III. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS

III. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS

CONTAINING

Charming Exercises for Fourth-of-July Celebrations; Washington’s Birthday; Christmas and Thanksgiving; Decoration Day; Public School Exhibitions; Arbor Day; Harvest Homes; Evening Entertainments, Etc., Etc.

INCLUDING A CHOICE COLLECTION OF DIALOGUES, TABLEAUX, SUBJECTS FOR DEBATE, ETC.

PROGRAMME NO. 1 FOR FOURTH OF JULY.

The following programme can be varied as occasion may require by additional exercises or by substituting others for those here suggested. The platform should be decorated with flags and patriotic emblems. In addition to the singing of patriotic airs, there should be music by a band or orchestra. Each of the children should be furnished with a small flag. Let all the exercises be very spirited.

MUSIC—By the Band or Orchestra.

SINGING—Tune: “America.”

My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrim’s pride, From every mountain-side Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee— Land of the noble free— Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills, My heart with rapture thrills Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom’s song; Let mortal tongues awake; Let all that breathe partake; Let rocks their silence break— The sound prolong.

Our fathers’ God, to Thee, Author of liberty, To Thee we sing; Long may our land be bright With Freedom’s holy light; Protect us by Thy might, Great God, our King.

SAMUEL F. SMITH.

READING—The Declaration of Independence.

RECITATION—The Fourth of July.

To the sages who spoke, to the heroes who bled, To the day and the deed, strike the harp-strings of glory! Let the song of the ransomed remember the dead, And the tongue of the eloquent hallow the story, O’er the bones of the bold Be that story long told, And on fame’s golden tablets their triumphs enrolled Who on freedom’s green hills freedom’s banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world!

They are gone—mighty men!—and they sleep in their fame: Shall we ever forget them? Oh, never! no, never! Let our sons learn from us to embalm each great name, And the anthem send down—“Independence forever!” Wake, wake, heart and tongue! Keep the theme ever young; Let their deeds through the long line of ages be sung Who on freedom’s green hills freedom’s banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world!

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

MUSIC—By Band or Orchestra.

READING—The Vow of Washington.

The sword was sheathed: in April’s sun Lay green the fields by freedom won; And severed sections, weary of debates, Joined hands at last and were United States.

O city, sitting by the sea! How proud the day that dawned on thee, When the new era, long desired, began, And, in its need, the hour had found the man!

One thought the cannon salvos spoke; The resonant bell-tower’s vibrant stroke, The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls, And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul’s!

How felt the land in every part The strong throb of a nation’s heart, As its great leader gave, with reverent awe, His pledge to union, liberty and law!

That pledge the heavens above him heard, That vow the sleep of centuries stirred; In world-wide wonder listening peoples bent Their gaze on freedom’s great experiment.

Could it succeed? Of honor sold And hopes deceived all history told. Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past Was the long dream of ages true at last?

Thank God! the people’s choice was just, The one man equal to his trust, Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good, Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude!

His rule of justice, order, peace, Made possible the world’s release; Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust, And rule, alone, which serves the ruled, is just;

That freedom generous is, but strong In hate of fraud and selfish wrong, Pretense that turns her holy truths to lies, And lawless license masking in her guise.

Land of his love! with one glad voice Let thy great sisterhood rejoice; A century’s suns o’er thee have risen and set, And, God be praised, we are one nation yet.

And still, we trust, the years to be Shall prove his hope was destiny, Leaving our flag with all its added stars Unrent by faction and unstained by wars!

Lo! where with patient toil he nursed And trained the new-set plant at first, The widening branches of a stately tree Stretched from the sunrise to the sunset sea.

And in its broad and sheltering shade, Sitting with none to make afraid, Were we now silent, through each mighty limb, The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him.

Our first and best—his ashes lie Beneath his own Virginian sky. Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave, The storm that swept above thy sacred grave!

For, ever in the awful strife And dark hours of the nation’s life, Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word, Their father’s voice his erring children heard!

The change for which he prayed and sought In that sharp agony was wrought; No partial interest draws its alien line ’Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine!

One people now, all doubt beyond, His name shall be our Union-bond; We lift our hands to heaven, and here, and now, Take on our lips the old Centennial vow.

For rule and trust must needs be ours; Chooser and chosen both our powers Equaled in service as in rights; the claim Of duty rests on each and all the same.

Then let the sovereign millions, where Our banner floats in sun and air, From the warm palm-lands to Alaska’s cold, Repeat with us the pledge a century old!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

DECLAMATION—The Little Mayflower.

And now—for the fulness of time is come—let us go up, in imagination to yonder hill, and look out upon the November scene. That single dark speck, just discernible through the perspective glass, on the waste of waters, is the fated vessel. The storm moans through her tattered canvas, as she creeps, almost sinking, to her anchorage in Provincetown harbor; and there she lies, with all her treasures, not of silver and gold (for of these she has none), but of courage, of patience, of zeal, of high spiritual daring.

So often as I dwell in imagination on this scene; when I consider the condition of the Mayflower, utterly incapable, as she was, of living through another gale; when I survey the terrible front presented by our coast to the navigator who, unacquainted with its channels and roadsteads, should approach it in the stormy season, I dare not call it a mere piece of good fortune, that the general north and south wall of the shore of New England should be broken by this extraordinary projection of the cape, running out into the ocean a hundred miles, as if on purpose to receive and encircle the precious vessel.

As I now see her, freighted with the destinies of a continent, barely escaped from the perils of the deep, approaching the shore precisely where the broad sweep of this most remarkable headland presents almost the only point at which, for hundreds of miles, she could, with any ease, have made a harbor, and this, perhaps, the very best on the seaboard, I feel my spirit raised above the sphere of mere natural agencies.

I see the mountains of New England rising from their rocky thrones. They rush forward into the ocean, settling down as they advance; and there they range themselves, as a mighty bulwark around the heaven-directed vessel. Yes, the everlasting God himself stretches out the arm of his mercy and his power, in substantial manifestation, and gathers the meek company of his worshipers as in the hollow of his hand.

EDWARD EVERETT.

MARCH—Our Naval Cadets.

(Twelve or more boys dressed in naval costume and carrying flags.)

SINGING—TUNE: Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.

O, land of a million brave soldiers, Who severed the bonds of despair; O, land of a million true-hearted Who failed not to do and to dare! May ever thy shores gleam before us, With harvests whose wealth shall not cease, May ever in beauty bend o’er us, The wings of the white dove of peace.

CHORUS.

Hail the glory of Freedom’s glad light! Hail the passing of Slavery’s night! Hail the triumph of Truth over Error! Hail the glory of Freedom’s glad light! Though hushed is the voice of the cannon Though silent the loud battle cry, There’s many to-day, who if needful, For Freedom would suffer and die. Columbia’s sons still are loyal, Columbia’s sons still are true, ’Neath the emblem of Justice and Mercy The banner of red, white and blue.

RECITATION—To the Ladies.

(To be prefaced with the following statement: “In the year 1768, the people of Boston resolved that they would not import any tea, glass, paper, or other commodities commonly brought from Great Britain, until the act imposing duties upon all such articles should be repealed. This poetical appeal to the ladies of the country, to lend a ‘helping hand’ for the furtherance of that resolution, appeared in the Boston News Letter, anonymously.”)

Young ladies in town, and those that live round, Let a friend at this season advise you; Since money’s so scarce, and times growing worse, Strange things may soon hap and surprise you.

First, then, throw aside your topknots of pride; Wear none but your own country linen; Of economy boast, let your pride be the most To show clothes of your own make and spinning.

What if homespun they say is not quite so gay As brocades, yet be not in a passion, For when once it is known this is much worn in town, One and all will cry out—’Tis the fashion!

And, as one, all agree, that you’ll not married be To such as will wear London factory, But at first sight refuse, tell ’em such you will choose As encourage our own manufactory.

No more ribbons wear, nor in rich silks appear; Love your country much better than fine things; Begin without passion, ’twill soon be the fashion To grace your smooth locks with a twine string.

Throw aside your Bohea, and your Green Hyson tea, And all things with a new-fashion duty; Procure a good store of the choice Labrador, For there’ll soon be enough here to suit you.

These do without fear, and to all you’ll appear Fair, charming, true, lovely and clever; Though the times remain darkish, young men may be sparkish, And love you much stronger than ever.

Then make yourselves easy, for no one will teaze ye, Nor tax you, if chancing to sneer At the sense-ridden tools, who think us all fools; But they’ll find the reverse far and near.

MUSIC—By Band or Orchestra.

TABLEAU—Conquered and Conqueror.

(A soldier dressed as a British redcoat is lying down, resting on one elbow and holding up his hand to ward off his foe. A soldier dressed in Continental uniform stands over him, pointing a bayonet at his breast.)

MUSIC—By Band or Orchestra.

PROGRAMME NO. 2, FOR FOURTH OF JULY.

MUSIC—By Band or Orchestra.

SINGING—TUNE: America.

God bless our native land! Firm may she ever stand Through storm and night; When the wild tempests rave, Ruler of winds and wave! Do thou our country save By thy great might.

For her our prayers shall rise To God above the skies, On him we wait; Thou who art ever nigh, Guardian with watchful eye! To thee alone we cry, God save the State.

Our fathers’ God! to thee, Author of liberty, To thee we sing;

Long may our land be bright With freedom’s holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God, our King!

READING—Declaration of Independence.

RECITATION—Our Natal Day.

Oh, the Fourth of July! When fire-crackers fly, And urchins in petticoats tyrants defy! When all the still air Creeps away in despair, And clamor is king, be the day dark or fair! When freedom’s red flowers Fall in star-spangled showers, And liberty capers for twenty-four hours. When the morn’s ushered in By a sleep-crushing din, That tempts us to use philological sin; When the forenoon advances With large circumstances, Subjecting our lives to debatable chances; When the soldiers of peace Their attractions increase, By marching, protected with clubs of police; When the little toy gun Has its share of the fun, By teaching short-hand to the favorite son.

Oh, the Fourth of July! When grand souls hover nigh! When Washington bends from the honest blue sky! When Jefferson stands— Famous scribe of all lands— The charter of heaven in his glorified hands! When his comrade—strong, high, John Adams—comes nigh, (For both went to their rest the same Fourth of July!) When Franklin—grand, droll— That could lightnings control, Comes here with his sturdy, progressive old soul; When freedom’s strong staff— Hancock—with a laugh, Writes in memory’s album his huge autograph!

But let thought have its way, And give memory sway; Do we think of the cost of this glorified day? While the harvest-field waves, Do we think of those braves In the farms thickly planted with thousands of graves? How the great flag up there, Clean and pure as the air, Has been drabbled with blood-drops, and trailed in despair?

Do we know what a land God hath placed in our hand, To be made into star-gems, or crushed into sand? Let us feel that our race, Doomed to no second place, Must glitter with triumph, or die in disgrace! That millions unborn, At night, noon, and morn, Will thank us with blessings, or curse us with scorn, For raising more high Freedom’s flag to the sky, Or losing forever the Fourth of July!

WILL CARLETON.

SINGING—Tune: “Hold the Fort.”

Oh, behold in all its beauty, Freedom’s flag unfurled! Glorious flag—to us the fairest In the wide, wide world.

CHORUS.

Proudly float, O flag of Freedom, Fair Columbia’s pride! For thy stars and stripes of beauty, Many a hero died.

Great the price of Freedom’s purchase— ’Twas the price of life; Oh, the pain and loss and sorrow Ere the end of strife.

Ever mindful of the struggle, Let us all be true To the colors of our nation— Red, and white and blue.

RECITATION—The Banner of the Sea.

By wind and wave the sailor brave has fared To shores of every sea; But never yet have seamen met or dared Grim death for victory In braver mood than they who died On drifting decks, in Apia’s tide, While cheering every sailor’s pride, The banner of the free!

Columbia’s men were they who then went down, Not knights nor kings of old, But brighter far their laurels are than crown Or coronet of gold; Our sailor true, of any crew, Would give the last long breath he drew To cheer the old red, white and blue, The banner of the bold!

With hearts of oak, through storm and smoke and flame, Columbia’s seamen long Have bravely fought and nobly wrought, that shame Might never dull their song; They sing the country of the free, The glory of the rolling sea, The starry flag of liberty, The banner of the strong!

We ask but this, and not amiss the claim, A fleet to ride the wave, A navy great to crown the State with fame, Though foes or tempests rave; Then, as our fathers did of yore, We’ll sail our ships to every shore, On every ocean wind will soar The banner of the brave!

Oh! this we claim, that never shame may ride On any wave with thee, Thou Ship of State, whose timbers great abide The home of liberty! For, so, our gallant Yankee tars, Of daring deeds and honored scars, Will make the banner of the stars The banner of the sea.

HOMER GREEN.

MUSIC—Cornet Solo.

ORATION—What America has Done for the World.

What has this nation done to repay the world for the benefits we have received from others? We have been repeatedly told, and sometimes, too, in a tone of affected impartiality, that the highest praise which can fairly be given to the American mind, is that of possessing an enlightened selfishness; that if the philosophy and talents of this country, with all their effects, were forever swept into oblivion, the loss would be felt only by ourselves; and that if to the accuracy of this general charge, the labors of Franklin present an illustrious, it is still but a solitary, exception.

The answer may be given, confidently and triumphantly. Without abandoning the fame of our eminent men, whom Europe has been slow and reluctant to honor, we would reply, that the intellectual power of this people has exerted itself in conformity to the general system of our institutions and manners; and therefore, that, for the proof of its existence and the measure of its force, we must look not so much to the works of prominent individuals, as to the great aggregate results; and if Europe has hitherto been wilfully blind to the value of our example and the exploits of our sagacity, courage, invention, and freedom, the blame must rest with her, and not with America.

Is it nothing for the universal good of mankind to have carried into successful operation a system of self-government, uniting personal liberty, freedom of opinion, and equality of rights, with national power and dignity; such as had before existed only in the Utopian dreams of philosophers? Is it nothing, in moral science, to have anticipated in sober reality, numerous plans of reform in civil and criminal jurisprudence, which are, but now, received as plausible theories by the politicians and economists of Europe? Is it nothing to have been able to call forth on every emergency, either in war or peace, a body of talented patriots always equal to the difficulty?

Is it nothing to have, in less than a half-century, exceedingly improved the sciences of political economy, of law, and of medicine, with all their auxiliary branches; to have enriched human knowledge by the accumulation of a great mass of useful facts and observations, and to have augmented the power and the comforts of civilized man, by miracles of mechanical invention? Is it nothing to have given the world examples of disinterested patriotism, of political wisdom, of public virtue; of learning, eloquence, and valor, never exerted save for some praiseworthy end? It is sufficient to have briefly suggested these considerations; every mind would anticipate me in filling up the details.

No—Land of Liberty! thy children have no cause to blush for thee. What though the arts have reared few monuments among us, and scarce a trace of the muse’s footstep is found in the paths of our forests, or along the banks of our rivers; yet our soil has been consecrated by the blood of heroes, and by great and holy deeds of peace. Its wide extent has become one vast temple and hallowed asylum, sanctified by the prayers and blessings of the persecuted of every sect, and the wretched of all nations.

Land of Refuge—Land of Benedictions! Those prayers still arise, and they still are heard: “May peace be within thy walls, and plenteousness within thy palaces!” “May there be no decay, no leading into captivity, and no complaining in thy streets!” “May truth flourish out of the earth, and righteousness look down from Heaven!”

GULIAN C. VERPLANCK.

MARCH—Daughters of the Revolution.

(Twelve or more little girls, dressed in Continental costume and carrying flags. They should be drilled to perform a march.)

RECITATION—Stand up for Liberty.

Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought For those rights which unstained from your sires had descended. May you long taste the blessings your valor has brought, And your sons reap the soil which your fathers defended. Let our patriots destroy anarch’s pestilent worm, Lest our liberty’s growth should be checked by corrosion; Then let clouds thicken round us: we heed not the storm; Our realm feels no shock but the earth’s own explosion. Foes assail us in vain, Though their fleets bridge the main; For our altars and laws with our lives we’ll maintain; For ne’er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves.

Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, Its bolts could ne’er rend freedom’s temple asunder; For, unmoved, at its portal would Washington stand, And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder! His sword from the sleep Of its scabbard would leap, And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep! For ne’er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves.

Let fame to the world sound America’s voice; No intrigues can her sons from their government sever; Her pride are her statesmen—their laws are her choice, And shall flourish till liberty slumbers forever. Then unite heart and hand, Like Leonidas’ band, And swear to the God of the ocean and land That ne’er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves.

ROBERT TREAT PAINE, JR.

MUSIC—By Band or Orchestra.

RECITATION—Off with Your Hat as the Flag Goes By.

Off with your hat as the flag goes by! And let the heart have its say; You’re man enough for a tear in your eye That you will not wipe away.

You’re man enough for a thrill that goes To your very finger tips— Ay! The lump just then in your throat that rose Spoke more than your parted lips.

Lift up the boy on your shoulder high, And show him the faded shred— Those stripes would be red as the sunset sky If death could have dyed them red.

The man that bore it, with death has lain These thirty years or more— He died that the work should not be vain Of the men who bore it before.

The man that bears it is bent and old, And ragged his beard and gray; But see his proud form grow young and bold, At the tune that he hears them play.

The old tune thunders through all the air, And strikes right into the heart; If it ever calls for you, boy, be there! Be there and ready to start!

Off with your hat as the flag goes by! Uncover the youngster’s head! Teach him to hold it holy and high, For the sake of its sacred dead.

H. C. BUNNER.

RECITATION—The Young American.

Scion of a mighty stock! Hands of iron—hearts of oak— Follow with unflinching tread Where the noble fathers led.

Craft and subtle treachery, Gallant youth! are not for thee; Follow thou in word and deeds Where the God within thee leads!

Honesty with steady eye, Truth and pure simplicity, Love that gently winneth hearts— These shall be thy only arts:

Prudent in the council train, Dauntless on the battle-plain, Ready at the country’s need For her glorious cause to bleed!

Where the dews of night distill Upon Vernon’s holy hill; Where above it, gleaming far, Freedom lights her guiding star:

Thither turn the steady eye, Flashing with a purpose high; Thither, with devotion meet, Often turn the pilgrim feet!

Let the noble motto be, God—the country—liberty! Planted on religion’s rock, Thou shalt stand in every shock.

TABLEAU—Surrender of Cornwallis.

(American and British soldiers in the background. Washington in front and Cornwallis handing him his sword.)

MUSIC—By Band or Orchestra.

PROGRAMME FOR A CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT.

(A Christmas tree always pleases young people, and what interests them is sure to be appreciated by older persons. In the absence of a Christmas tree, loaded with decorations and gifts, the room should be trimmed with evergreens; in fact, such decorations are always in order at the merry Christmas time.)

SONG—Christmas Bells, Tune: “Ring the Bells of Heaven.”

Ring, O bells, in gladness, Tell of joy to-day; Ring and swing o’er all the world so wide. Banish thoughts of sadness, Drive all grief away, For it is the Merry Christmas tide.

CHORUS.

Ring, O bells, from spire and swelling dome, Ring and bid the peaceful ages come; Banish thoughts of sadness, Drive all grief away, For it is the Merry Christmas Day.

Ring, O bells, the story From the ages far; Of the Christmas joy and song and light; How the wondrous glory Of the Christmas star Led the shepherds onward through the night!

Ring, O bells, in gladness Of the Saviour King; May your silver chimings never cease; Banish thoughts of sadness And all nations bring Glorious dawning of the Day of Peace.

ALICE JEAN CLEATOR.

RELIGIOUS EXERCISES—To be Selected.

RECITATION—A Letter to Santa Claus.

Blessed old Santa Claus! king of delights! What are you doing these long winter nights? Filling your budgets with trinkets and toys— Wonderful gifts for the girls and the boys? While you are planning for everything nice, Pray let me give you a bit of advice.

Don’t take it hard, if I say in your ear, Santa, I think you were partial last year; Loading the rich folks with everything gay, Snubbing the poor ones who came in your way: Now, of all times in the year, I am sure This is the time to remember the poor.

Little red hands that are aching with cold, You should have mittens your fingers to hold; Poor little feet, with your frost-bitten toes, You should be clothed in the warmest of hose. On the dark hearth I would kindle a light, Till the sad faces were happy and bright.

Don’t you think, Santa, if all your life through, Some one had always been caring for you, Watching to guard you by night and by day, Giving you gifts you could never repay, Sometimes, at least, you would sigh to recall How many children have nothing at all?

Safe in your own quiet chamber at night, Cozy and warm in your blankets so white, Wouldn’t you think of the shivering forms Out in the cold and the wind and the storms? Wouldn’t you think of the babies who cry, Pining in hunger and cold till they die?

Blessed old Nick! I was sure, if you knew it, You would remember, and certainly do it; This year, at least, when you open your pack, Pray give a portion to all who may lack; Then if you chance to have anything over, Bring a small gift to your friend—Kitty Clover.

RECITATION—Christmas in all the Lands

(For four children. They recite singly and then in concert, beginning with the words in the last verse, “Lo, want and sin,” etc.)

FIRST CHILD.

From the wild Northland where the wolf’s long howl Stirs the depths of down in the ocean fowl, And the white bear prowls with stealthy creep To the spot where the seal lies fast asleep, And the sledges flash through the silence vast Like a glittering dream, now here, now past,— On this waste of sparkle and waste of snow ’Neath skies aflame with a crimson glow; The feet of the Christ-child softly fall, And Christmas dawn brings cheer to all.

SECOND CHILD.

’Tis the homestead low in the quiet vale Where the farm-dog follows Dobbin’s trail To the pasture lot, now cold and bare, And sniffs with glee the snow-filled air. In this home of busy household joys, ’Mong the rosy girls and sturdy boys, Sweet peace descends on wings of light, And all exclaim, “’Tis Christmas night, The dear Christ-child is hovering near Let each one share our Christmas cheer.”

THIRD CHILD.

’Tis the prairies vast where cyclones sweep, And their sturdy men world-harvests reap, Where the skies are such an airy blue An angel’s robe might flutter through; And the lark flings down her music sweet A chain of song, each link complete; Then a white day comes, so bland or wild, It bears in arms the sweet Christ-child, And hearts touch heart and hands touch hand, While Christmas light illumes the land.

FOURTH CHILD.

’Tis the land of palms and of orange trees, Whose lamps of gold swing in the breeze, Where the pickaninny’s black eyes glow, O’er swarthy cheeks and teeth of snow, And the dusky hand is raised to bless The gift that makes his misery less; For rich and poor and young and old Stand in the charmed ring of gold Which Christmas brings. Lo, want and sin Flee from the blessed eyes of Him, The dear Christ child, who far and near Gives Christmas love and Christmas cheer.

G. A. BROWN.

MUSIC—Cornet Solo, or Choir.

READING—Santa Claus on the Train.

On a Christmas eve an emigrant train Sped on through the blackness of night, And cleft the pitchy dark in twain With the gleam of its fierce headlight.

In a crowded car, a noisome place, Sat a mother and her child; The woman’s face bore want’s wan trace, But the little one only smiled,

And tugged and pulled at her mother’s dress, And her voice had a merry ring, As she lisped, “Now, mamma, come and guess What Santa Claus’ll bring.”

