F. Yes, and, judging from the slight examination I have made, it already

needs to be revised and corrected. But there’s no doubt about my getting

a situation, Ed. You see what a demand there is for my services. Sixty

letters already! I can almost imagine myself at the head of a village

post-office.

E. The quality may not be as satisfactory as the quantity. But if all

these letters are to be examined, we must to work, and use diligence too.

Suppose you open them, and read them aloud.

F. That’s a good way. Here’s one written in a wretched hand, which I will

read first.

(_Cutting off one end of the envelope he draws out a piece of paper about

six inches square, which runs thus:_)

F. (_reading_).

“Mister Forrister: I seen your notis in the paper yisterdy. And

sez I to myself, I don’t bleeve I cood do better than to hire

that man. My bizness is diggin’ wells, wich is one branch of

farmin’, becoz every farm has to have one or more. As you say

you’re a green hand, I should expec you to pay your bord for

the fust month. I’d give you your bord the second month for

your work. After that we’d talk about wages, though I coodn’t

pay much. When cood you kum?

“Yours to command,

“SOLOMON PORCUPINE.”

E. (_laughing_). Ha! ha! ha! That’s a good one. If you go there you’ll

be sure to learn one branch of the business pretty thoroughly. Shall you

accept, and become a member of Mr. Porcupine’s family? By the way, he has

a charming name.

F. Yes, characteristic, I dare say. Accept the first chance? No indeed;

not as long as I have fifty-nine more left. (_Opens another letter._) But

what is this?

E. I’m all attention.

F. (_reading_). Mr. Forrester: “I notice by my paper that you want to

learn to farm. I should like to teach you ‘what I know about farming.’ It

would take some time to do it, but I would warrant you a good knowledge

of farming in six years. You couldn’t fail to get a thorough knowledge

of the business, as I should let you do all the work. My health is poor,

and I am only able to oversee the work. As you want a situation, you may

as well consider yourself engaged. I shall expect you next Monday. HORACE

GREGORY.”

F. Well! that’s cool! I am afraid that man is troubled by a disease

called indolence. But, Ed, we are getting along too slowly. Suppose you

and I read letters as fast as we can, and if either of us finds one that

we consider suitable it shall be read aloud. If not, it shall be thrown

into the waste basket.

E. Agreed.

(_They look over letters very hurriedly, occasionally laughing aloud as

they read something which excites their mirth. At length EDWIN says:_)

E. Here, Frank, here’s just the place for you. Shall I read?

F. Do so by all means. I am nearly discouraged.

E. (_reading_). “Franklin Forrester, Esq.—Dear Sir: Uncle William wishes

me to write to you concerning an advertisement of yours which he read in

our paper. He judges from it that you are not accustomed to working on

a farm. He has already two men, but wishes a little more help, provided

arrangements satisfactory to both parties could be made. He is willing

to pay whatever is reasonable as regard wages, but not knowing how much

you can do, he can say nothing more definite. If you wish any further

information, a letter directed to William Leighton, Ballardvale, Vermont,

will receive prompt attention. But if you prefer to come without

writing, uncle will be glad to see you at any time after the receipt of

this letter.”

F. (_eagerly_). What is the signature?

F. There is none, but it is evidently a lady’s hand. What do you think of

it?

F. I think I shall start for Ballardvale to-morrow.

E. That’s a wise conclusion. You will be back by Christmas, I doubt not.

Probably by that time you will have become a practical farmer.

F. (_absently_). Time will show.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_Sitting-room at MR. LEIGHTON’S. Time, evening.

MRS. LEIGHTON, C., ANNIE, R., and FRANK, L., present. FRANK is

dressed in a coarse suit. MRS. L. is knitting._

MRS. LEIGHTON. Well, Mr. Forrester, how do you like your first day’s

experience on a farm?

F. Very much, indeed. But, you know, I have not had any work to do yet.

Mr. Leighton, unlike most employers, has given me a vacation to start

with.

MRS. L. He wishes you to have a little time in which to look around first.

ANNIE (_smiling_). You find the hour for rising a little earlier here

than in the city, I suppose.

F. Yes, I do. This morning I was awakened by the sound of a bell. I

listened, wondering what could be the matter. There were sounds from

below, as if something had happened. Doors were opened and shut

hurriedly, and I could hear the voices of men outside. I dressed as

quickly as I could, and hurried downstairs. But it appeared that nothing

unusual had taken place. Mrs. Leighton was getting breakfast, and you

were laying the table. I glanced up at the clock, and saw that it was a

quarter past four o’clock (_smiling_),—about four hours earlier than I

have been accustomed to rise. Then it occurred to me that people living

on farms are obliged to get up early.

MRS. L. Yes, my mother used to say that an hour in the morning was worth

three later in the day. But did you rest well, Mr. Forrester?

F. Oh yes, very well.

MRS. L. When I pass the night in the city I can’t sleep, there is so

much noise. But last summer a lady who was visiting here could not sleep

because _she missed the noise_.

F. There is a great deal in habit. (_A pause._) By the way, I said that

I had done no work to-day. I forgot to mention that I had accomplished a

feat which I never attempted before.

A. What was that?

F. I unharnessed the horse.

A. How did you succeed?

F. I got the harness off, but not very scientifically, I’m afraid, for I

heard Mike tell Jerry that that city chap was the curiousest feller he

ever see, for he unfastened every buckle that was in the harness, and

then left it in a heap on the floor.

A. (_smiling_). I think that’s a little worse than I should do, for I

believe I should endeavor to hang the harness up.

F. To tell the truth, I thought of doing so, but there were so many small

pieces that it was impossible. If I had found a basket near, I should

have gathered them up and put them in that.

A. That would be a novel method of disposing of it.

MRS. L. I expect, Mr. Forrester, that you are one of those students who

don’t know much about anything but books.

F. At all events I find, in looking around me, that I don’t know much

about farming. But there’s one good feature in the case: I am anxious to

learn.

MRS. L. Oh, I haven’t any doubt but you’ll make quite a farmer yet!

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_MRS. L.’S sitting-room. Enter FRANK and ANNIE, R.,

wearing their hats. FRANK is carrying a basket of grapes (or

some other kind of fruit). They take off their hats, and FRANK

lays both on the table. ANNIE seats herself, R., and FRANK

brings a chair and sits near her, L._

F. (_taking up the basket_). Now I feel like treating myself and you.

Here are some tempting clusters.

(_ANNIE spreads a clean napkin over her dress, while FRANK places the

grapes upon it. They sit for a moment eating the fruit._)

MRS. L. (_entering, R._). So you have got back again. I was wondering

what kept you so long.

F. Congratulate me, Aunt Lucy. Annie has promised to marry me.

MRS. L. That accounts for your being gone so long. I thought you couldn’t

be all this time getting a few grapes. But I’m very glad for you, and

think you have both chosen wisely.

F. (_slyly glancing at his companion_). Perhaps you wouldn’t think it,

but Annie offered to pay me for doing it.

A. (_with mock indignation_). Why, Franklin Forrester!

F. Didn’t you offer me a penny for my thoughts? And haven’t I been

thinking of this very thing for the last three months? (_Turning to MRS.

L._) But I indignantly refused to receive the money.

MRS. L. (_benignantly_). Don’t be foolish, children. Come out now—supper

is ready.

(_Exit, MRS. L., R._)

F. (_gently detaining ANNIE, who is about to follow her aunt_).—Wait

a moment, Annie, I have a disclosure to make. My name is not Frank

Forrester, but Franklin Webster.

A. What! Benjamin Franklin Webster, who lives on Marlborough street?

F. Yes.

A. Then you are the Mr. Webster that I have heard Edwin Aldrich speak of.

F. (_surprised_). Are you acquainted with him?

A. Oh, yes, he’s my cousin.

F. Your cousin? The young reprobate! Excuse me, but he was the very

person who suggested the idea of my coming here. I believe he planned the

whole affair.

A. I think you are mistaken there; for Uncle William had no thought of

hiring another person till he saw your advertisement.