But sadly the mother shook her head, As she thought of a happier past; “He never can catch us here,” she said “The train is going too fast.”

“O, mamma, yes, he’ll come, I say, So swift are his little deer, They run all over the world to-day;—I’ll hang my stocking up here.”

She pinned her stocking to the seat, And closed her tired eyes; And soon she saw each longed-for sweet In dreamland’s paradise.

On a seat behind the little maid A rough man sat apart, But a soft light o’er his features played, And stole into his heart.

As the cars drew up at a busy town The rough man left the train, But scarce had from the steps jumped down Ere he was back again.

And a great big bundle of Christmas joys Bulged out from his pocket wide; He filled the stocking with sweets and toys He laid by the dreamer’s side.

At dawn the little one woke with a shout, ’Twas sweet to hear her glee; “I knowed that Santa Claus would find me out, He caught the train you see.”

Though some from smiling may scarce refrain, The child was surely right, The good St. Nicholas caught the train, And came aboard that night.

For the saint is fond of masquerade And may fool the old and wise, And so he came to the little maid In an emigrant’s disguise.

And he dresses in many ways because He wishes no one to know him, For he never says, “I am Santa Claus,” But his good deeds always show him.

HENRY C. WALSH.

RECITATION—The Waifs.

At the break of Christmas day, Through the frosty starlight ringing, Faint and sweet and far away, Comes the sound of children, singing, Chanting, singing, “Cease to mourn, For Christ is born, Peace and joy to all men bringing!”

Careless that the chill winds blow, Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer, Noiseless footfalls in the snow Bringing the happy voices nearer; Hear them singing, “Winter’s drear, But Christ is here, Mirth and gladness with him bringing!”

“Merry Christmas!” hear them say As the east is growing lighter; “May the joy of Christmas day Make your whole year gladder, brighter!” Join their singing, “To each home Our Christ has come, All Love’s treasures with him bringing!”

MARGARET DELAND.

SONG—Welcome Santa Claus. Tune: “Hold the Fort.”

From the cold and frosty northland; Oh so far away, Santa Claus will soon be coming In his little sleigh; Let us listen for the reindeers’ Dancing, prancing feet, Let us wait old Santa’s jolly, Jolly face to greet!

Listen, don’t you hear his sleigh-bells Oh so faintly ring, Santa Claus is surely coming Many gifts to bring; In his busy little workshop Many a long, long day, Pretty presents he has made To give them all away!

Oh his sleigh-bells jingle, jingle, Very, very near; Can it be that dear old Santa’s Really almost here? Hark, they cease their silver music, Santa Claus has come! Welcome, welcome, dear old Santa, Welcome to each home!

ORIGINAL ADDRESS—By a Person Selected.

RECITAL—Santa Claus and the Mouse.

(For boy or girl, who has a stocking with a hole in it, and holds it up in the last verse, shows the hole and thrusts one or two fingers through it.)

One Christmas eve when Santa Claus Came to a certain house, To fill the children’s stockings there He found a little mouse.

“A merry Christmas, little friend,” Said Santa, good and kind. “The same to you, sir,” said the mouse, “I thought you wouldn’t mind

If I should stay awake to-night And watch you for awhile.” “You’re very welcome, little mouse,” Said Santa with a smile.

And then he filled the stockings up Before the mouse could wink.— From toe to top, from top to toe There wasn’t left a chink.

“Now, they won’t hold another thing,” Said Santa Claus, with pride. A twinkle came in mouse’s eyes, But humbly he replied:

“It’s not polite to contradict,— Your pardon I implore,— But in the fullest stocking there I could put one thing more.”

“Oh, ho!” laughed Santa, “silly mouse! Don’t I know how to pack? By filling stockings all these years, I should have learned the knack.”

And then he took the stocking down From where it hung so high, And said: “Now put in one thing more; I give you leave to try.”

The mousie chuckled to himself, And then he softly stole Right to the stocking’s crowded toe And gnawed a little hole!

“Now, if you please, good Santa Claus, I’ve put in one thing more; For you will own that little hole Was not in there before.”

How Santa Claus did laugh and laugh! And then he gayly spoke: “Well! you shall have a Christmas cheese For that nice little joke.”

If you don’t think this story true, Why I can show to you The very stocking with the hole The little mouse gnawed through!

EMILIE POULSSON.

RECITATION—What Ted Found in his Stocking.

“I don’t care, I will go! So there, Mamma Mouse! The folks are all sleeping All over the house;

“The stockings are hanging— I smell the sweet bits. It’s enough to drive mousies Into wild, crazy fits!”

So when old Mrs. Mouse Went off to her bed, The little mouse watched, And popped up his head.

Then smelling his way Very nicely along, He jumped into a stocking, So new and so strong.

But a string on a bundle Stuck out in a loop, And in it he tumbled, The poor silly dupe!

Oh, then what bewailings Came out of that stocking! Such moans and lamentings, It really was shocking!

“O dear! and oh dear! I wish I was home! If I’d minded mamma, And hadn’t ’a’ come!”

But ’twas all of no use. The string was so tight That all he could do Was to wait for daylight.

Then Ted gave a shout That awoke the whole house; For there in his stocking Was a little gray mouse!

What became of him then The cat only can tell, But one thing I’ll say— I know very well

(By Whole School in Concert).

That he’ll never again on a Christmas Eve Jump into a stocking without any leave!

MUSIC—To be Selected.

SANTA CLAUS—To be Selected.

(Comes in dressed in heavy winter garments, with long, white beard and pockets stuffed with toys).

DISTRIBUTION OF GIFTS.

PROGRAMME FOR DECORATION DAY.

(Music by band or orchestra can be introduced whenever deemed appropriate).

SINGING—“Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.”

DECLAMATION—The Meaning of the Day.

All over our land, in every cemetery where rests members of our army of the dead—and we doubt if any burial place has not such sleepers,—people are gathered to-day to pay tribute to our soldier dead and strew flowers over their graves. All hearts turn as by a common impulse to these ceremonies. We bring our offerings of flowers to the soldiers, but it affects them not; they cannot feel the love and gratitude that prompt the gift. Their lives and deeds have wrought for themselves more enduring monuments than sculptured marble. We assure the loving soldiers that they are not forgotten—that their courage and patriotism will always be remembered as long as a loyal school boy or school girl may live. But this day means more than this, it means something for our nation, something for posterity; its belief in that grand old flag and what it stands for; a belief in freedom. It means that the boys and girls of to-day, the men and women of to-morrow, who share in this day’s ceremonies, echo the words of our fathers, that “this government shall be preserved, come what will, threaten it who may.”

EXERCISE.

(For fifteen pupils each carrying a flag, and gesturing as indicated. Pupil 8 should carry a larger flag than the others. Seven to the left of eight should hold flags to left shoulder; seven to right of eight, should hold flags to right shoulder. When the word North is recited, the seven to the right of number eight raise their flags, then back to the shoulder; when the word South is recited, the seven to the left of number eight lift their flags, then replace to shoulders. Each might carry in other hand a bunch of flowers, and at the word flowers, the bouquets should be raised as were the flags. The pupils to the left could wear gray and those to the right, blue, in some way—in caps, sashes or bows. Number eight should be dressed in red, white and blue.)

1st Pupil.

There is peace, there is peace in the South and the North, When the suns of the May-time shall call the blooms forth.

2nd Pupil.

There is peace in the vale where the Tennessee runs— Where the river grass covers the long silent guns.

3rd Pupil.

There is peace in Virginia amid the tall corn; Where Lookout’s high summit grows bright in the morn.

4th Pupil.

There is peace where the James wanders down to the main; Where the war-torn Savannas are golden with grain.

5th Pupil.

There is peace where the squadrons of carnage have wheeled, Fierce over Shiloh’s shell-furrowed field.

6th Pupil.

There is peace in the soil whence the palmettoes spring; In the sad Shenandoah the harvesters sing.

7th Pupil.

There is peace in Manassas, Antietam’s dark rills; No more throb the drum on the bare Georgian hills.

8th Pupil.

There is peace where the warriors of Gettysburg rest; On the ramparts of Sumter the summer bird’s nest.

9th Pupil.

There is peace where the “Father of Waters” ran red, Where the batteries of Mobile lie soundless and dead.

10th Pupil.

There is peace where the rifle hangs mantled with dust, Where the once reeking saber is sheathed in its rust.

11th Pupil.

There is peace where the war-hoofs tore up the smooth lea, Where the hoarse-noted cannon rang over the sea.

12th Pupil.

There is peace in the North, though her soldier is yet Far away on the field where the fierce columns met.

13th Pupil.

There is peace in the South, though her soldier is lost In the path where the lines of the foeman have crossed.

14th Pupil.

There is peace in the land, and the “stars and the bars” Forever have merged in the “stripes and the stars.”

15th Pupil.

There is peace where the flowers cover the tombs, And the Blue and the Gray now blend with the blooms.

All.

God grant that this peace may forever be ours! And the Blue and the Gray alike sleep neath the flowers!

(These last two lines should be recited while flags and flowers are held in front, in prayerful attitude, eyes of pupils glancing upward.)

RECITATION—Decoration Day.

It’s lonesome—sorto’ lonesome—it’s a Sund’y day to me, It ’pears like—mor’n any day I nearly ever see! Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flutterin’ in the air, On ev’ry soldier’s grave I’d love to lay a lily there.

They say, though, Decoration Days is generally observed— Most ev’ry wheres—especially by soldier boys that served— But me and mother never went—we seldom git away— In pint of fact, we’re allus home on Decoration Day.

They say the old boys marches through the streets in columns grand, A-follerin’ the old war tunes they’re playin’ on the band, And citizens all jinin’ in—and little children, too— All marchin’ under shelter of the old Red, White and Blue,

With roses! roses! roses!—ev’rybody in the town! And crowds of girls in white, just fairly loaded down! Oh! don’t the boys know it, from their camp across the hill? Don’t they see their comrades comin’ and the old flag wavin’ still?

Oh! can’t they hear the bugle and the rattle of the drum?— Ain’t they no way under heaven they can rickollect us some? Ain’t they no way we can coax ’em through the roses, just to say They know that every day on earth is their Decoration Day?

We’ve tried that,—me and mother,—where Elias takes his rest, In the orchard, in his uniform, and hands across his breast, And the flag he died fer smilin’ and a-ripplin’ in the breeze Above his grave—and, over that—the robin in the trees.

And yet it’s lonesome—lonesome! It’s a Sund’y-day to me, It ’pears like—more’n any day—I nearly ever see— Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flutterin’ in the air, On ev’ry soldier’s grave—I’d love to lay a lily there.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

ACROSTIC—Memorial Day.

(Exercise for eleven children. Each carries standard on which the letters are pasted in red, white and blue, and turns the letter toward the audience as the words are recited.)

Memorial Day again has come, When throbs the music of the drum.

Each muffled accent seems to tell Of heroes who in battle fell.

Memories return to boys in blue, Of vanished comrades brave and true.

On camping ground and battle plain Alike they met with want and pain.

Rivers of blood their courses swept, While sad Columbia mourned and wept.

In fever swamp and prison pen Died many of her bravest men.

All honor to the soldier bands Who followed Freedom’s stern commands.

Let each true soldier’s noble name, Glow brightly on the books of Fame.

Deeds wrought for truth can never die For they are penned in books on high.

A nation now in reverence stands With sorrowing heart and flower-filled hands.

Years may into long ages glide, These names shall still be glorified.

PAPER—Origin of Memorial Day.

General John Murray was the originator of Memorial Day in the North. While visiting in the South in the winter of 1867-’68, he noticed the touching rite of decorating soldiers’ graves with flowers by the ladies. Being very much impressed with this custom, he instituted a similar one at his own home.

On the 5th day of May, 1868, Gen. John A. Logan, who was then Commander-in-chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, established Decoration Day, and by a general order, May 30, 1868, was designated as a day set apart for the purpose of paying tribute to the memory of those brave men who died in defense of our country. The national encampment held in Washington had it incorporated in its rules and regulations, May 11, 1870. Since then, in many of the States, May 30th has been established as a holiday, and it is the universal custom to decorate the graves of all ex-soldiers, thus making it one of the most patriotic days of the year, wherein all classes unite in paying honor to our heroic dead, and feel a conscious pride in being able to thus show respect for their memory and the cause for which they fought.

SONG:—“The Star Spangled Banner.”

EXERCISE.

(A large urn or vase is placed on a stand decorated with the national colors and a bow of black ribbon. Around the rim of the vase a beautiful wreath should be placed. The stand should be at the front of the rostrum, so the pupils may pass behind it. The pupils representing the various wars should be dressed if possible in the costumes of that day—military costumes. Beside the urn, a girl representing Liberty should stand holding a large flag at half-mast, she should dress in white and wear sash of the national colors. After reciting, each pupil stands in rear of Liberty. When coming upon the stage, each pupil salutes the flag before reciting and stands on opposite side of urn while reciting. When through, he gracefully deposits his bouquet into the urn. At close of exercise the school arises and salutes the flag and repeats the pledge.)

Liberty (Enters carrying flag and recites standing at right of urn; when through reciting casts her flowers into the urn.)

“Strew with flowers the soldier’s grave, Plant each lovely thing that grows; Let the summer breezes wave The calla lily and the rose; White and red—the cause, the price! Right, upheld by sacrifice.

Let the summer’s perfumed breath, Fragrant with the sweetest flowers, Charm the sadness out of death, Glorify the mourners’ hours, Freighted with their prayers, arise Incense of their sacrifice.

’Tis not valor that we praise, Thirst for glory, love of strife; Gentle hearts from quiet ways, Turned to save a nation’s life, Lest in jealous fragments torn Freedom’s land should come to scorn.

O’er the Gray, as o’er the Blue, Nature’s bursting tears will flow; Both were brave, and both were true And fought for all they loved below. Pity! nor forbid the tear Shed above so sad a bier.

Cherish, then, the patriot fires, Honor loyalty, and trust In God that Freedom ne’er expires Where virtue guards the martyr’s dust, Who counted life as little worth, And saved the imperiled Hope of Earth.”

JNO. W. DUNBAR.

OUR NATION’S PATRIOTS.

Revolutionary Pupil.

I had heard the muskets’ rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percey’s hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; But a deadly chill comes o’er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker Hill. Here are lilies for the valorous, and roses for the brave; And laurel for the victor’s crown, and rue for lowly grave. There’s crimson for the blood that flowed that Freedom might be free, And golden for the hearts of gold that died for you and me; Till love no more is loving, we lift our souls and say, For liberty find loyalty we bless their names to-day!

Civil War Pupil.

Strew the fair garlands where slumber the dead, Ring out the strains like the swell of the sea, Heartfelt the tribute we lay on each bed. Sound o’er the brave the refrain of the free.

Sound the refrain of the loyal and free, Visit each sleeper and hallow each bed, Wave the starred banner from seacoast to sea Grateful the living, and honored the dead.

Cuban War Pupil (carrying Cuban Flag.)

New graves we crown with flowers to-day New homes shall saddened be; For loved ones sleeping far away, And some beneath the sea.

’Twas for humanity and right Our loved boys fought and died; To lift the islands into light And break the Spanish pride.

We’ll wrap the Bible in the Flag And back them with our might, And bear them over sea and crag, In lofty eagle’s flight;

And break the bands of heathen night, And set the islands free; Till Freedom sheds her glorious light O’er every land and sea.

_Liberty (in prayerful attitude, the boys standing in rear with hats lifted.)_

O God! look down upon the land which Thou hast loved so well, And grant that in unbroken truth her children still may dwell; Nor while the grass grows on the hill, and streams flow through the vale, May they forget their fathers’ faith, or in their covenant fail! God keep the fairest, noblest land that lies beneath the sky— Our country, our whole country, whose fame shall never die.

PLEDGE.

(All stand; salute flag; and repeat pledge.)

“We pledge allegiance to our flag and the republic for which it stands—one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

SONG—America.

PROGRAMME FOR WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY.

MUSIC—“The Star-Spangled Banner.”

RECITATION—Washington Enigma.

To be given by ten little girls with evergreen or large printed letters hung around their necks by a black thread and adjusted to the proper height. Let the letter be turned as the child speaks.

First Child—W—

In the wailing winds my first Speaks in faintly murmuring tones.

Second Child—A—

While my second’s cry will burst In the martyr’s latest groans.—

Third Child—S—

How the noisome serpents scare. In them finds my third a place.

Fourth Child—H—

In the homes which mothers share, Rules my fourth with gentle grace.

Fifth Child—I—

Watch the Indian’s scalping knife, And my fifth shall greet your sight.

Sixth Child—N—

But my sixth is brought to life In the moonless ebon night.

Seventh Child—G—

See the gambler’s greed and note How my seventh rules supreme.

Eighth Child—T—

The latest presidential vote Holds secure my eighth, I deem.

Ninth Child—O—

From our sorrow, from our woe, None can drive my ninth away.

Tenth Child—N—

Mark the wailing infant—lo! There my tenth holds fullest sway.

All in Concert.

Join from first to tenth each part, And you’ll find a noble name, Written on each patriot’s heart, Glorious in our country’s fame.

RECITATION—Washington’s Day.

For a little boy.

Oh! how the world remembers! It is many and many a day Since the patriot, George Washington, Grew old and passed away.

And yet to-day we are keeping In memory of his birth, And his deeds of truth and valor Are told at every hearth.

How he fought for independence All little schoolboys know; And why he signed the declaration So many years ago.

To be as great as Washington I could not if I would; But I’ve made up my mind that I Will try to be as good.

RECITATION—A Little Boy’s Hatchet Story.

When the great and good George Washington Was a little boy like me, He took his little hatchet And chopped down a cherry tree.

And when his papa called him, He then began to cry, “I did it, oh, I did it; I cannot tell a lie!”

His papa didn’t scold at all, But said, “You noble youth, I’d gladly lose ten cherry trees To have you tell the truth!”

But I myself am not quite clear; For if I took my hatchet And chopped my papa’s cherry tree, Oh, wouldn’t I just catch it!

READING—Maxims of Washington.

Adopted by him at the age of fifteen.

“Neither laugh, nor speak, nor listen when older people are talking together.”

“Say not anything that will hurt another, either in fun or in earnest.”

“If you say anything funny, don’t laugh at it yourself, but let others enjoy it.”

“When another person speaks, listen yourself, and try not to disturb others.”

“Obey and honor your father and mother.”

“Every action in company ought to be with some sign of respect to those present.”

“When you meet with one of greater quality than yourself, stop and retire, especially if it be at a door or any strait place, to give way for him to pass.”

“Speak not evil of the absent, for it is unjust.”

“Show not yourself glad at the misfortune of another, though he were your enemy.”

“Be not curious to know the affairs of others; neither approach to those that speak in private.”

“Undertake not what you cannot perform, but be careful to keep your promises.”

“Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.”

SINGING—Tune: “My Country.”

Once more we celebrate Birthday of him so great, So true and brave; Who struggled not in vain Liberty to attain, Breaking a tyrant’s chain His land to save.

Bravely the patriot band Fought ’neath his sure command And freedom won; Honor those soldiers all, Who did for freedom fall, Who followed at the call Of Washington.

While shines in heaven the sun, The name of Washington Shall glow with light; He feared no tyrant grand, But foremost in command, Did like a mountain stand For cause of right.

ALICE JEAN CLEATOR.

ORATION—The Father of his Country.

The birthday of the “Father of his Country!” May it ever be freshly remembered by American hearts! May it ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard to the country he loved so well; to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare; to which he devoted his life, in the maturity of his powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as President of the Convention that framed our Constitution; which he guided and directed while in the Chair of State, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and I so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is I first and most sacred in our love; and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and might.

Yes, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty and towering and matchless glory of his life, which enabled him to create his country, and, at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. “The first in the hearts of his countrymen!” Yes, first! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American Nation, as a Nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life!

Yes, others of our great men have been appreciated—many admired by all. But him we love. Him we all love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements—no sectional prejudice nor bias,—no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes, when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country, which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated. Well did Lord Byron write:

“Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the great, Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state?— Yes—one—the first, the last, the best, The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom Envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush, there was but one.”

RECITATION—February Twenty-second.

In seventeen hundred thirty-two, This very month and day, Winking and blinking at the light, A little baby lay.

No doubt they thought the little man A goodly child enough; But time has proved that he was made Of most uncommon stuff.

The little babe became a man That everybody knew Would finish well what he began, And prove both firm and true.

So when the Revolution came, That made our nation free, They couldn’t find a better man For general, you see.

As general, he never failed Or faltered; so they though He ought to be the President, And so I’m sure he ought.

And then he did his part so well As President—’twas plain They couldn’t do a better thing Than choose him yet again.

Through all his life they loved him well And mourned him when he died; And ever since his noble name Has been our nation’s pride.

The lesson of his life is clear, And easy quite to guess, Be firm and true, if you would make Your life a grand success.

JOY ALLISON.

SONG—A True Soldier. Tune: “Hold the Fort.”

Though we never may be soldiers On the battle field, Though we may not carry banner, Bayonet or shield; Each can be as true and valiant Till life’s work is done, Each can be as brave a soldier As George Washington.

There are mighty hosts of evil, Armies great and strong, Each can be a little soldier Fighting all day long. Let us ever fight them bravely, Let us valiant be;

Fight the host of falsehood, envy, Pride and cruelty. Oh, how valiant are the soldiers Who to battle go, Yet more brave are they who struggle With an unseen foe. When the battles all are ended And the victory’s won, Each will be as true a soldier As George Washington.

ALICE JEAN CLEATOR.

RECITAL—Washington’s Life.

(Recitation for five boys; each holds in his right hand a card with date, lifting it during his recitation.)

1732.

In seventeen hundred and thirty-two George Washington was born; Truth, goodness, skill, and glory high, His whole life did adorn.

1775.

In seventeen hundred and seventy-five The chief command he took Of all the army in the State Who ne’er his flag forsook.

1783.

In seventeen hundred and eighty-three, Retired to private life; He saw his much-loved country free From battle and from strife.

1789.

In seventeen hundred and eighty-nine, The country with one voice, Proclaimed him president, to shine, Blessed by the people’s choice.

1799.

In seventeen hundred and ninety-nine, The nation’s tears were shed, To see the patriot life resign, And sleep among the dead.

ALL IN CONCERT.

As “first in war, first in peace,” As patriot, father, friend— He will be blessed till time shall cease, And earthly life shall end.

SINGING—Birthday of Washington.

(May be sung to “America.”)

First Pupil:

Welcome, thou festal morn, Never be passed in scorn Thy rising sun. Thou day forever bright With Freedom’s holy light, That gave the world the sight Of Washington.

Second Pupil:

Unshaken ’mid the storm, Behold that noble form— That peerless one, With his protecting hand, Like Freedom’s angel, stand, The guardian of our land, Our Washington.

Third Pupil:

Traced there in lines of light, Where all pure rays unite, Obscured by none; Brightest on history’s page, Of any clime or age, As chieftain, man or sage, Stands Washington.

Fourth Pupil:

Name at which tyrants pale, And their proud legions quail, Their boasting done; While Freedom lifts her head, No longer filled with dread, Her sons to victory led By Washington.

Class in Concert:

Now the true patriot see, The foremost of the free, The victory won. In Freedom’s presence bow, While sweetly smiling now She wreathes the spotless brow Of Washington.

Then, with each coming year, Whenever shall appear That natal sun, Will we attest the worth Of one true man to earth And celebrate the birth Of Washington.

GEORGE HOWLAND.

MARCH.—Boys and Girls Carrying Flags.

PROGRAMME FOR ARBOR DAY.

The celebration of Arbor Day has become so common that there is a demand for a programme of public exercises for schools and academies. The following can be varied by omitting pieces or substituting others. Little flags on palm-leaf fans tacked on well, also tufts of pine, and wreaths of flowers, bouquets, etc., might aid in decoration. Let the pupils take an active part in preparation.

SONG. Tune: “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

We have come with joyful greeting, Songs of gladness, voices gay, Teachers, friends, and happy children, All to welcome Arbor Day. Here we plant the trees whose branches, Warmed by breath of summer days, Nourished by the dews and showers, Soon shall wave in leafy sprays.

Let us plant throughout our borders, O’er our lands so far and wide, Treasures from the leafy forest, Vale, and hill, and mountain side; Rooted deep, oh let them flourish, Sturdy giants may they be! Emblems of the cause we cherish— Education broad and free.

Gentle winds will murmur softly, Zephyrs float on noiseless wing; ’Mid their bows shall thrush and robin, Build their nests and sweetly sing. ’Neath their shady arms will childhood Weary of the noontide heat, In its cool inviting shadow, Find a pleasant, safe retreat.

READING.

Proclamation of State Governor or of School Commissioner.

DECLAMATION.

Arbor Day is an anniversary that looks forward with bright hope. The trees which we plant to-day, will grow into groves and forests of the future, and in their silent beauty and voiceless green will honor the hands that so tenderly planted them. Beneath them the youth yet to be may meet in social banquet, and enjoy the fruitage of our labors.

“We are what wind and sun and water make us, The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills Fashion and win their nurslings with their smiles.”

This is not a holiday; but a day especially set apart for the purpose of tree-planting, of observing more closely and studying more carefully the trees, flowers and gifts of the forest; also of cultivating a greater reverence and finer sense of the beautiful and sublime.

What object can better inspire us to gain victory over trials than the grand old oak which in bold defiance to its foes while reeling in the wrath of the tempest is sending down to deeper hold its gnarled roots only to be better able to triumph in the next storm? Our poets have used their purest thought, their sweetest music in praise of the forest and the flowers. Arbor Day provides gracious means of a closer acquaintance with “God’s first temples,” and we hope that this day’s effort may result in much good.

QUOTATIONS.

(Pupils stand by desks and after naming authors recite the quotations.)

1st Pupil.—Whittier said:

“Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; Let fortune’s bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all.”

2nd Pupil.—Ben Johnson wrote:

“Not merely growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be, Or standing long an oak three hundred years, To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sear. A lily of a day is fairer far in May; Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measure life may perfect be.”

3rd Pupil.—Holmes said:

“In fact there’s nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.”

4th Pupil.—Morris wrote:

“To me the world’s an open book Of sweet and pleasant poetry; I read it in the running book That sings its way toward the sea. It whispers in the leaves of trees, The swelling grain, the waving grass, And in the cool, fresh evening breeze, That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

“The flowers below, the stars above, In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love, The poetry of earth and heaven; Thus, nature’s volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tingeing life’s cloud with rosy light And all the world with poetry.”

5th Pupil.—Longfellow said:

“If thou art worn and heart beset With sorrows that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills! No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.”

6th Pupil.—Bryan Waller Proctor wrote:

“Methinks I love all common things, The common air, the common flower, The dear, kind, common thought that springs From hearts that have no other dower, No other wealth, no other power, Save love; and will not that repay For all else fortune tears away?

“What good are fancies rare, that rack With painful thought the poet’s brain? Alas! they cannot bear us back Unto happy years again! But the white rose without a stain Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers, When youth was bounteous as the hours.”

The School.

“He who plants a tree Plants a hope. Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope; Leaves unfold into horizons free, So man’s life must climb From the clods of time Unto heavens sublime.”

RECITATION—What do we Plant when we Plant a Tree?

What do we plant when we plant the tree We plant the ships that will cross the sea We plant the mast to carry the sails, We plant the plank to withstand the gales, The keel, the keelson, the beam and knee, We plant the ship when we plant the tree.

What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the houses for you and me; We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, The beams, the siding, all parts that be, We plant the house when we plant the tree.

What do we plant when we plant the tree? A thousand things that we daily see. We plant the spire that out-towers the crag, We plant the staff for our country’s flag; We plant the shade from the hot sun free, We plant all these when we plant the tree.

HENRY ABBEY.

EXERCISE—Wedding of the Palm and Pine.

(CHARACTERS.—Uncle Sam, Miss Palm, Mr. Pine, and maids for Miss Palm, and servant for Mr. Pine. The maids carry tropical fruits, and one holds either a palm leaf or a peacock fan over Miss Palm, who wears a flowing dress made of some light cheesecloth or goods without starch; also over her head an ice-wool shawl. Her face powdered white, cheeks rosy, and she should be a girl having black hair and eyes. Approaches the stage very modestly, and is always very reserved. Her dress should wear flowers and blossoms. Mr. Pine should be stately, tall and reserved, and should wear tuft of pine for button-hole bouquet. His hair might be whitened with magnesia. His attendant should carry his fur coat and leggings, etc. Uncle Sam should be dressed in customary attire. Uncle Sam first enters stage, carrying a good-sized flag. Palm carries a palm-leaf fan on which is fastened on one side a small flag, and on the other side a wreath of leaves—myrtle or the like.)

Uncle Sam:

“She’s up there, Old Glory, where light wings are sped, She dazzles the nations with ripples of red; And she’ll wave for us living, or droop o’er us dead— The flag of our country forever!

She’s up there, Old Glory, how bright the stars stream! And the stripes like red signals, of liberty gleam! And we dare for her living or dream the last dream, ’Neath the flag of our country forever!

She’s up there, Old Glory, no tyrant-dealt scars— No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars! The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars— She’s the flag of our country forever!”

There comes from the south (Miss Palm enters) where the balmy breeze blows, There comes from the north (Mr. Pine enters) where the hardy pine grows, Warm hearts and true hearts, loyal and free, The Palm and the Pine now wedded to be. Come stand ’neath the flag, modest Palm, mighty Pine,

(Both step to front before Uncle Sam and bow to each other, and then gracefully salute the flag.)

The emblem so dear to brave fathers of thine, And under its bars, and its stars and its blue, Unite now and ever to dare and to do (join hands) What your hearts and your hands can our nation to save, And to keep the old flag o’er the free and the brave.

(Uncle Sam, placing his right hand upon the joined hands of Palm and Pine, continues.)

No north, no south, no east, no west, But one, united, free! The Palm and Pine, in Union blest, Now stand for liberty. From lakes to gulf, from sea to sea, May union stronger grow; Thus teach the world humanity, And might together go.

(Retire, Palm leaning on arm of Pine.)

PAPER—Origin of Arbor Day.

At an annual meeting of the Nebraska State Board of Agriculture, held in the city of Lincoln, January 4, 1872, Hon. J. Sterling Morton introduced the following resolution which was unanimously adopted after a short debate as to the name; some desired to call the day “Sylvan” instead of “Arbor:”

RESOLVED, “That Wednesday, the 10th day of April, 1872, be, and the same is hereby especially set apart and consecrated for tree planting in the State of Nebraska, and the State Board of Agriculture hereby name it Arbor Day, and urge upon the people of the State the vital importance of tree planting, and hereby offer a special premium of one hundred dollars to the agricultural society of that county in Nebraska which shall upon that day plant properly the largest number of trees; and a farm library of twenty-five dollars’ worth of books to that person, who, on that day, shall plant properly in Nebraska the greatest number of trees.”

The result was that over a million trees were planted in Nebraska on that first Arbor Day. A few years later, April 22, the birthday of Mr. Morton was set apart by the Governor as Arbor Day in that State, and now nearly all States observe Arbor Day.

RECITATION—Value of Our Forests.

(The pupils come on the stage, one at a time, and recite, showing the article about which they speak and give motions.)

1st Pupil (carrying a bunch of toothpicks).

A Toothpick is a little thing, yet it is reported that one factory uses 10,000 cords of wood annually in the production of these splints of wood.

2d Pupil (carrying a box of pegs).

Shoe pegs are small affairs; yet a single factory sends to Europe annually 40,000 bushels of pegs, besides what it sells in this country.

3d Pupil.

A spool is of small account when the thread is wound off; yet several factories use each from 1800 to 3500 cords of wood every year in making these articles. Thousands of acres of birch trees have been bought at one time by thread manufacturers, for the sole purpose of securing a supply of spools.

4th Pupil.

Who thinks much of the little friction match, as he uses it to light the lamp or fire, and then throws it away? But one factory, it is said, makes 60,000,000 of these little articles every day, and uses for this purpose 12,000 square feet of best pine lumber.

5th Pupil.

Forests affect the climate of the country; influence the rain of a country; build up a wall and protect the crops; they keep the air pure. The leaf-mold in forests holds back the rains. We draw $700,000,000 worth of products every year from the trees. No other crop equals this in value.

All in Concert.

“The groves were God’s first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft and lay the architrave And spread the roof above them; ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.”

SONG—Tune: “America.”

Up from the smiling earth Comes there a voice of mirth Our hearts to cheer; Listen where the willows lean, Lovingly o’er the stream, Listen, where the pine trees dream, Springtime is here.

Let us sing merrily, Blithely and cheerily, With the new year; Join in the chorus, Loudly swelling o’er us; Joy is before us, Springtime is here.

Come, let us plant a tree Tenderly, lovingly, Some heart to cheer, Long may its branches sway, Over the dusty way With shade for sultry day, For years to be.

EDNA D. PROCTOR.

CONCERT RECITATION—The Trees.

(By small pupils standing in aisles and in imitation of trees, gestures as indicated.)

We are trees in tiny rows Growing straight and tall; Roots we have so when it(1) blows, None of us may fall.

Bending gently (2)to and fro Then to (3)left and right, Makes us stronger as we grow, (4)Upward to the light.

Tiny branches spreading wide,(5) Adding grace and form, Growing firmly from our side, (6)Hide us from the storm.

On our branches, in the spring, (7)Leaves in green unfold; Till the frost with cruel sting, Turns them into gold.

Then our brightly tinted leaves, From our branches fall; (8)Flutter in the autumn breeze, To October’s call.

(9)Midst our branches squirrels run, Searching for our fruit; And the birds in summer’s sun, (10)Flit in hot pursuit

And at night when all is still, (11)We have gone to sleep, Comes the owl, a mouse to kill, And (12)hoots in a voice so deep.

As little trees of hope we stand And promises of good; Oh, may we grow up (13)tall and grand A deep and shady wood,

Bear sweet and gladsome fruit of love, And shelter weary souls; And (14)lift our crests the storm above, Where endless sunlight rolls.

Gestures for “The Trees.”

1. Half of the number imitate the swaying of trees by the blowing of wind, done by bending head and body to right and left. 2. Hands on hips, body bending forward and backward. 3. Body bending left and right. 4. Point upward with right hands. 5. Slowly extend arms. 6. Crouch as in hiding. 7. Arms extended, open hands slowly. 8. Arms extended, move fingers like fluttering leaves. 9. First imitate leaping squirrel with right hand; then with left; then with both hands. 10. Move hands to and fro with fast moving fingers. 11. Arms extended direct above head, fingers closed and eyes shut. 12. Half the number imitate the hoots while others recite. 13. Move arm full length obliquely from right side, and direct eyes upward in same direction. 14. Lift both hands slowly to full length above head in front of body, and look up.

MUSIC—To be Selected.

PROGRAMME FOR A HARVEST HOME.

TUNE.—“Marching Through Georgia.”

Through the golden summertime we’ve all been sowing seeds; Oh they’ve sprung to blossoms or to tall and ugly weeds; Children have we sown the seed of wrong or kindly deeds, All through the bright days of summer.

CHORUS.

The seeds we planted along life’s onward way, Are swiftly growing, growing every day; What the harvest time shall be, it is for us to say— Let us be cheerful in sowing.

RECITATION.—A Sermon in Rhyme

If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him, ere life’s evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow. Why should good words ne’er be said Of a friend till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song, Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long. Why should one who thrills your heart Lack the joy you may impart?

If a silvery laugh goes rippling Through the sunshine on his race, Share it. ’Tis the wise man’s saying For both joy and grief a place. There’s health and goodness in the mirth In which an honest laugh has birth.

If your work is made more easy By a friendly helping hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly Ere the darkness veil the land. Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer?

Scatter thus your seeds of kindness, All enriching as you go— Leave them. Trust the Harvest Giver, He will make each seed to grow. So, until its happy end Your life shall never lack a friend.

FARMER JOHN.

(For a man dressed in farmer’s costume.)

Home from his journey Farmer John Arrived this morning safe and sound; His black off and his old clothes on; “Now I’m myself,” says Farmer John; And he thinks, “I’ll look round.”

Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup! Are you so glad you would eat me up?” The old cow lows at the gate to greet him, The horses prick up their ears to meet him: “Well, well, old Bay! Ha, ha, old Gray! Do you get good food when I’m away? You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John; “The cattle are looking round and sleek; The colt is going to be a roan, And a beauty, too; how he has grown! We’ll wean the calf next week.”

“I’ve found this out,” says Farmer John, “That happiness is not bought and sold, And clutched in a life of waste and hurry, In nights of pleasure and days of worry; And wealth isn’t all in gold, Mortgages, stocks, and ten per cent., But in simple ways and sweet content; Few wants, pure hope, and noble ends, Some land to till, and a few good friends Like you, old Bay, And you, old Gray: That’s what I learned by going away.”

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

RECITAL—The Husbandman.

(For boys and girls.)

First:

Earth, of man the bounteous mother, Feeds him still with golden grain; He who best would aid a brother Shares with him his loaded wain.

Second:

Many a power within her bosom, Noiseless hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, Golden ear, and clustered wreath.

Third:

These to swell with strength and beauty Is the royal task of man; Man’s a king; his throne is duty, Since his work on earth began.

Fourth:

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage— These, like men, are fruits of earth; Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage. All from dust receive their birth.

Fifth:

What the dream but vain rebelling, If from earth we sought to flee? ’Tis our stored and ample dwelling; ’Tis from it the skies we see.

Sixth:

Wind and frost, and hour and season, Land and water, sun and shade— Work with these, as bids thy reason, For they work thy toil to aid.

All in concert:

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness! Man himself is all a seed; Hope and hardship, joy and sadness— Slow the plant to ripeness lead.

JOHN STERLING.

ORATION—The Nobility of Labor.

I call upon those whom I address to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven’s great ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it has been broken down for ages. Let it, then, be built up again; here, if anywhere, on these shores of a new world—of a new civilization. But how, I may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil? it may be said. They do, indeed, toil; but they, too, generally do it because they must. Many submit to it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity; and they desire nothing so much on earth as escape from it. They fulfill the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit; fulfill it with the muscle, but break it with the mind.

To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away with.

Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hands, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother Nature has embroidered, ’midst sun and rain, ’midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature—it is impiety to Heaven—it is breaking Heaven’s great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat—TOIL, either of the brain, or of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility!

ORVILLE DEWEY.

RECITATION—The Corn Song.

(For a lad who holds a tall stalk of corn in left hand.)

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard; Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has autumn poured From her most lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.

Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth, And bless our farmer girls?

Then shame on all the proud and vain, Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye, Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit, The wheat-field to the fly.

But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God!

J. G. WHITTIER.

SINGING—Tune: “Rockingham.”

Great God! our heart-felt thanks to Thee! We feel Thy presence everywhere; And pray that we may ever be The objects of Thy guardian care.

We sowed!—by Thee our work was seen, And blessed; and instantly went forth Thy mandate; and in living green Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth.

We toiled!—and Thou didst note our toil; And gav’st the sunshine and the rain, Till ripened on the teeming soil The fragrant grass, and golden grain.

And now, we reap!—and oh, our God! From this, the earth’s unbounded floor, We send our song of thanks abroad, And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store!

W. D. GALLAGHER.

PROGRAMME FOR LYCEUM OR PARLOR ENTERTAINMENT.

MUSIC—Piano Solo.

SONG—Selected by Quartette.

SALUTATORY ADDRESS.

(The following speech should be delivered by a droll boy who can keep his face straight while others do the laughing. He should act out the spirit of the piece with appropriate gestures.)

I am requested to open our performances by a salutatory address. It needs but one honest Saxon word for that—one homely pertinent word; but before I utter a pertinent word, allow me, like other great speakers, to indulge in a few _im_pertinent words.

And first, let me ask if there is a critic among us; for this is a sort of family gathering. We allow no critics! No reporters! No interviewers! (Do I see a boy taking notes? Put him out. No! It’s a false alarm, I believe.)

Pardon me if, with the help of my mother’s eye-glass (lifts eye-glasses), I look round on your phys—phys—physiognomies. (That’s the word, I’m very certain, for I practiced on it a good half hour.) Without flattery I say it, I like your countenances—with one exception.

A critic! If there is anything I detest it is a critic. One who cannot bear a little nonsense, and who shakes his head at a little salutary (not salutatory) fun. Salutary fun? Did anybody hiss? Point him out. (Speaker folds his arms, advances, fixes his eyes on some one in the audience, and shakes his fist at him.) Yes, sir, I said salutary fun. Salutary! You needn’t put on such a grave look. Salutary! You needn’t sneer at that ep—ep—epithet. (Yes, I’m quite positive that’s the word I was drilled on. Epi—thet! That’s it.)

But I was speaking of critics. If there is any one of that tribe in this assembly—any dear friend of Cæsar—I mean any stupid friend of Pompey, no, of pomposity—to him I say—no, to you I say—Go mark him well; for him no minstrel raptures swell; despite his titles, power and pelf, the wretch (rather rough on him, that!)—the wretch, concentred all in self, living shall forfeit fair renown, and, doubly dying, shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung, unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

There! If any member of Congress could do it better, bring him on. Excuse me if I sop my brow. (Wiping it with handkerchief.)

But enough! Let us now put by the cap and bells. Enough of nonsense! As a great philosopher, who had been frolicking, once said: “Hush! Let us be grave! Here comes a fool.” Nothing personal, sir, in that! Let us be grave.

And so friends, relatives, ladies, and gentlemen, I shall conclude by uttering from an overflowing heart that one word to which I alluded at the beginning—that one pertinent Saxon word; that is—(flourishes his hand as if about to utter it; then suddenly puts his hand to his forehead as if trying to remember.)

Forgotten? Confusion! Not a big word either! Not half as big as some I have spoken! What—where—when—whence—what has become of it? Must I break down, after all? Must I retire in disgrace from public life? Never! I have it. Here it is! Here it is in big capitals: WELCOME!

RECITATION—Mrs. Piper.

(Suited for a young lady. She should appear very innocent at the beginning, and speak in a droll, unsuspecting voice and manner. Toward the end she should exhibit an uncontrollable delight, at the same time manifest a disposition to conceal it.)

Mrs. Piper was a widow— “Oh, dear me! This world is not at all,” she said, “the place it used to be! Now my good husband, he was such a good man to provide— I never had the leastest care of anything outside! But now, Why, there’s the cow, A constant care, and Brindle’s calf I used to feed when small, And those two Ayrshire heifers that we purchased in the fall— Oh, dear, My husband sleeping in the grave, it’s gloomy being here! The oxen Mr. Piper broke, and four steers two years old, The blind mare and the little colt, they all wait to be sold! For how am I to keep ’em now? and yet how shall I sell? And what’s the price they ought to bring, how can a woman tell? Now, Jacob Smith, he called last night, and stayed till nine o’clock, And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and tried to buy my stock; He said he’d pay a higher price than any man in town; He’d give his note, or, if I chose, he’d pay the money down. But, there! To let him take those creeturs off, I really do not dare! For ’tis a lying world, and men are slippery things at best; My poor, dear husband in the ground, he wasn’t like the rest! But Jacob Smith’s a different case; if I would let him, now, Perhaps he’d wrong me on the horse, or cheat me on a cow; And so I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’”

Mrs. Piper was a widow— “Oh, dear me! A single woman with a farm must fight her way,” said she. “Of everything about the land my husband always knew; I never felt, when he was here, I’d anything to do; But now, what fields to plow, And how much hay I ought to cut, and just what crops to sow, And what to tell the hired men, how can a woman know? Oh, dear! With no strong arm to lean upon, it’s lonesome being here! Now Jacob Smith, the other night, he called on me again, And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and stayed till after ten; He said he’d like to take my farm, to buy it or to lease— I do declare, I wish that man would give me any peace! For there! To trust him with my real estate I truly did not dare; For, if he buys it, on the price he’ll cheat me underhand; And, if he leases it, I know he will run out the land; And, if he takes it at the halves, both halves he’ll strike for then; It’s risky work when women folk have dealings with the men! And so, I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’”

Mrs. Piper was a widow— “Oh, dear me! Yet I have still some mercies left; I won’t complain,” said she. “My poor, dear husband knows, I trust, a better world than this; ’Twere sinful selfishness in me to grudge him Heaven’s bliss! So now, I ought to bow Submissively to what is sent—not murmur and repine; The hand that sends our trials has, in all, some good design. Oh, dear! If we knew all, we might not want our buried lost ones here! And Jacob Smith, he called last night, but it was not to see About the cattle or the farm, but this time it was me! He said he prized me very high, and wished I’d be his wife, And if I did not he should lead a most unhappy life. He did not have a selfish thought, but gladly, for my sake, The care of all my stock and farm he would consent to take— And, there! To slight so plain a Providence I really do not dare! He’ll take the cattle off my mind, he’ll carry on the farm— I haven’t since my husband died had such a sense of calm! I think the man was sent to me—a poor, lone woman must, In such a world as this, I feel, have some one she can trust; And so, I do not feel it would be right for me to answer ‘No.’”

MARIAN DOUGLAS.

MUSIC—To be Selected.

COLLOQUY—True Bravery.

(Suited to a boy and girl of twelve years.)

Ralph. Good morning, Cousin Laura! I have a word to say to you.

Laura. Only a word! It is yet half an hour to school-time, and I can listen.

R. I saw you yesterday speaking to that fellow Sterling—Frank Sterling.

L. Of course I spoke to Frank. What then? Is he too good to be spoken to?

R. Far from it. You must give up his acquaintance.

L. Indeed, Cousin Ralph! I must give up his acquaintance? On what compulsion must I?

R. If you do not wish to be cut by all the boys of the academy, you must cut Frank.

L. Cut! What do you mean by cut?

R. By cutting, I mean not recognizing an individual. When a boy who knows you passes you without speaking or bowing, he cuts you.

L. I thank you for the explanation. And I am to understand that I must either give up the acquaintance of my friend Frank, or submit to the terrible mortification of being “cut” by Mr. Ralph Burton and his companions!

R. Certainly. Frank is a boy of no spirit—in short, a coward.

L. How has he shown it?

R. Why, a dozen boys have dared him to fight, and he refuses to do it.

L. And is your test of courage a willingness to fight? If so, a bull-dog is the most courageous of gentlemen.

R. I am serious, Laura; you must give him up. Why, the other day Tom Harding put a chip on a fellow’s hat, and dared Frank Sterling to knock it off. But Sterling folded his arms and walked off, while we all groaned and hissed.