F. Well, of course Ed knew about it when he saw Mr. Leighton’s letter in

reply to the advertisement. But, as I was saying, I had the misfortune

to lose my parents when quite young, and thereby became heir to a large

amount of property. As I grew up to manhood, my society was sought after

by all the marriageable young ladies and managing mammas. I determined to

find someone who would love me for myself alone; so I came out here, and

found my wishes realized. Can you forgive me, Annie?

A. What! for coming out here, and wishing to marry me? Yes, I’ll try to.

But (_archly_) I, too, have a confession to make. I also am possessed of

property, and came out here to Uncle William for the self-same reason

that you did. But I didn’t change my name. I lived on the street beyond

you, in the city. But it seems we were obliged to go a hundred miles from

home to become acquainted.

(_EDWIN enters R., FRANK and ANNIE start up in surprise._)

EDWIN. Look here, supper’s been ready this half hour, and the biscuits

are nearly cold already.

A. (_interrupting_). Why, Cousin Ed, when did you arrive?

F. Look here, you villain! You planned this affair!

E. (_striking an attitude and speaking in a melancholy tone_). He calls

me a villain for being the means of making him happy. Annie, if I were

you, I’d release him from the engagement at once.

A. (_smiling_). Come, Edwin, you haven’t told me when you arrived.

E. I have been here two hours.

F. (_in a comico-threatening manner_). Tell me, sir, did you not plan

this whole affair?

E. (_more seriously_). No, I knew nothing of it till I read the letter

in reply to the advertisement. I then recognized the handwriting, and in

that way discovered that Annie was stopping here. I felt sure that you

would be pleased with one another, and would both pass a pleasant summer,

if nothing more came of it. Yesterday was the first day of my vacation,

and I thought it time to be looking after you. But aunt tells me you are

engaged.

F. Yes, and I feel amply repaid for coming so far, and for working three

months on a farm, in order to secure a wife to my mind. If any of my

friends in the city are troubled in the same way that I was, I shall

recommend to them to try my remedy, trusting it may produce the same

gratifying results.

E. And in that way I suppose they may expect to get a good knowledge of

“_Practical Husbandry_.”

(_All three bow, and Curtain falls._)

MR. SMITH’S DAY AT HOME.

CHARACTERS.

MR. SMITH.

MRS. SMITH.

WILLIE (_five years old_).

MRS. ASHTON.

MISS ASHTON.

BRIDGET.

SCENE I.—_MRS. SMITH’S parlor. Table in centre of the room.

MRS. SMITH is engaged in reading a letter. Her husband, L., is

looking over the evening paper. He lays it down._

MR. SMITH. Well, Mrs. Smith, what is the news? You look as sober as if

you had lost all your friends.

MRS. SMITH. It is a serious matter. This letter informs me that my sister

Sarah is sick, and it is doubtful if she recovers. I ought to go and see

her, but I am afraid I shall not be able to do so.

MR. S. Why, what is the difficulty? I see nothing to prevent your going.

I’m sure you haven’t much to do. There are only three of us in the

family, and Bridget does all the work.

MRS. S. Yes, Bridget will do very well, if there’s some one to look after

her. But she isn’t one to be depended upon. I shouldn’t dare to leave

Willie with her.

MR. S. I think she would get along well enough.

MRS. S. I shouldn’t be willing to go under any such circumstances.

MR. S. Would you be any better satisfied if I should stay at home and

look after things?

MRS. S. Oh, yes, certainly. But could you leave the office for a whole

day?

MR. S. I think so.

MRS. S. Well, then, I will go on the first train to-morrow morning.

MR. S. You needn’t hurry back. We shall get along famously, I am sure; so

you’d better stay till the late train, if you have the least desire to.

MRS. S. I should like to do so. That would give me a nice long day there.

MR. S. (_rising_). If you take the first train we must be up betimes.

What time do the cars leave here?

MRS. S. At eight o’clock, I believe.

MR. S. I will go now and write a note to Mr. Ferguson, saying I shall not

be at the office to-morrow.