L. You did? You groaned and hissed? Oh, Ralph, I did not believe you had so little of the true gentleman about you!

R. What do you mean? Come, now, I do not like that.

L. Were you at the great fire last night?

R. Yes; Tom Harding and I helped work one of the engines.

L. Did you see that boy go up the ladder?

R. Yes; wouldn’t I like to be in his shoes! They say the Humane Society are going to give him a medal; for he saved a baby’s life and no mistake—at the risk of his own, too; everybody said so; for the ladder he went up was all charred and weakened, and it broke short off before he got to the ground.

L. What boy was it!

R. Nobody could find out, but I suppose the morning paper will tell us all about it.

L. I have a copy. Here’s the account; “Great fire; house tenanted by poor families; baby left in one of the upper rooms; ladder much charred; firemen too heavy to go up; boy came forward, ran up; seized an infant; descended safely; gave it into arms of frantic mother.”

R. Is the boy’s name mentioned?

L. Ay! Here it is! Here it is! And who do you think he is?

R. Do not keep me in suspense.

L. Well, then, he’s the boy who was so afraid of knocking a chip off your hat—Frank Sterling—the coward, as you called him.

R. No! Let me see the paper for myself. There’s the name, sure enough, printed in capital letters.

L. But, cousin, how much more illustrious an achievement it would have been for him to have knocked a chip off your hat! Risking his life to save a chip of a baby was a small matter compared with that. Can the gratitude of a mother for saving her baby make amends for the ignominy of being cut by Mr. Tom Harding and Mr. Ralph Burton?

R. Don’t laugh at me any more, Cousin Laura. I see I have been stupidly in the wrong. Frank Sterling is no coward. I’ll ask his pardon this very day.

L. Will you? My dear Ralph, you will in that case show that you are not without courage.

RECITATION—Reverie in Church.

Too early of course! How provoking! I told ma just how it would be. I might as well have on a wrapper, For there’s not a soul here yet to see. There! Sue Delaplaine’s pew is empty— I declare if it isn’t too bad! I knew my suit cost more than her’s did, And I wanted to see her look mad.

I do think that sexton’s too stupid— He’s put some one else in our pew— And the girl’s dress just kills mine completely; Now what am I going to do? The psalter, and Sue isn’t here yet! I don’t care, I think it’s a sin For people to get late to service, Just to make a great show coming in.

Oh, you’ve got here at last, my dear, have you? Well, I don’t think you need be so proud Of that bonnet if Virot did make it, It’s horrid fast-looking and loud. What a dress!—for a girl in her senses To go on the street in light blue! And those coat-sleeves—they wore them last summer— Don’t doubt, though, that she thinks they’re new.

Mrs. Gray’s polonaise was imported— So dreadful!—a minister’s wife, And thinking so much about fashion!— A pretty example of life! The altar’s dressed sweetly—I wonder Who sent those white flowers for the font!— Some girl who’s gone on the assistant— Don’t doubt it was Bessie Lamont.

Just look at her now, little humbug!— So devout—I suppose she don’t know That she’s bending her head too far over And the end of her switches all show. What a sight Mrs. Ward is this morning! That woman will kill me some day, With her horrible lilacs and crimsons, Why will these old things dress so gay?

And there’s Jenny Wells with Fred Tracy— She’s engaged to him now—horrid thing! Dear me! I’d keep on my glory sometimes, If I did have a solitaire ring! How can this girl next to me act so— The way that she turns round and stares, And then makes remarks about people:— She’d better be saying her prayers.

Oh, dear, what a dreadful long sermon! He must love to hear himself talk! And it’s after twelve now—how provoking! I wanted to have a nice walk. Through at last. Well, it isn’t so dreadful After all, for we won’t dine till one: How can people say church is poky!— So wicked!—I think it’s real fun.

GEORGE A. BAKER.

ORATION—The Spanish-American War.

It is gratifying to all of us to know that this has never ceased to be a war of humanity. The last ship that went out of the harbor of Havana before war was declared was an American ship that had taken to the suffering people of Cuba the supplies furnished by American charity, and the first ship to sail into the harbor of Santiago was an American ship bearing food supplies to the suffering Cubans, and I am sure it is the universal prayer of American citizens that justice and humanity and civilization shall characterize the final settlement of peace, as they have distinguished the progress of the war.

My countrymen, the currents of destiny flow through the hearts of our people. Who will check them, who will divert them, who will stop them? And the movements of men, planned and designed by the Master of Men, will never be interrupted by the American people.

I witness with pride and satisfaction the cheers of the multitudes as the veterans of the civil war on both sides of the contest are reviewed. I witness with increasing pride the wild acclaim of the people as you watch the volunteers and the regulars and our naval reserves (the guardians of the people on land and sea) pass before your eyes, for I read in the faces and hearts of my countrymen the purpose to see to it that this government, with its free institutions, shall never perish from the face of the earth.

My heart is filled with gratitude to the God of battles, who has so favored us, and to the soldiers and sailors who have won such victories on land and sea and have given such a new meaning to American valor. No braver soldiers or sailors ever assembled under any flag.

Gentlemen, the American people are ready. If the Merrimac is to be sunk in the mouth of the Santiago harbor to prevent the escape of the Spanish fleet, a brave young hero is ready to do it and to succeed in what his foes have never been able to do—sink an American ship. All honor to the army and navy, without whose sacrifices we could not celebrate the victory. The flag of our country is safe in the hands of our patriots and heroes.

PRESIDENT MCKINLEY.

MUSIC—To be Selected.

RECITATION—A Cook of the Period.

(For a young lady who can give the Irish brogue.)

The looks of yer, ma’am, rather suits me— The wages ye offer ’ill do; But thin I can’t inter yer sarvice Without a condition or two. And now, to begin, is the kitchen, Commodgeous, with plenty of light, And fit, ye know, fur entertainin’ Sech fri’nds as I’m like to invite?

And nixt, are yous regular at male-times? Because ’taint convainyent, ye see, To wait, and if I behaves punkshul, It’s no more than yous ought to be. And thin is your gurrels good-natured? The rayson I lift my last place, The French nuss was sich a high lady, I sint a dish-cloth at her face.

And have yer the laste objection To min droppin’ in when they choose? I’ve got some enlivinin’ fust cousins That frayquently brings me the news. I must have thim trayted powlitely; I give yer fair warnin’ ma’am, now, If the airy gate be closed agin thim, You’ll find me commincin’ a row.

These matters agrayed on between us, I’d try yer a wake, so I would. (She looks like the kind I can manage, A thin thing without any blood!) But mind, if I comes for a wake, ma’am, I comes for that time, and no liss; And so, thin, purvidin’ ye’d want me, Just give me your name and addriss.

SONG—Bee-hive Town. TUNE—“Marching Through Georgia.”

Have you ever been to see the busy Bee-Hive Town, With its funny little wooden houses square and brown? Hear the bees from clover-fields come flying swiftly down All enter one little doorway.

CHORUS.

Hurrah, hurrah, for busy Bee-Hive Town, With funny little houses square and brown; Here the bees from clover fields come flying swiftly down Bringing the sweet golden honey.

Oh, there are so many rooms with thin and waxen wall, Packed so close together that you could not count them all, Here the small bee babies sleep until they learn to crawl, And fly to find the golden honey.

Mother bee is called the queen, her children love her well, And she lives within a warm and cosy little cell; While her children search in garden, meadow-land and dell, Helpful and happy in working.

All the merry sister bees do many a helpful thing— Tend their little sisters and the golden honey bring: But the lazy brother bees do naught but hum and sing, All through the long golden summer.

PROGRAMME FOR THANKSGIVING.

(The room should be decorated with fruits and grains of the season, among them a large pumpkin, which will be appropriate to one of the recitations.)

SONG—Tune: “My Country.”

Honor the Mayflower’s band, Who left their native land And home so bright; Honor the bravery That crossed the winter sea, For worship, fearless, free, In cause of right.

Oh, they had much to fear, Sickness and death was near To many a one; Foes did them cruel wrong, Winter was dark and long, Ere came the Springtime’s song And burst of sun.

Honor those valiant sons, Honor those fearless ones, The Mayflower’s band. Honor the bravery That scorned all tyranny, And crossed the stormy sea To this fair land!

RELIGIOUS EXERCISES—Selected.

RECITATION—What I’m Thankful For.

I’m thankful that I’m six years old, And that I’ve left off dresses; And that I’ve had my curls cut off,— Some people call them tresses. Such things were never meant for boys;— Horrid dangling, tangling curls— They go quite well with dress and sash; They are just the thing for girls.

I’m thankful I have pockets four, Tho’ they’re almost too small, To hold the things I want to keep;— Some strings, knife, top and ball. I’m thankful that we’re going to have, All my folks and I, Just a jolly dinner to-day, With turkey and mince pie.

O, one thing more, my mamma says, And what she says is true; ’Tis God who gives us everything, And keeps and loves us too. And so I thank Him very much For all that I enjoy; And promise that next New Year’s day Will find a better boy.

RECITATION—The Pumpkin.

Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the grey-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?

O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

Then thanks for thy present!—none sweeter or better E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking than thine! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Gold-tinted and fair as thine own pumpkin-pie!

J. G. WHITTIER.

SONG—Tune: “Yankee Doodle.”

What matters it the cold wind’s blast, What matters though ’tis snowing, Thanksgiving Day has come at last; To grandmamma’s we’re going. Wrapped in furs as warm as toast, O’er the hills we’re fleeting; To welcome friends, a merry host And grandma’s smile of greeting.

The sleigh bells jingle merrily, And though the flakes are flying, At last beyond the hills we see A little mansion lying. I’m sure we’ll find sweet cakes and fruit And pumpkin pies so yellow; For grandma knows just how to suit Each hungry little fellow.

RECITAL—Outside and In.

(May be recited by three girls; No. 1 remaining on the platform while No. 2 recites the second part, and both standing while No. 3 steps between and repeats the closing verse.)

1. Just outside the window, Through the cold night air, Snowflakes falling softly, Dropping here and there, Covering like a blanket All the ground below, Where the flowers are sleeping, Tucked in by the snow. They are dreaming sweetly, Through the winter’s night, Of the summer’s morning Coming sure and bright.

2. Just inside the window Firelight ruddy gleams; On the walls and ceiling Dance its merry beams. White as outside snowflakes Is the little bed; On the downy pillow Rests a curly head. Like the flowers the child is dreaming Of the long, bright hours of play Coming as the darkness melteth Into sunny day.

3. And above the sleepers,— Be they child or flower,— Our loving Father bendeth Watching hour by hour. ’Tis his love which giveth Blessings great or small; ’Tis his sun which shineth, Making day for all.

ORATION—The Laboring Classes.

Sir, it is an insult to our laboring classes to compare them to the debased poor of Europe. Why, sir, we of this country do not know what poverty is. We have no poor in this country, in the sense in which that word is used abroad. Every laborer, even the most humble, in the United States, soon becomes a capitalist, and even, if he choose, a proprietor of land; for the West, with all its boundless fertility, is open to him.

How can any one dare compare the mechanic of this land (whose inferiority, in any substantial particular, in intelligence, in virtue, in wealth, to the other classes of our society, I have yet to learn) with that race of outcasts, of which so terrific a picture is presented by recent writers—the poor of Europe?—a race among no inconsiderable portion of whom famine and pestilence may be said to dwell continually; many of whom are without morals, without education, without a country, without a God! and may be said to know society only by the terrors of its penal code, and to live in perpetual war with it. Poor bondmen! mocked with the name of liberty, that they may be sometimes tempted to break their chains, in order that, after a few days of starvation in idleness and dissipation, they may be driven back to their prison-house to take their shackles up again, heavier and more galling than before; severed, as it has been touchingly expressed, from nature, from the common air, and the light of the sun; knowing only by hearsay that the fields are green, that the birds sing, and that there is a perfume in flowers!

And is it with a race whom the perverse institutions of Europe have thus degraded beneath the condition of humanity that the advocates, the patrons, the protectors, of our working-men, presume to compare them? Sir, it is to treat them with a scorn at which their spirit should revolt, and does revolt.

HUGH LEGARE.

RECITATION—A Thanksgiving.

(For six boys. They stand in a row and each steps forward to recite his verse).

For the wealth of pathless forests, Whereon no axe may fall; For the winds that haunt the branches; The young bird’s timid call; For the red leaves dropped like rubies Upon the dark green sod; For the waving of the forests I thank thee, O my God!

For the sound of water gushing In the bubbling beads of light; For the fleets of snow-white lilies Firm anchored out of sight; For the reeds among the eddies; The crystal on the clod; For the flowing of the rivers, I thank thee, O my God!

For the rosebud’s break of beauty Along the toiler’s way; For the violet’s eye that opens To bless the new-born day; For the bare twigs that in summer Bloom like the prophet’s rod; For the blossoming of flowers, I thank thee, O my God!

For the lifting up of mountains, In brightness and in dread; For the peaks where snow and sunshine Alone have dared to tread; For the dark and silent gorges, Whence mighty cedars nod; For the majesty of mountains, I thank thee, O my God!

For the splendor of the sunsets, Vast mirrored on the sea; For the gold-fringed clouds that curtain Heaven’s inner mystery; For the molten bars of twilight, Where thought leans glad yet awed; For the glory of the sunsets, I thank thee, O my God!

For the earth and all its beauty; The sky and all its light; For the dim and soothing shadow That rest the dazzled sight; For unfading fields and prairies, Where sense in vain has trod; For the world’s exhaustless beauty, I thank thee, O my God!

LUCY LARCOM.

SONG—The Pilgrims. Tune—“Lightly Row.”

Long ago, To our land Came the Mayflower’s little band, Long ago To our land Came the Mayflower’s band. O, they came across the sea, For the heart’s devotion free. Long ago To our land Came the Mayflower’s band.

Winter, spring, Slowly passed, And the harvest came at last. Winter, spring, Slowly passed Harvest came at last. Then for all the blessings given, Thanks they rendered unto heaven, From that day Came to stay, Glad Thanksgiving Day.

TABLEAU—Harvest Home.

(Handsome lady, representing Ceres, surrounded by baskets or shocks of grain, wheat, corn, etc., with farmers in attitudes of gathering or binding the crops).

PROGRAMME FOR FLOWER DAY.

SONG—Tune: “My Country.”

Let us with nature sing, And floral tributes bring, On this glad day; Violets white and blue, Daisies and lilies too, Pansies of purple hue, And roses gay.

O’er this fair land of ours, Blossom the golden flowers In loveliness; From Maine to Washington, Wherever smiles the sun, Their fairy footsteps run To cheer and bless.

When winter’s curtains gray, From skies are pushed away By nature’s hand; We gladly welcome you, Blossoms of red and blue, Blossoms of every hue, To our fair land.

RECITAL—The Poppy and Mignonette.

Once ’tis said, gay, flaunting poppies, And the humble mignonette, Side by side grew in a garden Where one day their glances met. Cried a Poppy: “Of your presence, In this spot we have no need, You are sadly out of place, You are nothing but a weed.”

Meekly bowed the Mignonette And ashamed in silence stood, When there came a gentle murmur, Like a whisper from the wood: “Henceforth, gay and flaunting poppies, Proud and stately in thy bloom, Shall be taken half thy beauty— All thy wealth of sweet perfume.

It is thine, O mignonette, Flower of sweet and lowly grace; Thou shalt win the hearts of others, Though thou hast a humble face.” And the magic of that whisper. Holds its mystic power yet; Poppies lure us with their beauty, But we love the mignonette.

FLOWER QUOTATIONS.

(For seven pupils, each of whom recites a verse, prefacing it with the name of the author.)

Wordsworth wrote:

The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare. Waters on a starry night, Are beautiful and fair.

Longfellow wrote:

O flower de luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet. O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet.

Lowell wrote:

The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there’s never a blade or a flower too mean, To be some happy creature’s palace.

Leigh Hunt wrote:

We are violets blue, For our sweetness found Careless in the mossy shades, Looking on the ground. Love-dropped eye-lids, and a kiss, Such our breath and blueness is.

John Wolcott wrote:

The daisies peep from every field, And violets sweet their odors yield, The purple blossom paints the thorn, And streams reflect the blush of morn Then lads and lasses, all be gay, For this is Nature’s holiday.

Horace Smith wrote:

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living teachers, Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, From loveliest nook.

Lowell wrote:

Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, Rains fall, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.

SONG—Tune: “Auld Lang Syne.”

When winter o’er the hills afar, Has vanished from the land, And glad and welcome signs of Spring Are seen on every hand, Then Robin in his vest of red, And sober suit of brown, From out his sunny, southern home, Flies gaily into town.

The blossoms smile to hear him sing, And see him build his nest; For of all merry summer birds Dear Robin, they love best. He chirps and twitters at his work, While skies forget to frown, And all the world is glad and gay When Robin lives in town.

The summer softly fades away Into the winter drear, Then Robin gayly sings, “good-bye, I’ll come another year.” So when the woodland trees are bare, And snowy flakes fall down; In little suit of brown and red, Dear Robin leaves the town.

RECITATION—Flowers.

How the universal heart of man blesses flowers! They are wreathed round the cradle, the marriage altar, and the tomb. The Persian in the far East delights in their perfume, and writes his love in nosegays; while the Indian child of the far West clasps his hands with glee as he gathers the abundant blossoms—the illuminated scripture of the prairies. The Cupid of the ancient Hindoos tipped his arrows with flowers, and orange buds are the bridal crown with us, a nation of yesterday. Flowers garlanded the Grecian altar, and they hang in votive wreaths before the Christian shrine.

All these are appropriate uses. Flowers should deck the brow of the youthful bride, for they are in themselves a lovely type of marriage. They should twine round the tomb, for their perpetually renewed beauty is a symbol of the resurrection. They should festoon the altar, for their fragrance and their beauty ascend in perpetual worship before the Most High.

LYDIA M. CHILD.

THE FOOLISH HAREBELL.

(For eighteen pupils, each speaking two lines.)

A harebell hung its willful head: “I am so tired, so tired! I wish I was dead.”

She hung her head in the mossy dell: “If all were over, then all were well.”

The wind he heard, and was pitiful; He waved her about to make her cool.

“Wind, you are rough,” said the dainty bell; “Leave me alone—I am not well.”

And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame, Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame.

“I am hot, so hot!” she sighed and said; “I am withering up; I wish I was dead.”

Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case, And drew a thick veil over his face.

“Cloud, go away, and don’t be rude; I am not—I don’t see why you should.”

The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried, “I am faint, so faint! and no water beside!”

And the dew came down its million-fold path; But she murmured, “I did not want a bath.”

A boy came by in the morning gray; He plucked the harebell, and threw it away.

The harebell shivered, and cried, “Oh! oh! I am faint, so faint! Come, dear wind, blow.”

The wind blew softly, and did not speak. She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.

“Sun, dear sun, I am cold,” she said. He rose; but lower she drooped her head.

“O rain! I am withering; all the blue Is fading out of me;—come, please do.”

The rain came down as fast as it could, But for all its will it did her no good.

She shuddered and shriveled, and moaning said; “Thank you all kindly;” and then she was dead.

Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next year, She’ll be simple and sweet. But I fear, I fear.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

QUESTIONS ABOUT FLOWERS.

(To be answered by a class or the whole school.)

What is the favorite flower of the poets?

Ans. The daisy.

What English poet so loved the daisy that he lay all one day in the field to see it open in the morning and close at night?

Ans. Chaucer.

What violet, so called, really belongs to the lily family?

Ans. The dog-tooth violet.

What flower was named by the Greeks after one of their gods?

Ans. The pansy, after Pan.

About what flower was Emerson’s finest poem written?

Ans. The rhodora.

Which of the buttercups are foreigners?

Ans. The tall buttercup and the common buttercup with bulbous base.

Name some other imported flowers.

Ans. Dandelion and ox-eyed daisy.

Name two distinctly American blossoms.

Ans. Indian pipe and blood-root.

What queen adopted the daisy as her flower?

Ans. Queen Margherita of Italy.

Name one of the most brilliant of August flowers.

Ans. The cardinal flower.

What is one of the most difficult wild flowers to cultivate?

Ans. Trailing arbutus, which grows all over the United States.

What floral poem of Wordsworth’s is famous?

Ans. Daffodils.

What is the most beautiful plant of Autumn?

Ans. The golden rod.

RECITATION—Pansies.

We had climbed to the top of the old Gray Peak, And viewed the valley o’er; And we started off on our homeward tramp, A good three miles or more. The road lay curved like a ribbon of gold, Around the base of the hill, And the brook gleamed out with a silver sheen, From thickets near the mill.

But the sun shone warm on the dusty road, Until by heat oppressed, We wearily stopped at a cottage gate; The matron bade us rest. How cool was the shade of the trumpet-vine, A spring ran fresh and clear? The flash and whirr of a jeweled thing, A humming-bird was near.

We were sauntering down the garden path, Repeating kind good-byes, When suddenly now were our footsteps stayed, New beauties met our eyes. “Will you have some pansies?” the hostess asks, “O, thank you, on!” we say; But the matron is culling the purple blooms, We let her have her way.

Purple and blue and russet and gold Those fragrant rich bouquets; “Ah!” she explains, “of my violets sweet, You have not learned the ways.

“There is something good about pansies That’s worth your while to know; The more they are picked and given away The more they’re sure to grow.”

MARY A. MCCLELLAND.

RECITAL—Plant Song.

O where do you come from, berries red, Nuts, apples and plums, that hang ripe overhead, Sweet, juicy grapes, with your rich purple hue, Saying, “Pick us and eat us; we’re growing for you?”

O, where do you come from, bright flower and fair, That please with your colors and fragrance so rare, Glowing with sunshine or sparkling with dew? “We are blooming for dear little children like you.”

“Our roots are our mouths, taking food from the ground, Our leaves are our lungs, breathing air all around, Our sap, like your blood, our veins courses through— Don’t you think, little children, we’re somewhat like you?

“Your hearts are the soil, your thoughts are the seeds; Your lives may become useful plants or foul weeds; If thou think but good thoughts your lives will be true, For good women and men were once children like you.”

NELLIE M. BROWN.

SONG—TUNE.—“Bounding Billows.”

We would hail thee, joyous summer, We would welcome thee to-day, With thy skies so blue and cloudless And thy song-birds, glad and gay.

Oh, the blossoms hear thee calling, Hear thy voice that ne’er deceives, And they waken from their slumbers Far beneath the withered leaves.

Little brooks with merry laughter, Run to greet their lovely guest; For of all the happy seasons Summer dear, they love thee best.

So we hail thee, joyous summer, We would welcome thee to-day; With thy skies so blue and cloudless, And thy song-birds, glad and gay.

READING—Summer-Time.

They were right—those old German minnesingers—to sing the pleasant summer-time! What a time it is! How June stands illuminated in the calendar! The windows are all wide open; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here and there a long streak of sunshine streams in through a crevice. We hear the low sound of the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. The trees are heavy with leaves; and the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. The whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine. The birds sing. The cock struts about, and crows loftily. Insects chirp in the grass. Yellow buttercups stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clover like rubies.

The elm-trees reach their long, pendulous branches almost to the ground. White clouds sail aloft, and vapors fret the blue sky with silver threads. The white village gleams afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow winds the river—careless, indolent. It seems to love the country, and is in no haste to reach the sea. The bee only is at work—the hot and angry bee. All things else are at play! he never plays, and is vexed that any one should.

People drive out from town to breathe, and to be happy. Most of them have flowers in their hands; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still oftener lilacs. Ye denizens of the crowded city, how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry streets to the open fields, fragrant with clover blossoms! how pleasant the fresh, breezy country air, dashed with brine from the meadows! how pleasant, above all, the flowers, the manifold beautiful flowers!

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

SONG.—Tune.—“The Last Rose of Summer.”

Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh!

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may follow, When friendships decay, And from love’s shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

THOMAS MOORE.

MARCH—Honor to the Flag.

(Young people march to a well known tune; each carries a bouquet, and, approaching a staff flying the Stars and Stripes, places the flowers at the base.)

DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS.

IN WANT OF A SERVANT.

Characters:

MR. MARSHALL AND WIFE. MARGARET O’FLANAGAN. KATRINA VAN FOLLESTEIN. SNOWDROP WASHINGTON. MRS. BUNKER. FREDDIE.

Scene I.—The breakfast-room of MR. and MRS. MARSHALL. MR. MARSHALL enjoying the morning paper with his heels on the mantel.

Mrs. Marshall (in a complaining tone.) Oh, dear, Charles, how sick and tired I am of housework! I do envy people who are able to keep help. Here I am tied up to the little hot kitchen morning till night—stewing, and baking, and frying, and scrubbing, and washing floors, till I am ready to sink! One thing over and over again. I wonder why Hood, when he wrote the “Song of the Shirt,” had not kept on and written the “Song of the Basement Story.”

Mr. M. Is it so very bad, Lily? Why, I always thought it must be nice work to cook—and washing dishes is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is to pour a little hot water over ’em and give ’em a flirt over with a towel.

Mrs. M. That’s all you men know about it; it is the hardest work in the world! I always hated it. I remember, when I was a little girl, I always used to be taken with a headache when mother wanted me to wash the dishes. And then she’d dose me with rhubarb. Ugh! how bitter it was; but not half so bitter as washing dishes in boiling water in a hot kitchen in the middle of August!

Mr. M. (meditatively taking his feet from the mantel.) I made a lucky sale this morning, and saved a cool three hundred. I had intended giving you a new silk, but I’ll do better—I’ll hire you a girl. How will that suit?

Mrs. M. Oh, what a darling! I would kiss you if you hadn’t been smoking, and my collar weren’t quite so fresh. I am afraid I shall muss it. But you are a good soul, Charlie; and I shall be so happy. Do you really mean it?

Mr. M. To be sure.

Mrs. M. Won’t Mrs. Fitzjones die of envy? She puts her washing out, and she’s always flinging that in my face. I guess the boot will be on the other foot now! I wonder what she’ll say when she runs in of a morning to see what I’m cooking, and finds me in the parlor hem-stitching a handkerchief, and my maid attending to things in the kitchen? But where is a girl to be had? Will you go to the intelligence office?

Mr. M. No; I don’t approve of intelligence offices. I will advertise. Bring me a pen and ink, Lily.

Mrs. M. (bringing the articles.) You won’t say that to me any more, Charles. It will be, “Biddy, my good girl, bring me the writing implements.” Won’t it be nice? Just like a novel. They always have servants, you know.

Mr. M. What, the novels?

Mrs. M. No; the people in them. Are you writing the advertisement? Be sure and say that no one need apply except experienced persons. I want no green hands about my kitchen.

Mr. M. (reads from the paper what he has been writing.) “Wanted, by a quiet family, a girl to do general housework. None but those having had experience need apply. Call at No. 116 B⸺ street, between the hours of ten and two.” How will that answer?

Mrs. M. Admirably! Charles, you ought to have been an editor. You express your ideas so clearly!

Mr. M. Thank you, my dear, thank you. I believe I have some talent for expressing my meaning. But I am going down town now, and will have this advertisement inserted in the Herald, and by to-morrow you can hold yourself in readiness to receive applicants. By-bye (goes out).

Mrs. M. (alone). If it isn’t the most charming thing! Won’t the Fitzjoneses and Mrs. Smith be raving? Mrs. Smith has got a bound girl, and Mrs. Fitzjones puts out her washing; but I am to have a regular servant! I shall get a chance to practice my music now. Dear me—how red my hands are! (looks at them) I must get some cold cream for them; one’s hands show so on the white keys of a piano. I’ll go and open that piano now, and dust it. It must be dreadfully out of tune. But I’ll have it tuned as soon as ever I get that girl fairly initiated into my way of doing work (goes out).

Scene II.—MRS. MARSHALL awaiting the coming of “applicants.” A furious ring at the front door bell.

Mrs. M. (peeping through the blinds). Dear me! I wonder who’s coming! A person applying for the situation of servant would not be likely to come to the front door. I can just see the edge of a blue-silk flounce, and a streamer of red ribbon on the bonnet. I’ll go and see who it is (opens the door, and a stout Irish girl, gaudily dressed, with an eye-glass, and a bonnet of enormous dimensions pushes by her, and entering the parlor, seats herself in the rocking-chair).

Mrs. M. To what am I indebted for this visit?

Irish Girl. It looks well for the like of yees to ask! It’s the leddy what’s wanting a young leddy to help in the wurrk that I’m after seeing.

Mrs. M. (with dignity). I am that person, if you please. What may I call your name?

Irish Girl. Me name’s Margaret O’Flanagan, though some people has the impudence to call me Peggy; but if ever the likes of it happens agin I’ll make the daylight shine into ’em where it never dramed of shining before. What may your name be, mum?

Mrs. M. My name is Marshall. I am in want of a servant.

Margaret. Sarvint, is it? Never a bit of a sarvint will I be for anybody! The blud of my forefathy would cry out against it. But I might have ixpected it from the appearance of yees. Shure, and I’d no other thought but ye was the chambermaid. Marshall, is it? Holy St. Patrick! why that was the name of the man that was hung in County Cork for the murthering of Dennis McMurphy, and he had a nose exactly like the one foreninst your face. (A second ring at the door. MRS. MARSHALL ushers in a stolid-faced German girl, and an over-dressed colored lady. They take seats on the sofa.)

German Girl. Ish dis the place mit the woman what wants a girl in her housework that was put into de paper day pefore to-morrow.

Mrs. M. Yes, I am the woman. What is your name?

German Girl. Katrina Van Follenstein. I can do leetle of most everything. I can bake all myself, and bile, and fry; and makes sourkrout—oh, sphlendid! And I sphanks the children as well as their own mudders.

Marg. If ye’ll condescend to lave that dirty Dutchman, young leddy, I’ll be afther asking ye a few questions; and then if ye don’t shute me I can be laving. Me time is precious. Is them the best cheers in yer house?

Mrs. M. They are.

Marg. Holy Virgin! Why, mum, I’ve been used to having better cheers than them in me own room, and a sofy in me kitchen to lay me bones on when they’re took aching. Have ye got a wine cellar?

Mrs. M. (indignantly). No! We are temperance people.

Marg. Oh, botheration! Then ye’ll niver do for me, at all at all? It’s wine I must have every day to keep me stummach in tune, and if Barney O’Grath comes in of an evening I should die of mortification if I didn’t have a drop of something to trate him on. And about the peanny. It’s taking lessons I am, meself, and if it’s out of kilter, why, it must be fixed at once. I never could think of playing on a instrument that was ontuned. It might spile me voice.

Mrs. M. I want no servants in my house who are taking music lessons. I hire a girl to do my work—not to dictate to me, and sit in the parlor.

Marg. Ye don’t hire me. No mum! Not by a long walk. It’s not Margaret O’Flanagan that’ll be hosted round by an old sharp-nosed crayter like yerself, wid a mole on yer left cheek, and yer waterfall made out of other folks’ hair! The saints be blessed, me own is an illegant one—and never a dead head was robbed for to make it! ’Twas the tail of me cousin Jimmy’s red horse—rest his soul!

Mrs. M. (pointing to the door). You can leave the house, Miss O’Flanagan. You won’t suit me.

Marg. And you won’t shute me. I wouldn’t work with ye for a thousand dollars a week! It’s not low vulgar people that Margaret O’Flanagan associates with. Good-bye to ye! I pity the girl ye gets. May the saints presarve her—and not a drop of wine in the house! (MARGARET goes out.)

Mrs. M. Well, Katrina, are you ready to answer a few questions?

Katrina. Yah; I is.

Mrs. M. Are you acquainted with general housework?

Kat. Nix; I never have seen that shinneral. I know Shinneral Shackson, and Shinneral Grant, but not that one to speak of!

Mrs. M. I intended to ask if you are used to doing work in the kitchen.

Kat. Yaw, I sees. Dat ish my thrade.

Mrs. M. Can you cook?

Kat. Most people, what bees shenteel, keeps a cook.

Mrs. M. I do not. I shall expect you to cook. Can you wash?

Kat. Beeples that ish in de upper-crust puts their washing out.

Mrs. M. Can you make beds, and sweep?

Kat. The dust of the fedders sthuffs up my head, what has got one leetle giutar into it. Most beeples keeps a chambermaid. Now, I wants to ask you some tings. You gits up in morning, and gits breakfast, of course? It makes mine head ache to git up early. And you’ll dust all the furnitures, and schrub the kittles, and your goot man will wash the floors and pump the water, and make the fires, and——

Mrs. M. We shall do no such thing. What an insolent wretch! You can go at once. I’ve no further use for you. You won’t suit.

Kat. (retreating). Mine krout! what a particular vomans.

Colored Lady. Wall, missis, specks here’s jest de chile for ye. What wages does you gib? and what is yer pollyticks?

Mrs. M. What is your name—what wages do you expect?

Colored Lady. My name is Snowdrop Washington, and I specks five dollars a week if I do my own washing, but if it is put out to de washerwoman’s wid de rest of de tings, den I takes off a quarter. And it’s best to have a fair understanding now, in de beginning. I’m very particular about my afternoons. Tuesdays I studies my cataplasin and can’t be ’sturbed; Wednesdays I goes to see old Aunt Sally Gumbo, what’s got de spine of de back; Thursdays I allers takes a dose of lobeely for me stummuch, and has to lay abed; and Fridays I ginerally walks out wid Mr. Sambo Snow, a fren of mine—and in none of dem cases can I be ’sturbed. And I shall spect you to find gloves for me to do de work in; don’t like to sile my hands.

Mrs. M. I want to hire a girl to work—every day—and every hour in the day.

Snowdrop. The laws-a-massy! what a missis! Why, in dat case dis chile haint no better off dan wite trash! Ketch Snowdrop Washington setting in that pew! Not dis nigger. I wish you a berry lubly morning! (goes out, and a woman clad in widow’s weeds, and a little boy enter.)

Woman (in a brisk tone). Are you the person that wants to hire help? Dear me, don’t I smell onions! I detest onions! Only vulgar people eat ’em! Have your children had the measles? Because I never could think of taking Freddie where he might be exposed to that dreadful disease! Freddie, my love, put down that vase. If you should break it, you might cut yourself with the pieces. Have you a dog about the house, marm?

Mrs. M. Yes, we have.

Woman in Black. Good gracious! he must be killed then! I shouldn’t see a bit of comfort if Freddie was where there was a dog. The last words my dear lamented husband said to me were these: “Mrs. Bunker, take care of Freddie.” Bunker’s my name, marm. Have you a cow?

Mrs. M. We have not.

Mrs. Bunker. How unfortunate! Well, I suppose you can buy one. Freddie depends so much on his new milk; and so do I. How many children have you?

Mrs. M. Three.

Mrs. B. Good gracious! what a host! I hope none of them have bad tempers, or use profane language. I wouldn’t have Freddie associate with them for the world if they did. He’s a perfect cherub in temper. My darling, don’t pull the cat’s tail! she may scratch you.

Mrs. M. You need not remain any longer, Mrs. Bunker. I do not wish to employ a maid with a child.

Mrs. B. Good heavens! (indignantly). Whoever saw such a hard-hearted wretch! Object to my darling Freddie! Did I ever expect to live to see the day when the offspring of my beloved Jeremiah would be treated in this way? I’ll not stay another moment in the house with such an unfeeling monster! Come, Freddie. (Goes out. MRS. MARSHALL closes the door and locks it.)

Mrs. M. Gracious! if this is the way of having a servant, I am satisfied. I’ll do my own work till the end of the chapter! There’s another ring; but I won’t answer it—not I. I’ll make believe I’m not at home. Ring away, if it’s any satisfaction to you! It doesn’t hurt me.

CLARA AUGUSTA.

THE UNWELCOME GUEST.

Characters:

MR. EDWARD SIMPSON. MRS. EMELINE SIMPSON, his wife. JOHN SIMPSON, his brother, and a guest. MR. MARTIN JONES. MRS. ELIZA JONES, his wife.

SCENE.—A room in Edward Simpson’s house. Mr. and Mrs. Simpson discovered.

Mrs. S. Edward, I may just as well say plainly that I think we must do something to get your brother off our hands. He has been here now over two weeks, and he stays and stays just as if this was his home, and as if he hadn’t the slightest idea of ever going away.

Mr. S. You are quite right, wife; we must get him away. I thought it possible, when he came here, that he had plenty of money; but that idea has vanished entirely. If he had money, he would not go around so shabbily dressed. He had the audacity to hint to me yesterday that I might buy him a new coat; just as if I hadn’t enough to do to buy new coats for myself and my children.

Mrs. S. Oh! the impudence of some people! I am sure we have done very well in keeping him these two weeks, and not charging him a cent for his boarding. And now he wants a new coat, does he? I wonder he didn’t ask for a full suit; he certainly has need of it; but he needn’t expect to get it here. But are you sure, Edward, that he didn’t bring any money home with him?

Mr. S. Yes, quite sure. I didn’t say anything to him about it, but John was never the man to go in rags if he had any money in his pocket. He has been away for fifteen years, you know, and he might have made plenty of money in that time; but it is my impression, that if he did make anything, he spent it all before he started for home.

Mrs. S. Well, what are we to do with him?

Mr. S. Send him to the poor-house, I suppose. I don’t quite like to do that, either; for people will talk, and they will say that I ought to have kept him in his old days.

Mrs. S. Let them talk. It’s nobody’s business but our own, and it will all blow over in a week or two. Of course we can’t have him on our hands as long as he lives, merely because the neighbors will talk a little about our sending him to the poor-house.

Mr. S. No, of course not. Here he comes now; we must inform him of our decision.

Enter JOHN SIMPSON, shabbily dressed.

Mr. S. John, we have been talking about you.

John. So I supposed. I thought I heard my name mentioned. You were considering that matter about the coat, were you? I hope you will think favorably of it.

Mrs. S. (bridling up.) No, sir; we were not thinking of buying you a coat, but we were speaking of your audacity in making such a request.

John. Ah! were you? Don’t you see I am old now, and dreadfully crippled with rheumatism? And, of course I am not able to work to buy myself clothes. If my brother will not take care of me now, who will?

Mrs. S. That’s just what we are going to talk about.

Mr. S. Wife, allow me to speak to John about the matter. (To John.) It may sound a little harsh and unpleasant, but we have come to the conclusion that we cannot keep you any longer. You know that we are not very well off in this world’s goods; we have not much house-room, and we have three children that demand our attention. We have kept you two weeks and we think we have done very well. We feel that you would be considerably in our road here, and we have concluded to send you to the poor-house.

John. The poor-house! I always did hate the poor-house. It must be so lonesome there; and then, I don’t think the boarding will be good. Must I go to the poor-house?

Mr. S. Yes, we have decided. We cannot keep you.

John. I thought, when I was away, that if I could only get home again, I would find my brother willing to take me under his roof, and allow me to end my days there. But I was mistaken. When must I go?

Mr. S. I will have the papers made out, and be ready to take you to-morrow afternoon.

John. Send for Eliza Jones and her husband. They will not want to keep me either, I suppose—how can I expect them, when they are a great deal poorer than you? But send for them. I want to see them, and say good-bye, before I go away.

Mrs. S. Emeline, tell Parker to run across Jones’ for his Uncle Martin and Aunt Eliza.

[Exit Mrs. S.

John. If they do not treat me well at the poor-house, what shall I do? Cut stick and run off, or sue them for breach of promise?

Mr. S. (aside.) It seems to me, he takes it exceedingly cool. But it is better he should do so, than to make a noise about it. (To John.) I think you will be well treated. The Superintendent is very kind to all under his care, and is considered a perfect gentleman.

John. A gentleman! I’m glad of that. (Sarcastically.) Ah! Edward, it is a great thing to be a gentleman.

Mr. S. I am glad you are willing to go without making any fuss about it. You know people will talk; and they would talk a great deal more, if you should be opposed to going. I hope you will not think unkindly of us, because we have concluded to take this step; you see that we can not well keep you here; and as you are getting old, and are greatly afflicted with rheumatism, you will be better attended to there than you could be here.

John. Yes, yes, I understand. Don’t fret about me, Edward. I suppose it isn’t much difference where I live, and where I end my days. But, Edward, I think I would not have treated you so. However, one hardly knows what one will do when one comes to the pinch. If I had brought home a market-basket full of ninety-dollar gold pieces, perhaps I would not have taken up so much room in your house, nor crowded your children so dreadfully.

Enter MRS. SIMPSON, and MR. and MRS. JONES.

Mrs. J. (running to John.) O John, my brother, they want to send you to the poor-house! You shall not go! you shall not go!

Mr. J. No, John, you shall not go. While we have a crust of bread, you shall share it with us.

John. But I never did like to eat crusts.

Mrs. S. That’s him, for you! He doesn’t want to pay anything for his board, but he wants to have the best.

John. And he doesn’t like to eat dirt.

Mrs. S. Do you mean to say I am a dirty cook?

John (whistles “Yankee Doodle.”) Come, if I am to go to the poor-house, let me be off.

Mrs. J. You shall not go. We are poor, but you shall stay with us. We can find room for you, and we will be provided for, I’ll warrant, some way.

Mrs. S. People oughtn’t to be rash about taking on a load they can’t carry.

Mr. S. Emeline, if Martin and Eliza want to keep John, let them do so; don’t say a word. Of course, I think they have quite enough to do to keep their own heads above water; but if they want to keep John, it is their own business.

John. Yes, it is their own business; and if they were on the point of sinking, would you raise a finger to keep their heads above water? No! Edward.—I cannot call you brother,—I know you now. I leave your house to-day, but I do not go to the poor-house. I have money enough to buy and keep a hundred such little farms as yours, and a hundred such little men. I do not need your coats nor your cringing sympathies; I wanted to know what kind of a man you were, and I know. When I came home, I determined to find out, in some way, whether you or the Jones family were most deserving of my money. I have found that out; and I go with them, to make my home there.

Mrs. S. But we didn’t know——

John. Ay, I know it. You thought I was a beggar; you thought I had no money and no clothes. If you had believed otherwise, you would have received me with open arms. Come (to Mr. and Mrs. Jones), we will go. I shall not forget you for your kindness. I will make my home with you; and if it is true that you have hard enough work to keep your heads above water it shall be so no longer. (To Mr. and Mrs. Simpson.) I had almost forgotten. Here are twenty dollars, for my two weeks’ board (throwing down the bills). You see that although I may have a shabby appearance, I am yet able to pay my way in the world. Good-day, Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. (Exit John Simpson, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones.)

Mrs. S. Isn’t this dreadful! (Rushes out at one side of the stage.)

Mr. S. Confound the luck! (Rushes out at the other side of the stage.)

[Curtain falls.

H. ELLIOT MCBRIDE.

AUNTY PUZZLED.

Characters:

PIOUS MAIDEN AUNT AND WAYWARD LITTLE GIRL, FIVE OR SIX YEARS OLD.

Aunt. Now, Beth, this is the Sabbath day, and—

Niece. How do you know it is?

A. It is wrong to play to-day, Beth—

N. Wrong to play what?

A. Anything.

N. Tain’t wrong to play Sunday-school. Didn’t you wish dat Carlo was me when you was whippin’ him, jest now, Aunt Dora?

A. Beth, I’ll tell you a beautiful story, the tender story of Joseph.

N. Joseph who?

A. He had no other name.

N. Well, dat’s funny.

A. Joseph was the son of a good old man, named Jacob—

N. I knows him, he saws our wood, an’ he’s dot a wooden leg! What was his last name?

A. I don’t know, dear.

N. Well, dat’s ze same man. Our Jacob he ain’t dot no ozzer name, either: des Jacob, old Jacob.

A. This good old man had twelve sons.

N. Any little girls?

A. Only one.

N. Huh! I dess she was mighty sorry wiz such a houseful of boys an’ no little sister.

A. Well, Jacob loved this son very much—

N. How much?

A. Oh, ever so much; more than he could tell.

N. Ten hundred thousand bushels?

A. Yes, and more than that. He bought him a new coat—

N. May Crawford’s dot a new dress, dray and blue, an’ pearl buttons on it, an’ a new parasol, and I’m doing to have some new button shoes as twick as I can kick zese ones out.

A. His father bought him a new coat, a beautiful coat of many colors—

N. Oh, ho! des like a bed quilt.

A. And Joseph was very proud of this pretty coat—

N. Huh! I bet you ze boys frowed stones an’ hollered at him if he wored it to school!

A. But his brothers, all of his older brothers, who—

N. Did he wear it to school, Aunt Dora?

A. No, I don’t think he did.

N. I dess he was afraid, and kept it for a Sunday coat. Did he wear it to Sunday school?

A. He didn’t go to one.

N. Den he was a heathen.

A. No, Joseph wasn’t a heathen.

N. Den he was a bad boy.

A. No, indeed; Joseph was a good boy—

N. Den why didn’t he go to Sunday-school?

A. No matter. But all his brothers hated him because his father loved him the best and—

N. I spect he always dot the biggest piece of pie.

A. And so they wanted to get rid of him, because—

N. Den why didn’t zey send him out in the kitchen to talk with Jenny? Dat’s what my ma’am does.

A. And they hated him all the more because one night, Joseph had a dream—

N. Oo-oo! I dreamed dot ze big Bible on ze parlor had five long legs and a mouf full of sharp teeth, an’ it climbed onto my bed and drowled at me ’cause I bit ze wax apple an’ tied gran’pa’s wig onto Carlo’s head last Sunday! Oh, I was so scared an’ I hollered an’ ma’am said she dessed I had ze nightmare.

A. Well, one day Joseph’s father sent him away to see how his brothers were getting along—

N. Why didn’t he write ’em a letter?

A. And when they saw Joseph coming they said—

N. Did he ride in ze cars?

A. No, he walked. And when his brothers saw him coming—

N. I dess they fought he was a tramp. I bet you Carlo would have bited his legs if he’d been zere.

A. No, they knew who he was, but they were bad, cruel, wicked men, and they took poor Joseph, who was so good, and who loved them all so well—

N. I see a boy climbing our fence! I dess he’s goin’ to steal our apples. Let’s go sic Carlo on him.

A. Poor Joseph, who was only a boy, just a little boy, who never did any one any harm; these great rough men seized him with fierce looks and angry words, and they were going to kill the frightened, helpless little youth, who cried and begged them so piteously not to hurt him; going to kill their own little brother—

N. Nellie Taylor has a little brother Jim, an’ she says she wishes somebody would kill him when he tears off her doll’s legs an’ frows her kittens in ze cistern.