(_Exit._)

MRS. S. (_sola_). This is a good chance for me. I want very much to see

Sarah. And then Mr. Smith is constantly telling me that I can’t have much

to do. It will be a good thing for him to have a little experience in

house-keeping. I think one day’s trial will be sufficient to satisfy him.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II. _Dining-room at MR. SMITH’S._

BRIDGET, R. C. (_washing dishes_). An’ what’s Misther Smith at home

to-day for, I wonder? Didn’t the missis think she left me enough to do,

widout havin’ him round? I was goin’ to invite Ann Malony to come and

pass the afthernoon and take tay wid me; but how can I do it wid him

spyin’ round?

(_Enter MR. SMITH, L._)

MR. S. Well, Bridget, we are left to keep house all alone to-day.

B. (_sullenly_). Yis, sir.

MR. S. What did Mrs. Smith say we were to have for dinner?

B. Cold roast beef and rice puddin’; an’ I was to make some hot biskit.

MR. S. It won’t take very long to do that, will it?

B. (_hoping for leave of absence after dinner_). No, sir, I could do that

much in an hour.

MR. S. Well, Bridget, Mrs. Smith is to be away all day, and I thought

we’d clean the kitchen closet while she’s gone, and so surprise her when

she comes home.

B. An’ d’ye think I’ll begin a big job like that while she’s away? She

always helps me at cleanin’-house time.

MR. S. Oh, well, I’ll help you. I’ll take down the dishes, and you can

wash and wipe them, and wash out the closet. Then I’ll help you put them

back again.

B. Axin’ yer pardon, sir, I can’t do it.

MR. S. What! do you refuse to obey orders? (_Sarcastically._) I suppose

you’ll expect to receive your wages just the same.

B. Av coorse I shall. I never refuses to do anything the _missis_

requires, but I aint goin’ to be ordered round _by a man_.

MR. S. If you’re not willing to do what I tell you, the sooner you find

another place, the better.

B. (_angrily_). I’m goin’ to lave the house this blessed minnit, so I am.

It’s Bridget McFinnigan that won’t be imposed upon by the likes uv you,

or any other man! (_She takes off her apron hastily, throws it over a

chair, and leaves the room, R., full of indignation._)

MR. S. Well, I’m afraid I’ve got myself into trouble. I’d better have

waited till after dinner before speaking about cleaning. But, as it

seems I’ve got to do what I can, alone, I might as well finish washing

the breakfast dishes. (_Takes BRIDGET’S apron, and ties it on loosely.

He begins to wipe a plate, but it falls from his hands and is broken._)

There goes a plate. I must go and throw it into the stove, or Mrs. Smith

will be twitting me about breaking things. (_Goes to the next room, R.,

where a stove is supposed to be, and leaves the broken plate. Returns and

commences washing dishes again._) After all, there isn’t much work about

keeping house. It’s astonishing how these women can employ all their

time! Perhaps it is better that Bridget left me as she did to-day, as now

I can show Mrs. Smith how easily housework may be disposed of.

WILLIE (_enters, L., with torn clothes, and rubbing his eyes with his

hands_). Ur-r-r-r, ur-r-r-r, (_louder_) ur-r-r-r!

MR. S. What’s the matter? What’s the matter?

W. (_crying_). Sammy Snow set his dog on to me, and hurt me. Ur-r-r-r!

MR. S. Well, be a brave boy, and don’t cry.

W. (_crying_). Give me some raisins, and I won’t.

MR. S. I don’t know where mamma keeps them.

W. I do; it’s in the kitchen closet.

MR. S. Does mamma give them to you?

W. Sometimes, and sometimes I get them myself.

MR. S. Well, you can get a _very few_. Raisins are not good for little

boys.

W. (_aside_). I guess I’ll have enough raisins this time. (_Goes out, R._)

MR. S. I ought to finish washing the dishes, but perhaps I’d better see

about dinner, first. Let me see. We were to have rice pudding. I haven’t

time to make an elaborate pudding. I think I’ll just boil some rice. That

is always good.