A. But Joseph’s oldest brother pitied the little boy when he cried—

N. I dess he wanted some cake; I cry when I want cake, an’ mamma dives me some.

A. And as he wouldn’t let them kill him, they found a pit—

N. I like peach pits, an’ I know where I can find a great lot of ’em now. Come along.

A. No, let’s finish the story first. These bad men put Joseph in the pit—

N. Why—Aunt—Dora! What is you talking about?

A. About those cruel men who put Joseph into the pit—

N. I dess you mean zey put the pit into Joseph.

A. So there the poor little boy was, all alone in this deep, dark hole—

N. Why didn’t he climb out?

A. Because he couldn’t. The sides of the pit were rough, and it was very deep, deep as a well—

N. Ding-dong-dell, cat’s in ’e well; oh auntie, I know a nice story, ’bout a boy that felled into a cistern and climbed out on a ladder.

A. Poor Joseph was sitting in this pit—

N. Did he have a chair?

A. No, he was sitting on the ground, wishing—

N. I wish I was a bumble bee an’ could stand on my head like a boy, an’ have all ze honey I could eat.

A. But while Joseph was in the dark pit, frightened and crying all alone—

N. I bet he was afraid of ghosts!

A. While he was wondering if his cruel brothers were going to leave him in the dark pit, some merchants came along, and Joseph’s brothers took him out of the pit and sold him for a slave. Just think of it. Sold their little brother to be a slave in a country far away from his home, where he would have to work hard and where his cruel master would beat him; where—

N. What did zey get for him, Aunt Dora?

A. Twenty pieces of silver, and now—

N. Hump, dat was pitty cheap, but, I spec’ it was all that he was worth.

THE POOR LITTLE RICH BOY.

(Dialogue for two boys.)

Harry. (Enters room, tossing his hat on table where Roy sits studying.) “I tell you, Roy, I’m sorry for Harold Belmont!”

Roy. “Sorry for Harold Belmont! Why, I’d like to know? His father is the richest man in town. You know father has been working for him ever since we were born.”

Harry. “Yes, I know; but Harold don’t have half the nice times we do.”

Roy. “Well, I like that. Don’t he wear nicer clothes every day than we ever had for Sunday?”

Harry. “Yes, but they’re so nice his mother won’t let him roll on the grass, or go wading in the pond, or anything.”

Roy. “Well, did you ever notice what nice lemon pie and frosted cake he has in his lunch basket?”

Harry. “Yes, but he often wants to trade lunches with me.”

Roy. “But, Harry, he’s got a bicycle!”

Harry. “He told me yesterday that he would rather have a dog like our Rover that he could drive to a little wagon like ours.”

Roy. “But only think, Harry, of the hundreds and hundreds of books in his father’s library that he can read as much as he pleases! Why, if I had them, I’d be the happiest boy in the State. I wouldn’t waste a minute. I know just what books I’d read first—Dickens’ Child’s History of England, and—”

Harry. “O yes, Roy, but then he doesn’t care for books, like you, nor to be a carpenter, as I mean to be. He wants to be a farmer, and he says his father don’t mean to let him—wants Harold to be a banker, like himself; but those are not the things I was thinking of when I said I was sorry for him.”

Roy. “What was it?”

Harry. “Why, you know I made a little bird-house out of that cracker-box mother gave me; just a common little bird-house, without any paint or nice things about it, and set it up on a pole in the garden—”

Roy. “Yes, I know, and two families of blue-birds are living in it. What else?”

Harry. “Well, Harold begged his father to let him have a bird-house, and so Mr. Belmont got a man to make one—oh, a little beauty!—just like a little Swiss chalet, with porches and gables, and all painted so nicely, white with green trimmings and a dark brown roof, and the pole is striped red, white and blue, and they put it close to the big maple tree on the lawn. Oh, it was so nice I was almost ashamed of my poor little unpainted house—only the birds were building in it then, and it made me glad to see them so busy and happy. Harold was happy, too. He sat by the window for hours, watching for the birds to come to his house. But, Roy, none ever came! They were afraid of that beautiful house. I guess they thought it was a trap. Harold don’t sit by the window to watch it any more; that’s why I’m sorry for him.”

Roy. “Well, that is too bad; but I don’t know that we can help him. You couldn’t give him your little house, because it isn’t fine enough for his father’s lawn; besides, the blue-birds might object to moving.”

Harry. “Of course; but, Roy, don’t you believe he’d like to come over here and watch our birds feed their little ones? I never get tired of seeing them.”

Roy. “He might. Let’s go and ask him.”

(Both boys take their hats and pass out.)

MRS. ADRIAN KRAAL.

COLLOQUY.

AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT MATTER.

SCENE.—An office with a desk or table on which are an inkstand, a pile of ledgers and some extra sheets of paper. Mr. Pinchem, with gray wig and whiskers and spectacles sits in his office busily engaged in figuring up his accounts. He does not look up from his paper, but keeps on figuring while his clerk enters and takes a seat near the table in such a position as to both face the audience.

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I—I—

Mr. Pinchem. Have you got those goods off for Kalamazoo?

Clerk. Yes, sir, they are off. Mr. Pinchem, I—

Mr. P. And about that order for starch?

Clerk. That has been attended to, sir. Mr. Pinchem—

Mr. P. And that invoice of tea?

Clerk. That’s all right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have—

Mr. P. And that cargo of sugar?

Clerk. Taken care of as you directed, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long—

Mr. P. What about Bush & Bell’s consignment?

Clerk. Received in good order, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted—

Mr. P. And that shipment to Buffalo?

Clerk. All right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted to speak to you—

Mr. P. Ah! speak to me? Why, I thought you spoke to me fifty times a day.

Clerk. Yes, sir, I know, but this is a private matter.

Mr. P. Private? Oh! Ah! Wait till I see how much we made on the last ten thousand pounds of soap—Six times four are twenty-four; six times two are twelve and two to carry make fourteen; six times nought are nothing and one to carry makes one; six times five are thirty; seven times four—ah! well go ahead, I’ll finish this afterwards.

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I have been with you ten long years.—

Mr. P. Ten, eh! Long years, eh! any longer than any others years? Go ahead.

Clerk. And I have always tried to do my duty.

Mr. P. Have, eh? Go on.

Clerk. And I now make bold—

Mr. P. Hold on! What is there bold about it? But never mind, I’ll hear you out.

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask—ask—I want to ask—

Mr. P. Well, why don’t you ask, then? I don’t see why you don’t ask if you want to.

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask you for—for—

Mr. P. You want to ask me for the hand of my daughter. Ah! why didn’t you speak right out? She’s yours, my boy, take her and be happy. You might have had her two years ago if you had mentioned it. Go along, now, I’m busy. Seven times six are forty-two, seven times five are thirty-five and four are thirty-nine, seven times eight—

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem—

Mr. P. What! You here yet? Well, what is it?

Clerk. I want to ask you for—

Mr. P. Didn’t I give her to you, you rascal!

Clerk. Yes, but what I wanted to ask you for was not the hand of your daughter, but a raise of salary.

Mr. P. Oh! that was it, eh? Well, sir, that is an entirely different matter, and it requires time for serious thought and earnest deliberation. Return to your work. I’ll think about it, and some time next fall I’ll see about giving you a raise of a dollar or so a week. Seven times eight are fifty-six and three are fifty-nine—

THE GOSSIPS.

Characters.—MRS. PRY, MRS. QUICK, MRS. SEARCH, MRS. GOSSIP.

SCENE.—The Street. MRS. PRY, MRS. SEARCH and MRS. QUICK, meeting.

Mrs. Pry. Have you heard any news, neighbor Search?

Mrs. Search. News? no. I am dying to hear some. I have not heard a word since last night, and it is now almost noon.

Mrs. Quick. I have heard a piece of news as I came along, and you will hardly believe it, though I received it from a person of veracity, who was knowing to the fact, and therefore could not mistake.

Mrs. S. Pray let us have it. I hope it is nothing short of an elopement.

Mrs. P. I hope it is a murder, or, at least, a suicide. We have not had any news worth mentioning these two months.

Mrs. Q. It is neither an elopement nor a murder, but you may think it something akin to the latter. The truth is, there is a woman down in the village, and they will not allow her to be buried.

Mrs. S. You don’t say so?

Mrs. Q. I do. The coroner has positively refused to bury her.

Mrs. P. Do tell! What could the poor creature have done to be denied Christian burial?

Mrs. Q. I do not know what the offense was, but they say he has his reasons, and buried she shall not be.

Mrs. P. Where is she lying? I must go and inquire into it. Bless me, Mrs. Search, how could this happen and we not hear of it?

Mrs. S. Did you hear her name, Mrs. Quick? That may give us a clue to the mystery.

Mrs. Q. I did not learn her name, though, if I forget not, it began with a G, or some such letter. But I have a little errand up the street, and must leave you. In the meantime as we know so little of the circumstances, it will be prudent not to repeat what I have told you. Good morning. (She goes out).

Mrs. P. Did you ever hear anything so strange? One of two things is certain, she has either killed herself or been killed, and is reserved for examination.

Mrs. S. I don’t understand it so. Mrs. Quick seemed to insinuate that she had been lying a long time, and was not to be buried at all. But here comes Mrs. Gossip, and perhaps she can tell us all about it, as she comes fresh from the village.

Enter MRS. GOSSIP.

Mrs. P. Good morning, Mrs. Gossip.

Mrs. Gossip. Good morning, Mrs. Pry. How do you do, Mrs. Search?

Mrs. S. Pretty well, I thank you. How do you do?

Mrs. G. Indifferent, I’m much obliged to you. I’ve had a touch of hydrophoby, I believe they call it or something else.

Mrs. P. (to MRS. SEARCH aside). No new complaint. She always hated cold water. (aloud) How did the dreadful disease affect you, Mrs. G.? What dog bit you?

Mrs. G. Dog! what do you mean by a dog? The disease began with a cold in my head, and a sore throat, and—

Mrs. S. Oh, it was the influenza.

Mrs. G. So it was; I knew it was some outlandish name, and they all sound alike to me. For my part, I wish there was no foreign words.

Mrs. P. Mrs. Gossip, did you hear the particulars of the dreadful news in the village?

Mrs. G. No. What dreadful news? I have not heard nothing, good, bad, or indifferent.

Mrs. P. What! haven’t you heard of the woman in the village that they won’t bury?

Mrs. G. Not a word. Who is she? What’s her name?

Mrs. S. Her name begins with G, and as that begins your name, I hoped you would know something about it.

Mrs. G. Bless me! I never heard a syllable of it! Why don’t they bury the poor thing? I couldn’t refuse to bury even a dog.

Mrs. P. There is a suspicion of murder or suicide in the case.

Mrs. G. Well, they hang murderers and suicides, don’t they? What can be the matter? There is something very mysterious about it!

Mrs. S. I am dying to know all about it. Come, let’s all go down to the village, and probe the matter to the bottom. I dearly love to get hold of a mystery.

Mrs. P. I say, let us all go, and here is Mrs. Quick coming back. She will go with us, for she told us the news, and she is dying to learn the particulars.

Re-enter MRS. QUICK.

Mrs. Quick. Good morning again, ladies.

All. Good morning.

Mrs. G. What was the matter with that air woman that they won’t bury in the village?

Mrs. Q. Nothing is the matter with her.

Mrs. G. Then, in marcy’s name, why don’t they bury her?

Mrs. Q. I know of but one reason, but that is a very important one.

Mrs. P. We did not know you knew the reason they wouldn’t bury her. Why did you not tell us what it was?

Mrs. Q. You did not ask me, and, besides, it is somewhat of a secret.

Mrs. S. You need not fear our disclosing it. Pray let us have it.

Mrs. P. Pray do. I am bursting with curiosity.

Mrs. G. And I too. Mrs. Quick, you say there is but one reason why they will not bury the woman, and pray what is that?

Mrs. P. What is it?

Mrs. S. Yes, what is it?

All (earnestly). What is it?

Mrs. Q. She is not dead!

FARMER HANKS WANTS A DIVORCE.

(For two males and one female.)

Characters.—LAWYER PORTER; FARMER HANKS; MRS. HANKS.

SCENE.—Lawyer’s office. LAWYER PORTER sitting at desk writing. Knock at door.

(Enter FARMER HANKS in rustic attire, looking hesitatingly around.)

Farmer Hanks. Be you the divorce man?

Lawyer Porter. (Smiling.) Well, I don’t exactly know that my vocation lies particularly in that direction, but I have been known to undertake such cases. Are you in trouble?

Far. H. I should rather say so! It’s come to jest this ’ere climax that I can’t stand it nohow, not another day; an’ ef you can’t git me unspliced, I’ll hev to find some one who can.

Law. P. What are your grounds for complaint?

Far. H. Grounds! Ordinary grounds wouldn’t hold ’em! I’ve a hull farm full!

Law. P. One or two are just as efficient in procuring a divorce as a hundred, providing the offence is grave enough. Your wife now, for instance; I suppose she hasn’t fallen in love with another man?

Far. H. Haw-haw! That’s a good ’un! Betsey in love with another feller! Wal, hardly, mister! Betsey isn’t no fool. You can bet high on that!

Law. P. Of course that was a suppositional case, merely. Is she a scandal-monger?

Far. H. Scandal-monger? Not much; ef ever a woman knew how to hold her tongue when other folks’s is a-waggin’, that’s Betsey every time.

Law. P. Cruel to her children, possibly?

Far. H. I swow, I’ll begin to take you fer the fool, mister. Our children is growed up an’ in homes of the’r own, years back; an’ ez fer gran’children, ef ever an old woman made an idjit of herself over babies, it’s Betsey with them thar youngsters. She jest sp’iles them no end, an’ thar’s nobudy they sets such store by as gran’ma. You hain’t on the right track, by long odds.

Law. P. Evidently not. Suppose now, as my time is valuable, we reverse the case, and you enlighten me as to the cause of your unhappiness, instead of my wasting the minutes in making conjectures? Perhaps incompatibility of temper may cover the ground.

Far. H. In—com—what kind of temper? You beat me with them long words o’ yourn; but, mebbe you’ve struck it, this time. Thar’s no use talking, but Betsey’s that aggervatin’, she riles me so it seems like as though I’d bu’st! Ef she’d ever say a word I could stand it; but she’s that mum you can’t get a word out o’ her edgewise; you’d say, for sartain, thet she’d b’en born deaf, an’ without a tongue in her mouth.

Law. H. A woman and dumb? Ye gods! This is a reversal of the laws of nature with a vengeance! Do you mean for me to understand that your wife never speaks? How can she conduct her household?

Far. H. Oh, she’s chipper enough when things goes to suit; but when I’m r’iled, an’ dyin’ to see the fur fly—to hev it out with some one—then she’s mummer than the side o’ a house; ye couldn’t git a word out o’ her then with a pair o’ oxen! Ef she’d only spit it out, too, an’ hev a good out en out settlin’ o’ matters, ’twould clear the air like a thunder-storm; but thet’s exactly whar the pinch comes. I might r’are an’ tear, an’ pull the house down over our heads, fer all the good ’twould do—thet woman would set as calm es a cucumber, or go about her chores, an’ you’d never guess she knew I was within a hundred miles o’ her! Either she hain’t got an atom o’ sense in her git up, or else she’s too dumb to show it at sech times. It’s enough to drive a man into fits, an’ I can’t go it no longer. It’s either her or me that’s got to git out! I’m willin’ to do my duty to the letter, an’ give her a share in the old farm. I wouldn’t see her want for nothin’, fer in spite o’ her tongue—

Law. P. I rather think you mean her want of tongue!

Far. H. Jest so! There isn’t a kinder or willin’er woman in the section.

Law. P. Suppose, now, that we sum up: your wife, according to your statements, is a good, pure woman—

Far. H. That she is, lawyer! I’d like to hear any one say a thing against Betsey’s character! I’d choke the life out ov him!

Law. P. Fond of her children and grandchildren; don’t gossip; domestic in her tastes—Does she keep your house in order, your clothes mended, your wants all attended to, and give you your meals on time!

Far. H. Why, of course! Thet’s what a wife’s fer, isn’t she? What a question to ax!

Law. P. You acknowledge all this. Now, supposing, on the contrary, that your wife was a shrew.

Far. H. (Bewildered.) A which?

Law. P. A cross, scolding woman; a woman who left her own fireside to gossip and make scandal among her neighbors; who neglected her home; who got your meals at all or no times and let you look out for yourself; who abused the little children around her; who—

Far. H. Stop, mister! Betsey couldn’t do none o’ them things. Why, you’d make her out a pretty sort o’ critter for me to hev been livin’ with these forty years!

Law. P. No, Betsey couldn’t do all or any of these things. From your own story you have a saint instead of an ordinary woman for a wife; a being who knows that essence of all true happiness—how to hold her tongue; who, instead of lowering herself to petty quarrels and commonplace bickerings, keeps her temper within bounds while you are purposely doing all you possibly can to aggravate her—to make her dislike you—to—

Far. H. (Shamefacedly.) Sho! You air trying to make out a purty strong case against me, ain’t you now? I never looked at it in jest that light before, an’ you can’t tell how a few words now an’ then would splice up things in general.

Law. P. If your wife were to come to me and demand a divorce, after what you have told me, I should be strongly tempted to take up her case.

Far. H. Betsey git a divorce from me! Thet’s the best yet! Well, I should as soon think o’ the sky falling. (Knock at door, voice outside asking if LAWYER PORTER is in.) I’ll be everlastin’ly simmered, ef thet don’t sound like Betsey’s voice this actual minute! Whar’ll I go? I don’t want to be found around these parts; but, what in the name o’ conscience kin she want with you, now? (Glares, at the lawyer, who takes him by the shoulder and leads him up to closet door or behind a screen.)

Law. P. Step into this cover, and be quick about it. You’ll soon ascertain what your wife wants of me. And remember, this is a private interview which you are not to interrupt (FARMER HANKS disappears, and the lawyer goes to door.)

(Enter MRS HANKS, hesitatingly.)

Law. P. Good morning, madame! What can I do for you? Let me give you a chair. (Seats her with back to closet or screen. FARMER H. pokes his head out.)

Far. H. I’ll be durned but it is Betsey! (Comes half out into room, but LAWYER P. scowls and motions him back. MRS. HANKS sits silent.)

Law. P. (Kindly.) Well, madame, you want—

Mrs. Hanks. (In a half whisper.) I want, or I guess I want a bill of divorce. (FARMER HANKS’S face pops out again, with an expression of bewilderment and horror upon it.)

Law. P. Your husband is addicted to the excessive use of liquor, maybe? (FARMER H. shakes his fist at the lawyer.)

Mrs. H. Good gracious, no! Samuel never took too much liquor in his life, to my knowledge.

Law. P. Then, perhaps, he is violent, and cruel to you and the children?

Mrs. H. Mercy, no! Whatever made you think of sech a thing! Samuel wouldn’t hurt a fly; he’s the softest-hearted man in the world; it isn’t that—it’s only—only—

Law. P. Well, you must try to tell me your difficulty, or I will be unable to help you.

Mrs. H. (Bursting into tears.) It’s so hard to tell, yet it’s so hard to bear. It seems jest as if I’d go wild ef I had it to stand another day. Yet except fer this one thing Samuel’s the best husband a woman could ask fer. He is perfect temperate in all his habits, liberal an’ open-handed as the day is long, an’ as kind an’ considerate as any one could wish fer. (FARMER H. looks out at the lawyer exultingly.) But—but—

Law. P. But what?

Mrs. H. Oh, those dreadful tantrums of his’n! They come on without any apparent reason at all, an’ he’s like to a crazy man.

Law. P. And you oppose him and aggravate him when he gets in these moods, possibly?

Mrs. H. (Sadly.) Oh, no! What good would that do? or rather, what harm wouldn’t it do? I jest stand them as best I may, an’ pray the Good Power above for strength to hold my tongue, an’ bear the affliction which he has seen fit to visit me with. (FARMER H. looks out again with an incredulous, shamefaced expression, and seems about to speak, but the lawyer motions him back.)

Law. P. And you say absolutely nothing?

Mrs. H. I never hev given way to my tongue yet; ef I once should, or to the feelin’ that he rouses in me at sech times, I almost think I should strike him. (FARMER H. again advances, but is motioned back.)

LAW. P. Wouldn’t that serve him right?

Mrs. H. (Surprised.) Strike Samuel? I’d never forgive myself ef I did. Yet, it is so hard; you can’t tell! It really seems as ef the harder I tried to hold my tongue an’ keep the peace, the worse he got, until sometimes I ’most think he’d like to kill me!

Law. P. Oh, surely not! His wicked temper would not, or could not, carry itself to such an extent against such an angel of peace. But, I cannot find words to express my opinion of such a brute. I cannot find strong enough terms to convey my condemnation. A man who will seek willfully to quarrel with a wife who is gentleness and meekness itself, to say nothing of the other cardinal virtues, is a selfish heartless piece of humanity, unworthy of the name of man, and deserves nothing better than the public whipping-post, which, unhappily—

Mrs. H. Stop! I will not allow you to speak of Samuel in such a manner! He may hev his little faults as all men do—

Far. H. (Rushing out). Yes, let him say every durned thing he kin of me, Betsey! I deserve it all, an’ a hundred times more—(Mrs. Hanks gives a scream and almost sinks to the floor, but her husband catches her)—when I think of what a howlin’ idjit I’ve b’en all these years. The whippin’-post ain’t half severe enough.

Mrs. H. Oh, you never was that, Samuel!

Far. H. Yes I was, an’ be, up to this very minute; but I be goin’ to make a clean breast of it or bu’st. Here I hev b’en thinkin’ an’ sayin’ that you didn’t quarrel with me nor answer me back, because ye didn’t know enough—

Mrs. H. Oh, Samuel, how could you?

Far. H. An’ thet you was a perfect fool, with no spunk in ye, an’ here you’ve b’en with the spunk all bottled up, an’ never darin’ to let her loose for fear o’ makin’ me wuss, an’ doin’ wrong yourself! Oh! I’m the wickedest kind of a sinner, Betsey. (Groans). I don’t wonder you want to git a bill ag’inst me; an’ this here lawyer’ll be sure to git ye one, as he sees you deserve it fast enough, an’ I don’t blame neither o’ ye.

Mrs. H. But I don’t want it, Samuel. Now you see jest how it is, an’ that I never allowed to r’ile you, I’m sure ’twill all be right. (Turning to Lawyer P). An’ you won’t let what I’ve said turn you ag’inst him, will you? You can see for yourself that he never could hev meant it.

Law. P. And he never was such a man as he proves at this very time when he humbles himself to confess how wrong he has been, and acknowledges the true worth of his devoted wife whom he has so long misjudged or misunderstood.

Far. H. You’re right thar, Lawyer Porter. I can’t find the words to tell what a blamed fool I’ve been; yet, ef you’ll believe it, I feel lighter o’ heart this blessed minute than I hev in a month o’ Sundays before. An’ to think that an hour ago I was actually hankerin’ after a bill ag’in ye, Betsey! I don’t desarve ye should forgive me, like this, but I give ye my word o’ honor that the next time a tantrum strikes me I’ll hev it out down in the meddar with that old Jersey bull o’ mine.

(Curtain falls.)

TAKING THE CENSUS.

Characters:

INQUISITOR. A Patient Man, with pen, ink and a large sheet of paper, engaged in taking the census.

MRS. TOUCHWOOD. An old lady in frilled cap and set-sprig apron, engaged in giving it.

SCENE.—A house in the country. MRS. TOUCHWOOD at a wash-tub hard at work.

Enter INQUISITOR.

Inquisitor. Good morning, madam. Is the head of the family at home?

Mrs. Touchwood. Yes, sir, I’m at home.

Inq. Haven’t you a husband?

Mrs. T. Yes, sir, but he ain’t the head of the family, I’d have you to know.

Inq. How many persons have you in your family?

Mrs. T. Why, bless me, sir, what’s that to you? You’re mighty inquisitive, I think.

Inq. I’m the man that takes the census.

Mrs. T. If you was a man in your senses you wouldn’t ask such impertinent questions.

Inq. Don’t be offended, old lady, but answer my questions as I ask them.

Mrs. T. “Answer a fool according to his folly!”—you know what the Scripture says. Old lady, indeed!

Inq. Beg your pardon, madam; but I don’t care about hearing Scripture just at this moment I’m bound to go according to law and not according to gospel.

Mrs. T. I should think you went neither according to law nor gospel. What business is it to you to inquire into folks’ affairs, Mr. Thingumbob?

Inq. The law makes it my business, good woman, and if you don’t want to expose yourself to its penalties, you must answer my questions.

Mrs. T. Oh, it’s the law, is it? That alters the case. But I should like to know what the law has to do with other people’s household matters?

Inq. Why, Congress made the law, and if it don’t please you, you must talk to them about it.

Mrs. T. Talk to a fiddle-stick! Why, Congress is a fool, and you’re another.

Inq. Now, good lady, you’re a fine, good-looking woman; if you’ll give me a few civil answers I’ll thank you. What I wish to know first is, how many are there in your family?

Mrs. T. Let me see [counting on her fingers]; there’s I and my husband is one——

Inq. Two, you mean.

Mrs. T. Don’t put me out, now, Mr. Thinkummy. There’s I and my husband is one——

Inq. Are you always one?

Mrs. T. What’s that to you, I should like to know. But I tell you, if you don’t leave off interrupting me I won’t say another word.

Inq. Well, take your own way, and be hanged to you.

Mrs. T. I will take my own way, and no thanks to you. [Again counting her fingers.] There’s I and my husband is one; there’s John, he’s two; Peter is three, Sue and Moll are four, and Thomas is five. And then there’s Mr. Jenkins and his wife and the two children is six; and there’s Jowler, he’s seven.

Inq. Jowler! Who’s he?

Mrs. T. Who’s Jowler! Why, who should he be but the old house dog?

Inq. It’s the number of persons I want to know.

Mrs. T. Very well, Mr. Flippergin, ain’t Jowler a person? Come here, Jowler, and speak for yourself. I’m sure he’s as personable a dog as there is in the whole State.

Inq. He’s a very clever dog, no doubt. But it’s the number of human beings I want to know.

Mrs. T. Human! There ain’t a more human dog that ever breathed.

Inq. Well, but I mean the two-legged kind of beings.

Mrs. T. Oh, the two-legged, is it? Well, then, there’s the old rooster, he’s seven; the fighting-cock is eight, and the bantam is nine——

Inq. Stop, stop, good woman, I don’t want to know the number of your fowls.

Mrs. T. I’m very sorry indeed, I can’t please you, such a sweet gentleman as you are. But didn’t you tell me—’twas the two-legged beings——

Inq. True, but I didn’t mean the hens.

Mrs. T. Oh, now I understand you. The old gobbler, he’s seven, the hen turkey is eight; and if you’ll wait a week there’ll be a parcel of young ones, for the old hen turkey is setting on a whole snarl of eggs.

Inq. Blast your turkeys!

Mrs. T. Oh, don’t now, good Mr. Hipper-stitcher, I pray you don’t. They’re as honest turkeys as any in the country.

Inq. Don’t vex me any more. I’m getting to be angry.

Mrs. T. Ha! ha! ha!

Inq. [striding about the room in a rage.] Have a care, madam, or I shall fly out of my skin.

Mrs T. If you do, I don’t know who will fly in.

Inq. You do all you can to anger me. It’s the two-legged creatures who talk I have reference to.

Mrs. T. Oh, now I understand you. Well then, our Poll Parrot makes seven and the black gal eight.

Inq. I see you will have your own way.

Mrs. T. You have just found out, have you! You are a smart little man!

Inq. Have you mentioned the whole of your family?

Mrs. T. Yes, that’s the whole—except the wooden-headed man in front.

Inq. Wooden-headed?

Mrs. T. Yes, the schoolmaster what’s boarding here.

Inq. I suppose if he has a wooden head he lives without eating, and therefore must be a profitable boarder.

Mrs. T. Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken there. He eats like a leather judgment.

Inq. How many servants are there in the family?

Mrs. T. Servants! Why, there’s no servants but me and my husband.

Inq. What makes you and your husband servants?

Mrs. T. I’m a servant to hard work, and he is a servant to rum. He does nothing all day but guzzle, guzzle, guzzle; while I’m working, and stewing, and sweating from morning till night, and from night till morning.

Inq. How many colored persons have you?

Mrs. T. There’s nobody but Dinah, the black girl, Poll Parrot and my daughter Sue.

Inq. Is your daughter a colored girl?

Mrs. T. I guess you’d think so if you was to see her. She’s always out in the sun—and she’s tanned up as black as an Indian.

Inq. How many white males are there in your family under ten years of age?

Mrs. T. Why, there ain’t none now; my husband don’t carry the mail since he’s taken to drink so bad. He used to carry two, but they wasn’t white.

Inq. You mistake, good woman; I meant male folks, not leather mails.

Mrs. T. Let me see; there’s none except little Thomas, and Mr. Jenkins’ two little girls.

Inq. Males, I said, madam, not females.

Mrs. T. Well, if you don’t like them, you may leave them off.

Inq. How many white males are there between ten and twenty?

Mrs. T. Why, there’s nobody but John and Peter, and John ran away last week.

Inq. How many white males are there between twenty and thirty?

Mrs. T. Let me see—there’s the wooden-headed man is one, Mr. Jenkins and his wife is two, and the black girl is three.

Inq. No more of your nonsense, old lady; I’m heartily tired of it.

Mrs. T. Hoity toity! Haven’t I a right to talk as I please in my own house?

Inq. You must answer the questions as I put them.

Mrs. T. “Answer a fool according to his folly”—you’re right, Mr. Hippogriff.

Inq. How many white males are there between thirty and forty?

Mrs. T. Why, there’s nobody but I and my husband—and he was forty-one last March.

Inq. As you count yourself among the males, I dare say you wear the breeches.

Mrs. T. Well, what if I do, Mr. Impertinence? Is that anything to you? Mind your own business, if you please.

Inq. Certainly—I did but speak. How many white males are there between forty and fifty?

Mrs. T. None.

Inq. How many between fifty and sixty?

Mrs. T. None.

Inq. Are there any between this and a hundred?

Mrs. T. None except the old gentleman.

Inq. What old gentleman? You haven’t mentioned any before.

Mrs. T. Why, gramther Grayling—I thought everybody knew gramther Grayling—he’s a hundred and two years old next August, if he lives so long—and I dare say he will, for he’s got the dry wilt, and they say such folks never dies.

Inq. Now give the number of deaf and dumb persons.

Mrs. T. Why, there is no deaf persons, excepting husband, and he ain’t so deaf as he pretends to be. When anybody axes him to take a drink of rum, if it’s only in a whisper, he can hear quick enough. But if I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he’s as deaf as a horse-block.

Inq. How many dumb persons?

Mrs. T. Dumb! Why, there’s no dumb body in the house, except the wooden-headed man, and he never speaks unless he’s spoken to. To be sure, my husband wishes I was dumb, but he can’t make it out.

Inq. Are there any manufactures carried on here?

Mrs. T. None to speak on, except turnip sausages and tow cloth.

Inq. Turnip-sausages!

Mrs. T. Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there anything so wonderful in that?

Inq. I never heard of them before. What kind of machinery is used in making them?

Mrs. T. Nothing but a bread-trough, a chopping-knife and a sausage filler.

Inq. Are they made of clear turnips?

Mrs. T. Now you’re terrible inquisitive. What would you give to know?

Inq. I’ll give you the name of being the most communicative and pleasant woman I’ve met with for the last half-hour.

Mrs. T. Well, now, you’re a sweet gentleman, and I must gratify you. You must know we mix with the turnip a little red cloth, just enough to give them a color, so they needn’t look as if they were made of clear fat meat; then we chop them up well together, put in a little sage, summer savory, and black pepper; and they make as pretty little delicate links as ever was set on a gentleman’s table; they fetch the highest price in the market.

Inq. Indeed! Have you a piano in the house?

Mrs. T. A piany! What’s that?

Inq. A musical instrument.

Mrs. T. Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down at the Corners, has one—you see. Sary got all highfalutin about the great Colushun down to Bosting, and down she went; an’ when she came back the old man got no rest until she had one of the big square music boxes with white teeth—’spose that’s what you call a piany.

Inq. You seem to know what it is, then.

Mrs. T. Yes, sir. Have you anything more to ax?

Inq. Nothing more. Good morning, madam.

Mrs. T. Stop a moment; can’t you think of something else? Do now, that’s a good man. Wouldn’t you like to know what we’re a-going to have for dinner; or how many chickens our old white hen hatched at her last brood; or how many—

Inq. Nothing more—nothing more.

Mrs. T. Here, just look in the cupboard, and see how many red ants there are in the sugar-bowl; I haven’t time to count them myself.

Inq. Confound your ants and all your relations.

[Exit in a huff.

ELDER SNIFFLES’ COURTSHIP

Characters.

WIDOW BEDOTT, ELDER SNIFFLES, In Character.

The widow retires to the grove in the rear of ELDER SNIFFLES’ house, sits down on a log and sings in a plaintive voice.

Widow Bedott.

What peaceful hours I once enjoyed, All on a summer’s day! But O, my comfort was destroyed, When Shadrack crossed my way!

I heerd him preach—I heerd him pray— I heerd him sweetly sing; Dear suz! how I did feel that day! It was a drefful thing!

Full forty dollars would I give If we’d continnerd apart— For though he’s made my sperrit live He’s surely bust my heart!

She sighs profoundly, and the ELDER advances unexpectedly.

W. B. Good gracious! is that you, Elder Sniffles! how you did scare me! Never was so flustrated in all the days o’ my life! hadn’t the remotest idee o’ meeting you here—would’t a come for forty dollars if I’d a s’posed you ever meander’d here. I never was here afore—but was settin’ by my winder and I cast my eyes over here, and as I observed the lofty trees a wavin’ in the gentle blast, and heerd the feathered songsters a wobblin’ their mellancolly music, I felt quite a call to come over; it’s so retired and morantic—such an approbriate place to marvel round in, ye know, when a body feels low-sperrited and unconsolable, as I dew to-night. O, d-e-a-r!

E. S. Most worthy Mrs. Bedott, your evident depression fills me with unmitigated sympathy. Your feelings (if I may be permitted to judge from the language of your song, which I overheard)——

W. B. You didn’t though, Elder! the drefful suz! what shall I dew! I wouldn’t a had you heerd that song for no money! I wish I hadn’t a come! I wish to gracious I hadn’t a come!

E. S. I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, it was unintentional on my part, entirely unintentional, but my contiguity to yourself and your proximity to me were such as rendered it impossible for me to avoid hearing you—

W. B. Well, it can’t be helped now; it’s no use crying for spilt milk, but I wouldn’t have you to think I know’d you ever came here.

E. S. On the contrary, this grove is a favorite resort of mine; it affords a congenial retreat after the exterminating and tremendous mental labors of the day. I not unfrequently spend the declining hours of the evening here, buried in the most profound meditations. On your entrance I was occupying my customary seat beneath that umbrageous mounting ash which you perceive a few feet from you; indeed, had not your mind been much pre-occupied you could scarcely have avoided discovering me.

W. B. Oh, granf’ther grievous! I wish I’d staid to hum! I was born for misfortin’ and nothin’ else! I wish to massy I’d staid to hum to-night! but I felt as if I’d like to come here once afore I leave the place. [She weeps.]

E. S. Ah! indeed! do you project leaving Scrabble Hill?

W. B. Yes, I dew; I calklate to go next week. I must hear you preach once more—once more, Elder, and then I’m gwine—somewhere—I don’t care where, nor I don’t care what becomes o’ me when I git there. [She sobs violently.]

E. S. O, Mrs. Bedott, you distress me beyond limitation—permit me to inquire the cause of this uncontrollable agony?

W. B. O, Elder Sniffles, you’re the last indiwidual that ought to ax such a question. O, I shall die! I shall give it up!

E. S. Madame, my interest in your welfare is intense; allow me to entreat you still more vehemently to unburden your mind; perhaps it is in my power to relieve you.

W. B. Relieve me! what an idee! O, Elder, you will be the death o’ me if you make me revulge my feelings so. An hour ago I felt as if I’d a died afore I’d a said what I hev said now, but you’ve draw’d it out o’ me.

E. S. Respected madame, you have as yet promulgated nothing satisfactory; permit me——

W. B. O, granf’ther grievous! must I come to’t? Well, then, if I must, I must, so to begin at the beginnin’. When I fust heern you preach, your sarmons onsettled my faith; but after a spell I was convinced by yer argefyin’, and gin up my ’roneus notions, and my mind got considerably carm. But how could I set Sabberday after Sabberday under the droppin’s o’ yer voice, and not begin to feel a mor’n ordinary interest in the speaker? I indevored not tew, but I couldn’t help it; ’twas in vain to struggle against the feelin’s that prepossest my buzzom. But it’s all over with me now! my felicitude is at an end! my sittiwation is hopeless! I shall go back to Wiggleton next week, and never truble you no more.

E. S. Ah, Mrs. Bedott, you alarm——

W. B. Yes, you never’ll see no more truble with Prissilly. I’m agwine back to Wiggleton. Can’t bear to go back thar, nother, on account o’ the indiwidduals that I come away to git rid of. There’s Cappen Canoot, he’s always been after me ever since my husband died, though I hain’t never gin him no incurridgement—but he won’t take no for an answer. I dread the critter’s attentions. And ’Squire Bailey—he’s wonderful rich—but that ain’t no recommendation to me, and I’ve told him so time and agin, but I s’pose he thinks I’ll come round bumby. And Deacon Crosby, he lost his partner a spell afore I come away; he was very much pleased with me; he’s a wonderful fine man—make a fust-rate husband. I kind o’ hesitated when he promulgated his sentiments tew me, told him I’d think on’t till I cum back—s’pose he’ll be at me as soon as I git there. I hate to disappoint Deacon Crosby, he’s such a fine man, and my dezeased companion sot so much by him, but then I don’t feel for him as I dew for——. He’s a Presbyterian, tew, and I don’t think ’twould be right to unite my destination to hisen.

E. S. Undoubtedly in your present state of feeling, the uncongeniality would render a union——

W. B. O, dear, dear, dear! I can’t bear to go back there and indure their attentions, but, thank fortune, they won’t bother me long—I shall go into a decline, I know I shall, as well as I want to know it. My trubles’ll soon be over—undoubtedly they’ll put up a monnyment to my memory—I’ve got the description all ready for it—it says:

Here sleeps Prissilly P. Bedott, Late relic of Hezekier, How mellancolly was her lot! How soon she did expire!

She didn’t commit self-suicide, ’Twas tribbilation killed her; O, what a pity she hadn’t a died Afore she saw the elder!

And O, Elder, you’ll visit my grave, won’t ye, and shed tew or three tears over it? ’Twould be a consolation tew me tew think you would.

E. S. In case I should ever have occasion to journey through that section of the country, and could consistently with my arrangements make it convenient to tarry for a short time at Wiggleton, I assure you it would afford me much pleasure to visit your grave, agreeably to your request.

W. B. O, Elder, how onfeelin’!

E. S. Unfeeling! did I not understand you correctly when I understood you to request me to visit your grave?

W. B. Yes, but I don’t see how you could be so carm, when I’m talkin’ about dyin’.

E. S. I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, I had not the slightest intention of manifesting a want of feeling in my remark. I should regard your demise as a most deplorable event, and it would afford me no small degree of satisfaction to prevent so melancholy a catastrophe were it in my power.

W. B. Well, I guess I’ll go hum. If Sally should know you was here a talkin’ with me, she’d make an awful fuss.

E. S. Indeed I see no reason to fear that my domestic should interfere in any of my proceedings.

W. B. O, lawful sakes! how numb you be, elder! I didn’t allude to Sal Blake—I meant Sal Hugle. She’t you’re ingaged tew.

E. S. Engaged to Miss Hugle! You alarm me, Mrs. Be——

W. B. Now don’t undertake to deny it, Elder; everybody says it’s a fact.

E. S. Well, then, it only remains for me to assert that everybody is laboring under an entire and unmitigated mistake.

W. B. You don’t say so, Elder! Well, I declare, I do feel relieved. I couldn’t endure the idea o’ stayin’ here to see that match go off. She’s so onworthy—so different from what your companion had ort to be—and so lazy—and makes such awful poitry; and then she hain’t worth a cent in the world. But I don’t want to say a word against her; for, if you ain’t ingaged now, mabby you will be. O, Elder! promise me, dew promise me now’t you won’t marry that critter. ’Twould be a consolation to me when I’m far away on my dyin’ bed to know—[She weeps with renewed energy.] O, Elder, I’m afeared I’m a gwine to have the highsterics. I’m subjick to spasmotic affections when I’m excited and overcome.

E. S. You alarm me, Mrs. Bedott! I will hasten to the house and bring the sal volatile, which may restore you.

W. B. For the land’s sake, Elder, don’t go after Sal; she can’t dew nothin’ for me. It’ll only make talk, for she’ll tell it all round the village. Jest take that ar newspaper that sticks out o’ yer pocket, and fan me with it a leetle. There, I feel quite resusticated. I’m obliged tew ye; guess I can manage to get hum now. [She rises.] Farwell, Elder Sniffles! adoo! we part to meet no more!

E. S. Ah, Mrs. Bedott! do not speak in that mournful strain; you distress me beyond all mitigation. [He takes her hand.] Pray reseat yourself, and allow me to prolong the conversation for a short period. As I before observed, your language distresses me beyond all duration.

W. B. Dew you actually feel distressed at the idee o’ partin’ with me?

E. S. Most indubitably, Mrs. Bedott.

W. B. Well, then, what’s the use o’ partin’ at all? O, what have I said? what have I said?

E. S. Ahem—ahaw, allow me to inquire—are you in easy circumstances, Mrs. Bedott?

W. B. Well, not entirely yet, though I feel considerable easier’n what I did an hour ago.

E. S. Ahem! I imagine that you do not fully apprehend my meaning. I am a clergyman, a laborer in the vineyard of the Lord—as such you will readily understand I cannot be supposed to abound in the filthy lucre of this world; my remuneration is small—hence——

W. B. O, Elder, how can you s’pose I’d hesitate on account o’ your bein’ poor? Don’t think on’t—it only increases my opinion of you; money ain’t no objick to me.

E. S. I naturally infer from your indifference respecting the amount of my worldly possessions that you yourself have——

W. B. Don’t be oneasy, Elder, dear—don’t illude tew it again; depend on’t you’re jest as dear tew me, every bit and grain, as you would be if you owned all the mines in Ingy.

E. S. I will say no more about it.

W. B. So I s’pose we’re ingaged.

E. S. Undoubtedly.

W. B. We’re ingaged, and my tribbilation is at an end. [Her head drops on his shoulder.] O, Shadrack! what will Hugelina say when she hears on’t?

FRANCIS M. WHITCHER.

THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT.

Characters.—_MARY COLE; GRANDMOTHER COLE, who is very deaf; JACK COLE; AUNT MARTHA GORDON; CYRUS GORDON._

SCENE I.—The sitting-room of the COLE family. MARY reading a newspaper. GRANDMOTHER COLE knitting. AUNT MARTHA crocheting. JACK playing with the balls in AUNT MARTHA’S work-basket.

Mary Cole. Oh, Aunt Martha! only hear this! it’s in the Chronicle. What a splendid chance! I declare, I’ve a great mind to answer it myself!

Aunt M. What have you got hold of now? You’re allez a-making some powerful diskivery somewheres. What now? Something to turn gray eyes black, and blue eyes gray?

Mary. No; it’s a matrimonial advertisement. What a splendid fellow this “C. G.” must be!

Aunt M. Oh, shaw! A body must be dreadfully put to it, to advertise for a pardner in the newspapers. Thank goodness! I never got in such a strait as that ’er. The Lord has marcyfully kept me thus fur from having any dealings with the male sect, and I trust I shall be presarved to the end.

Jack Cole. Didn’t you ever have an offer, Aunt Mattie?

Aunt M. (indignantly.) Why, Jack Cole! What an idee! I’ve had more chances to change my condition than you’ve got fingers and toes. But I refused ’em all. A single life is the only way to be happy. But it did kinder hurt my feelings to send some of my sparks adrift—they took it so hard. There was Colonel Turner. He lost his wife in June, and the last of August he come over to our ’ouse, and I gave him to understand that he needn’t trouble himself; and he felt so mad that he went rite off and married the Widder Hopkins afore the month was out.

Jack. Poor fellow! How he must have felt! And, Aunt Mattie, I notice that Deacon Goodrich looks at you a great deal in meeting, since you’ve got that pink feather on your bonnet. What if he should want you to be a mother to his ten little ones?

Aunt M. (simpering). Law, Jack Cole! What a dreadful boy you be! (pinches his ear.) The deacon never thought of such a thing! But if it should please Providence to appoint to me such a fate, I should try and be resigned.

Granny Cole. Resigned? Who’s resigned? Not the President, has he? Well, I don’t blame him. I’d resign, too, if I was into his place. Nothing spiles a man’s character so quick as being President or Congress. Yer gran’father got in justice of the peace and chorus, once, and he resigned afore he was elected. Sed he didn’t want his repetition spiled.

Jack. Three cheers for Gran’father Cole!

Granny C. Cheers? What’s the matter with the cheers, now? Yer father had them bottomed last year, and this year they were new painted. What’s to pay with ’em now?

Mary (impatiently). Do listen, all of you, to this advertisement.

Aunt M. Mary Cole, I’m sorry your head is so turned with the vanities of this world. Advertising for a pardner in that way is wicked. I hadn’t orter listen to it.

Mary. Oh, it won’t hurt you a bit, auntie. (reads) “A gentleman of about forty, very fine looking; tall, slender, and fair-haired, with very expressive eyes, and side whiskers, and some property, wishes to make the acquaintance of a young lady with similar qualifications——”

Jack. A young lady with expressive eyes and side whiskers——

Mary. Do keep quiet, Jack Cole! (reads) “With similar qualifications as to good looks and amiable temper, with a view to matrimony. Address, with stamp to pay return postage—C. G., Scrubtown; stating when and where an interview may be had.” There! what do you think of that?