(_He goes toward the table, but steps on his apron and falls. He reaches

forward to take hold of the table, but, instead, grasps the paper of

rice, and both go on to the floor, the rice scattering in all directions.

He gets up, rubbing his bruised arm, and looks ruefully at the scene

before him; just then WILLIE comes in crying._)

W. There aint any raisins there, ur-r-r! Papa, what was I crying for,

ur-r-r!

MR. S. (_coaxing him_). Don’t cry, Willie, but come and help papa pick up

this rice, and you shall have an orange when I go to the store.

W. I want it now.

MR. S. I haven’t got one now; but here’s an apple, and I’ll give you an

orange this afternoon. (_WILLIE takes the apple. They gather up some

of the rice, leaving the greater part of it on the floor._) I wonder

how much of this I ought to boil. There are only two of us. I think a

quart will be enough. (_Measures it._) I don’t know but it ought to be

picked over. (_Looks at watch._) No, I shan’t have time. Of course it’s

clean enough; the floor is swept every day. (_Goes out, R., with rice;

returns._) The next thing is biscuit. That’s an easy matter. I have only

to mix flour and water together, and put it into the oven. (_Pours flour

into a pan, and adds water._) I believe it is customary to knead it well

with the hands. (_Puts his hands in, and stirs ingredients together. At

that moment a ring is heard at the door._) I declare if that isn’t the

door-bell. But I shan’t answer it,—not if they ring a dozen times.

W. (_who has peeped out of the window, L._) Papa, it’s the Ashtons! (_An

aristocratic family who have never before called on the SMITHS._)

MR. S. Is it? (_Thinks for a moment; the bell rings again._) Willie,

can’t you go to the door, and show the ladies into the parlor? Then come

out here, and I will go in and see them. Stop a moment, your face isn’t

clean. (_The bell rings again._) No matter; come here and wipe it on my

apron. Now go, like a good boy.

(_WILLIE goes to answer the bell, but, being a little confused, shows the

visitors into the dining-room, L. MRS. and MISS ASHTON look around the

room and exchange significant glances._)

MR. S. (_discomposed, takes his hands out of the dough, and wipes them on

his apron_). Willie, why did you bring the ladies into this room? I beg

your pardon, ladies; won’t you go into the parlor? I will be in directly.

MRS. A. (_superciliously_). Thank you; but we called to see Mrs. Smith.

Is she at home?

MR. S. No, she is not. Her sister is dangerously ill, and has sent for

her. She will be at home this evening.

MRS. A. Then we will call again (_significantly_), at a more auspicious

time.

MR. S. I trust you will excuse my appearance. Soon after Mrs. Smith was

gone, the servant left me and—

MRS. A. Ah, yes! I understand—Good morning! (_Aside to her daughter._)

What a low family! I shall not think of calling again.

(_Exeunt, L._)

MR. S. (_provoked_). Why didn’t you take those ladies into the parlor, as

I told you, Willie?

WILLIE (_terrified_). I didn’t mean to, papa. Don’t scold. I won’t do so

again.

MR. S. Well, see that you don’t. (_Soliloquizes._) I wonder if I ought

to put this bread in another pan before baking. I guess, however, this

one will do just as well. I’ve got dishes enough to wash already. I must

put this bread into the oven, and look after the rice. It is fortunate we

have some cold meat for dinner, as I haven’t time to cook any. (_Goes out

with bread; returns._) I must pile up those dishes and set the table for

dinner. Then I can wash all the dishes at once. Who would think that that

rice would have swelled so? There is nearly a peck of it already, and it

is still rising. Half a cup full would have been enough. But, no matter,

we shan’t have to cook any again very soon. I declare I must go and see

to the bread; it must be done by this time. (_Goes out; returns, and

finishes setting the table._) The bread is all done. It didn’t rise much,

and, somehow, I can’t get it out of the pan, but it seems to have baked

well. Perhaps I ought to have buttered the pan. (_Suddenly._) There, I

forgot to boil some potatoes. Well, it can’t be helped. At all events,

we’ve got plenty of rice, and that must take its place.

(_Exit, R._)

(_He brings in a small dish of meat, the pan of bread, and afterwards an

enormous soup tureen heaped up with boiled rice. The tureen may be nearly

filled up with any other substance, and the rice placed on top, causing

an observer to think it is entirely filled with rice._)

MR. S. (_goes to the door, L., and calls_). Willie! Willie! dinner is

ready.

W. (_entering_). I’m as hungry as a bear.

MR. S. Well, we’ve got plenty to eat. (_Helps him to meat and rice._)

W. Isn’t there any potatoes?

MR. S. No, but here’s some bread. (_Tries to cut the bread, but does not

succeed. At that moment the door opens, and MRS. SMITH walks in, L. She

glances at the table, and bursts into a laugh._)

MRS. S. What _have_ you got for dinner, Mr. Smith? I think you must be

fond of rice!

MR. S. (_rising_). Don’t say a word, my dear, don’t say a word! I’ve had

trials enough this morning to drive a man crazy. Say anything you please

about the drudgery of housework, and I will agree with you. I’ve had an

experience this forenoon which I shall not forget in a lifetime!

MRS. S. If it causes you to be more considerate in future, I shall not

regret having left you. I think you must have done something, judging

from the appearance of the room. (_Looks around._)

MR. S. And I suppose you think the prospect is, that there is still

something left to do. But as you have got home so early, I think I’ll go

down to the office a while. I have a slight headache, and think a change

of scene would benefit me.

(_Exit, L._)

W. (_rushing to door_). Don’t forget my orange, papa.

(_Curtain falls._)

THE COUNTRY COUSIN.

CHARACTERS.

MRS. ATHERTON, Eunice’s Aunt.

BLANCHE, Mrs. A.’s Daughter.

EUNICE HAYNES, The Country Cousin.

MR. WARNER, A Visitor.

A SERVANT, GUESTS, ETC.

SCENE I.—_MRS. ATHERTON’S drawing-room. BLANCHE, L., and her

mother, R., present._

MRS. ATHERTON. Did you hear your father say we were to expect a visitor

to-day?

BLANCHE (_surprised_). No, I heard nothing of it. Who is it?

MRS. A. The daughter of his only sister, who married a farmer in the

little village of Donnellsville.

B. Do you know anything of her?

MRS. A. No. They live at such a distance, that there has been but little

communication between the two families. Your father met Mr. Haynes in

the city a few days ago, and invited him to send his daughter here for a

visit. This letter, which he has just received, announces that she will

be here to-day.

B. Do you know her name?

MRS. A. Eunice Haynes.

B. What a wretchedly countrified name! And how unfortunate that she

should come just at this time. Next week, you know, we are to have our

party, and of course she will have to be present. I have no doubt she is

a country gawky, whose conversation will be mostly of “aour caows,” and

how much butter and cheese we make.

MRS. A. No doubt. I wonder that your father should have invited her here

until some of us had seen her.

B. As to that, I don’t know how we should ever see her unless she came

here. It will be bad enough to receive a visit from her, but it would

be still worse for us to visit them. I have no doubt they are genuine

rustics, who keep no servants, talk bad grammar, and take their meals in

the kitchen.

MRS. A. Very likely.

B. And then I suppose her dresses will all be calico or gingham, having

all the colors of the rainbow. No doubt she will select the gayest of

them all for the party. How disgusted I am at the thought of this visit!

I wish it were well over.

MRS. A. So do I. But couldn’t you pass her off as Isabel’s governess?

B. No, that wouldn’t do at all. In fact, she probably couldn’t sustain

that character. Besides, papa has such strange, out-of-the-way notions

on such points, that I fear he would be angry if such a thing were

attempted.

MRS. A. Perhaps, after all, it may not be as bad as you think, Blanche.

We will wait patiently, and not judge her till she arrives.

B. And, by the way, you promised to go out with me to select a dress for

the party. We ought to go now, I think. Otherwise we shall be obliged to

invite _our cousin_ (_with emphasis_) to go with us.

(_Exeunt, R. Curtain falls._)