Jack. Deacon Goodrich to a T. “C. G.” stands for Calvin Goodrich.

Aunt M. The land of goodness! Deacon Goodrich, indeed! a pillar of the church! advertising for a wife! No, no, Jack; it can’t be him! He’d never stoop so low!

Jack. But if all the women are as hard-hearted as you are, and the poor man needs a wife. Think of his ten little olive plants!

Granny C. Plants? Cabbage plants? ’Taint time to set them out yet. Fust of August is plenty airly enuff to set ’em for winter. Cabbages never begin to head till the nights come cold.

Jack. Poor Mr. C. G.! Why don’t you answer it, Aunt Mattie; and tell him you’ll darn his stockings for him, and comb that fair hair of his?

Aunt M. Jack Cole! if you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll comb your hair for you in a way you won’t like. Me answering one of them low advertisements! Me, indeed! I hain’t so eager to get married as some folks I know. Brother Cyrus and I have lived all our lives in maiden meditation, fancy free—the only sensible ones of the family of twelve children; and it’s my idee that we shall continner on in that way.

Mary. Why, don’t you believe that Uncle Cyrus would get married if he could?

Aunt M. Your Uncle Cyrus! I tell you, Mary Cole, he wouldn’t marry the best woman that ever trod! I’ve hearn him say so a hundred times.

Mary. Won’t you answer this advertisement, auntie? I’ll give you a sheet of my nicest gilt-edge note-paper if you will!

Aunt M. (furiously). If you weren’t so big, Mary Jane Cole, I’d spank you soundly! I vow I would! Me answer it, indeed!

(Leaves the room in great indignation.)

Mary. Look here, Jack. What’ll you bet she won’t reply to that notice?

Jack. Nonsense! Wouldn’t she blaze if she could hear you?

Mary. I’ll wager my new curled waterfall against your ruby pin that Aunt Mattie replies to Mr. “C. G.” before to-morrow night.

Jack. Done! I shall wear a curled waterfall after to-morrow.

Mary. No, sir! But I shall wear a ruby pin. Jack, who do you think “C. G.” is?

Jack. Really, I do not know; do you? Ah! I know you do, by that look in your eyes. Tell me, that’s a darling.

Mary. Not I. I don’t expose secrets to a fellow who tells them all over town. Besides, it would spoil the fun.

Jack. Mary, you are the dearest little sister in the world! Tell me, please. (taking her hands.)

Mary. No, sir! You don’t get that out of me. Take care, now. Let go of my hands. I’m going up stairs to keep an eye on Aunt Mattie. She’s gone up now to write an answer to “C. G.” And if there is any fun by-and-by, Jack, if you’re a good boy you shall be there to see.

Granny C. To sea? Going to sea? Why, Jack Cole! you haint twenty-one yet, and the sea’s a dreadful place! There’s a sarpint lives in it as big as the Scrubtown meeting-’us’, and whales that swaller folks alive, clothes and all! I read about one in a book a great while ago that swallered a man of the name of Jonah, and he didn’t set well on the critter’s stummuck, and up he come, lively as ever!

(Curtain falls.)

SCENE II.—The garden of a deserted house, in the vicinity of MR. COLE’S. MARY leading JACK cautiously along a shady path.

Mary. There; we’ll squat down behind this lilac bush. It’s nearly the appointed hour. I heard Aunt Mattie soliloquizing in her room this morning, after this manner—“At eight o’clock this night I go to meet my destiny! In the deserted garden, under the old pear tree. How very romantic!” Hark! there she comes!

Jack. Well, of all the absurd things that ever I heard tell of! Who would have believed that our staid old maid aunt would have been guilty of answering a matrimonial advertisement?

Mary. Hush! Jack, if you make a noise and spoil the fun now, I’ll never forgive you. Keep your head still, and don’t fidget so.

Aunt Mattie (slowly walking down the path—soliloquizing.) Eight o’clock! It struck just as I started out. He ought to be here. Why does he tarry? If he aint punctual I’ll give him the mitten. I swow I will! Dear gracious! what a sitivation to be in! Me, at my time of life! though, to be shure, I haint so old as—as I might be. The dew’s a-falling, and I shall get the rheumatiz in these thin shoes, if he don’t come quick. What if Jack and Mary should git hold of this? I never should hear the last of it! Never! I wouldn’t have ’em know it for a thousand dollars! Goodness me! What if it should be the deacon? Them children of his’n is dreadful youngsters; but, the Lord helping me, I’d try to train ’em up in the way they should go. Hark! is that him a-coming? No; it’s a toad hopping through the carrot bed. My soul and body! what if he should want to kiss me? I’ll chew a clove for fear he should. I wonder if it would be properous to let him? But then I s’pose if it’s the deacon I couldn’t help myself. He’s an awful _dee_tarmined man; and if I couldn’t help it I shouldn’t be to blame! Deary me! how I trimble! There he comes! I hear his step! What a tall man! ’Taint the deacon. He’s got a shawl on! Must be the new school-master! he wears a shawl! (a man approaches, MISS MATTIE goes up to him cautiously.) Is this Mr. C. G.?

C. G. Yes, it is; Is this Miss M. G.?

Aunt M. It is. Dear sir, I hope you wont think me bold and unmaidenly in coming out here all alone in the dark to meet you?

C. G. Never! Ah, the happiness of this moment! For forty years I have been looking for thee! (puts his arm around her.)

Aunt M. Oh, dear me! dont! dont! my dear sir! I aint used to it! and it aint exactly proper out here in this old garden! It’s a dreadful lonely spot, and if people should see us they might talk.

C. G. Let ’em talk! They’ll talk still more when you and I are married, I reckon. Lift your veil and let me see your sweet face.

Aunt M. Yes, if you’ll remove that hat and let me behold your countenance.

C. G. Now, then; both together. (AUNT M. throws back her veil. C. G. removes his hat. They gaze at each other a moment in utter silence.)

Aunt M. Good gracious airth! ’tis brother Cyrus!

C. G. Jubiter Ammon! ’tis sister Martha!

Aunt M. Oh, my soul and body, Cyrus Gordon! Who’d ever a-thought of you, at your time of life, cutting up such a caper as this? You old, bald-headed, gray-whiskered man! Forty years old! My gracious! You were fifty-nine last July!

C. G. Well, if I am, you’re two year older. So it’s as broad as ’tis long!

Aunt M. Why, I thought shure it was Deacon Goodrich that advertised. C. G. stands for Calvin Goodrich.

C. G. Yes; and it stands for Cyrus Gordon, too. And Deacon Goodrich was married last night to Peggy Jones.

Aunt M. That snub-nosed, red-haired Peggy Jones! He’d ort to be flayed alive! Married again! and his wife not hardly cold! Oh, the desatefulness of men! Thank Providence I haint tied to one of the abominable sect.

C. G. Well, Martha, we’re both in the same boat. If you wont tell of me, I wont of you. But it’s a terrible disappointment to me, for I sarting thought M. G. meant Marion Giles, the pretty milliner.

Aunt M. Humph! What an old goose! She wouldn’t look at you! I heerd her laffing at your swaller-tailed coat, when you come out of meeting last Sunday. But I’m ready to keep silence if you will. Gracious! if Jack and Mary should get wind of this, shouldn’t we have to take it?

C. G. Hark! what’s that? (voice behind the lilac-bush sings:)

“Oh, there’s many a bud the cold frost will nip, And there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.”

Aunt M. That’s Jack’s voice! Goodness me! Let us scoot for home!

Jack. Did he kiss you, Aunt Mattie?

Mary. Do you like the smell of cloves, Uncle Cyrus?

C. G. Confound you both! If I had hold of ye I’d let you know if I like to smell cloves, and birch, too.

(Curtain falls.)

MRS. MALAPROP AND CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

From “The Rivals.”

Costumes.

MRS. MALAPROP, Crimson satin dress, trimmed with white lace and satin ribbon.

CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE, Scarlet regimental full-dress coat, white breeches, silk stockings and cocked hat.

Enter MRS. MALAPROP, with a letter in her hand, CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE following.

Mrs. Malaprop. Your being Sir Anthony’s son, Captain, would itself be a sufficient accommodation; but from the ingenuity of your appearance, I am convinced you deserve the character here given of you.

Capt. A. Permit me to say, madame, that as I have never yet had the pleasure of seeing Miss Languish, my principal inducement in this affair, at present, is the honor of being allied to Mrs. Malaprop, of whose intellectual accomplishments, elegant manners and unaffected learning no tongue is silent.

Mrs. M. Sir, you do me infinite honor! I beg, Captain, you’ll be seated. [Both sit.] Ah! few gentlemen, nowadays, know how to value the ineffectual qualities in a woman! Men have no sense now but for the worthless flower of beauty.

Capt. A. It is but too true, indeed, ma’am; yet I fear our ladies should share the blame; they think our admiration of beauty so great that knowledge in them would be superfluous. Thus, like garden trees, they seldom show fruit till time has robbed them of the more spacious blossoms: few, like Mrs. Malaprop and the orange tree, are rich in both at once.

Mrs. M. Sir, you overpower me with good breeding. [Aside.] He is the very pineapple of politeness! You are not ignorant, Captain, that this giddy girl has, somehow, contrived to fix her affections on a beggarly, strolling, eavesdropping ensign, whom none of us have seen, and nobody knows anything of.

Capt. A. Oh, I have heard the silly affair before. I’m not at all prejudiced against her on that account. But it must be very distressing, indeed, to you, ma’am.

Mrs. M. Oh, it gives me the hydrostatics to such a degree!—I thought she had persisted from corresponding with him; but, behold, this very day, I have interceded another letter from the fellow—I believe I have it in my pocket.

Capt. A. My last note! [Aside.]

Mrs. M. Ay, here it is.

Capt. A. Oh, the little traitress, Lucy!

Mrs. M. There, perhaps you may know the writing. [Gives him the letter.]

Capt. A. I think I have seen the hand before—yes, I certainly must have seen this hand before.

Mrs. M. Nay, but read it, Captain.

Capt. A. [reads.] “My soul’s idol, my adored Lydia!” Very tender, indeed!

Mrs. M. Tender! ay, and profane too, o’my conscience.

Capt. A. “I am excessively alarmed at the intelligence you send me, the more so as my new rival”——

Mrs. M. That’s you, sir.

Capt. A. “Has universally the character of being an accomplished gentleman and a man of honor.” Well, that’s handsome enough.

Mrs. M. Oh, the fellow has some design in writing so.

Capt. A. That he had, I’ll answer for him, ma’am.

Mrs. M. But go on, sir—you’ll see presently.

Capt. A. “As for the old weather-beaten she-dragon who guards you”?—who can he mean by that?

Mrs. M. Me, sir—me—he means me there—what do you think now?—but go on a little further.

Capt. A. Impudent scoundrel!—“it shall go hard, but I will elude her vigilance! as I am told that the same ridiculous vanity which makes her dress up her coarse features and deck her dull chat with hard words which she don’t understand”——

Mrs. M. There, sir, an attack upon my language! what do you think of that?—an aspersion upon my parts of speech! was ever such a brute! Sure, if I reprehend anything in this world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs.

Capt. A. He deserves to be hanged and quartered! let me see—“same ridiculous vanity”——

Mrs. M. You need not read it again, sir!

Capt. A. I beg pardon, ma’am—“does also lay her open to the grossest deceptions from flattery and pretended admiration”—an impudent coxcomb—“so that I have a scheme to see you shortly, with the old harridan’s consent, and even to make her a go-between in our interviews”—Was ever such assurance!

Mrs. M. Did you ever hear anything like it? [They rise.] He’ll elude my vigilance, will he?—yes, yes!—ha! ha! he’s very likely to enter these doors!—we’ll try who can run best!

Capt. A. So we will, ma’am—so we will—Ha! ha! ha! a conceited puppy! ha! ha! ha!—Well, but Mrs. Malaprop, as the girl seems so infatuated by this fellow, suppose you were to wink at her corresponding with him for a little time—let her even plot an elopement with him—then do you connive at her escape—while I, just in the nick, will have the fellow laid by the heels, and fairly contrive to carry her off in his stead.

Mrs. M. I am delighted with the scheme; never was anything better perpetrated.

Capt. A. But, pray, could I not see the lady for a few minutes now?—I should like to try her temper a little.

Mrs. M. Why, I don’t know—I doubt she is not prepared for a visit of this kind. There is a decorum in these matters.

Capt. A. O, she won’t mind me!—only tell her Beverley——

Mrs. M. Sir!

Capt. A. Gently, good tongue! [Aside.]

Mrs. M. What did you say of Beverley?

Capt. A. Oh, I was going to propose that you should tell her, by way of jest, that it was Beverley who was below—she’d come down fast enough then—ha! ha! ha!

Mrs. M. ’Twould be a trick she well deserves—besides, you know, the fellow tells her he’ll get my consent to see her—ha! ha!—Let him, if he can, I say again.—Lydia, come down here! [Calling.] He’ll make me a go-between in their interviews!—ha! ha! ha!—Come down, I say, Lydia!—I don’t wonder at your laughing—ha! ha! ha! his impudence is truly ridiculous.

Capt. A. ’Tis very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma’am!—ha! ha! ha!

Mrs. M. The little hussy won’t hear. Well, I’ll go and tell her at once who it is—she shall know that Captain Absolute is come to wait on her; and I’ll make her behave as becomes a young woman.

Capt. A. As you please ma’am.

Mrs. M. For the present, Captain, your servant—Ah! you’ve not done laughing yet, I see—elude my vigilance! yes, yes—Ha! ha! ha! [Exit.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

WINNING A WIDOW.

Characters.

MRS. CUMMISKEY, A Middle-aged Widow. MR. COSTELLO, An Old Bachelor.

SCENE.—MRS. C.’S dwelling. Table set. MR. C. outside.

Mr. C. Good evenin’ to you, ma’am.

Mrs. C. Good evenin’ to you, Mr. Costello.

Mr. C. It’s fine weather we’re havin’, ma’am.

Mrs. C. It is that, thank God, but the winter’s comin’ at last, and it comes to all, both great and small.

Mr. C. Ah! but for all that it doesn’t come to all alike. Nowhere are you, ma’am, fat, rosy and good-lookin’, equally swate as a summer greenin’, a fall pippin or a winter russet—

Mrs. C. Arrah, hould your whist, now. Much an old bachelor like you knows about apples or women. But come in, Mr. Costello, and take a cup o’ tay with me, for I was only standin’ be the door lookin’ at the people passin’ for company sake, like, and I’m sure the kittle must have sung itself hoarse. [MR. C. enters and sits.]

Mr. C. It’s very cosy ye are here, Mrs. Cummiskey.

Mrs. C. Yes. [Lays the supper.] It is that whin I do be havin’ company.

Mr. C. Ah! it must be lonesome for you with only yer cat and the cup o’ tay.

Mrs. C. Sure it is. But sit up to the table, Mr. Costello. Help yourself to this fish, and don’t furget the purtaties. Look at them; they’re splittin’ their sides wid laughin’. [She pours tea.]

Mr. C. I’m sensible of the comforts of a home, Mrs. Cummiskey, though I’ve none meself. Mind now, the difference between the taste o’ tay made and sarved that way and the tay they gives you in an aitin’-house.

Mrs. C. Sure there’s nothin’ like a little home of yer own. I wonder yer never got marrit, Mr. Costello.

Mr. C. I was about to make the same remark in rifference to yerself, ma’am.

Mrs. C. God help us, aren’t I a widder woman this seven years?

Mr. C. Ah, but it’s thinkin’ I was why ye didn’t get marrit again.

Mrs. C. Well, it’s sure I am [thoughtfully setting down her teacup and raising her hand by way of emphasis], there was no betther husband to any woman than him that’s dead and gone, heaven save an’ rest his sowl. He was that asy a child could do anything wid him, and he was as humorous as a monkey. You favor him very much, Mr. Costello. He was about your height, and complicted like you.

Mr. C. Ah!

Mrs. C. He often used to say to me in his banterin’ way, Sure, Nora, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife is a widder, manin’, you know, that all the timptations and luxuries of this life can never folly a man beyant the grave. Sure, Nora, says he, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife’s a widder?

Mr. C. It was a sensible sayin’ that [helping himself to more fish].

Mrs. C. I mind the day John died. He knew everything to the last, and about four o’clock in the afthernoon—it was seventeen minutes past five exactly, be the clock, that he died—he says to me, Nora, says he, you’ve been a good wife, says he, an’ I’ve been a good husband, says he, an’ so there’s no love lost atween us, says he, an’ I could give ye a good characthur to any place, says he, an’ I wish ye could do the same for me where I’m goin’, says he; but it’s case equal, says he, an’ every dog has his day, an’ some has a day an’ a half, says he, an’ says he, I’ll know more in a bit than Father Corrigan himself, says he, but I’ll say now, says he, that I’ve always been a true son of the Church, says he, so I’ll not bother my brains about it; an’ he says, says he, I lave ye in good hands, Nora for I lave you in your hands, says he; an’ if at any time ye see any wan ye like betther nor me, marry him, says he. Ah, Nora, says he, for the first time spakin’ it solemn like, ah, Nora, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife’s a widder? An’ says he, I lave fifty dollars for masses, and the rest I lave to yourself, said he, an’ I needn’t tell ye to be a good mother to the childer’, says he, for well ye know there are none. Ah, poor John! Will ye have another cup of tay, Mr. Costello?

Mr. C. It must have been very hard on ye [passing cup]. Thank ye, ma’am, no more.

Mrs. C. It was hard, but time will tell. I must cast about me for my own livin’; and so I got intil this place an’ here I am to-day. [Both rise from the table and seat themselves before the fire.]

Mr. C. Ah! an’ here we are both of us this evenin.’

Mrs. C. Here we are, sure enough.

Mr. C. And so I mind ye of—of him, do I?

Mrs. C. That ye do. Ye favor him greatly. Dark complicted, an’ the same plisint smile.

Mr. C. Now, with me sittin’ here an’ you sittin’ there ferninst me, ye might almost think ye were marrit agin. [Insinuatingly.]

Mrs. C. Ah, go away now for a taze that ye are. [Mussing her apron by rolling the corners of it.]

Mr. C. I disremember what it was ye said about seein’ any man you liked betther nor him. [Moving his chair nearer to that of the widow.]

Mrs. C. He said, said he [smoothing her apron over her knees], Nora, said he, if anny time ye see anny man ye like betther nor me, marry him, says he.

Mr. C. Did he say anything about anny one ye liked as good as him?

Mrs. C. I don’t mind that he did. [Reflectively, folding her hands in her lap.]

Mr. C. I suppose he left that to yerself?

Mrs. C. Faith, an’ I don’t know, thin.

Mr. C. Div ye think ye like me as well as ye did him? [Persuasively, leaning forward to look into the widow’s eyes, which are cast down.]

Mrs. C. Ah, go away now for a taze. [Straightening herself and playfully slapping MR. COSTELLO on the face. He moves his chair still nearer, and puts his arm around her waist.]

Mr. C. Tell me, div ye like me as well as ye did him?

Mrs. C. I—I most—I most disremember now how much I liked him. [Embarrassed.]

Mr. C. Ah, now, don’t be breakin’ me heart. Answer me this question, Mrs. Cummiskey—Is your heart tender toward me?

Mrs. C. It is [whispers], an’ there, now ye have it.

Mr. C. Glory! [Kisses her.]

Mrs. C. But, James, ye haven’t told me yet how ye liked yer tay?

Mr. C. Ah, Nora, me jewel, the taste of that first kiss would take away the taste of all the tay that ever was brewed.

MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS

COMPRISING

Dramatic, Humorous and Tragic Pieces from the most Celebrated Authors, adapted to the use of Public Schools, Academies and Higher Institutions of Learning, for Public and Social Entertainments.

Wit and Wisdom Represented by a Great Variety of Entertaining Characters.

UNCLE PETE.

Characters.

GEORGE PEYTON, a planter.

UNCLE PETE, a venerable darkey, looking the worse for wear, with more patches than pantaloons.

SCENE—Exterior view of a planter’s cabin, with practicable door. GEORGE PEYTON discovered, seated on a bench, under veranda, reading a newspaper.

Enter UNCLE PETE, a limp noticeable in his left leg, the knee of which is bowed outward, hoe on his shoulder.

Uncle Pete. (Pausing as he enters, shading his eyes with his hand, going towards GEORGE PEYTON.) Yes, dar he is; dar is Marse George, a sittin’ on the porch, a readin’ his papah. Golly, I cotch him at home! (Advancing and calling) Marse George, Marse George, I’s come to see you once mo’, once mo,’ befo’ I leabes you fo’ebber. Marse George, I’se gwine to de odder shoah; I’se far on de way to my long home, to dat home ober acrost de ribber, whar de wicked hab’ no mo’ trouble, and where water-millions ripen all the year! Youns has all bin berry kine to me heah, Marse George, berry kine to de ole man, but I’s gwine away, acrost de dark ribber. I’s gwine ober, an’ dar, on dat odder shoah, I’ll stan’ an’ pick on de golden hawp among de angels, an’ in de company of de blest. Dar I’ll fine my rest; dar I’ll stan’ befo’ de throne fo’ ebber mo’ a singin’ an’ a shoutin’ susannis to de Lord!

George Peyton. Oh, no, Uncle Pete, you’re all right yet—you’re good for another twenty years.

Uncle P. Berry kine o’ you to say dat, Marse George—berry kine—but it’s no use. It almos’ breaks my hawt to leab you, and to leab de missus and de chillun, Marse George, but I’s got my call—I’s all gone inside.

George P. Don’t talk so, Uncle Pete; you are still quite a hale old man.

Uncle P. No use talkin’, Marse George, I’s gwine to hebben berry soon. ’Pears like I can heah the singin’ on de odder shoah. ’Pears like I can heah de voice of ol’ “Aunt Liza” an’ de odders dat’s gone befoah. You’s bin berry kine, Marse George—de missus an’ de chillun’s bin berry good—seems like all de people’s been berry good to poor ole Pete—poor cretur like me.

George P. Nonsense, Uncle Pete (kindly and encouragingly), nonsense, you are good for many years yet. You’ll see the sod placed on the graves of many younger men than you are, before they dig the hole for you. What you want just now, Uncle Pete, is a good square meal. Go into the kitchen and help yourself—fill up inside. There is no one at home, but I think you know the road. Plenty of cold victuals of all kinds in there.

Uncle P. (A smile illuminating his face.) ’Bleedged t’ye, Marse George, ’bleeged t’ye, sah, I’ll go! For de little time I has got to stay, I’ll not go agin natur’; but it’s no use. I’s all gone inside—I’s got my call. I’m one o’ dem dat’s on de way to de golden shoah.

(Exit UNCLE PETE through door, his limp hardly noticeable. His manner showing his delight.)

George P. Poor old Uncle Pete, he seems to be the victim of religious enthusiasm. I suppose he has been to camp-meeting, but he is a cunning old fox, and it must have taken a regular hard-shell sermon to convert the old sinner. He was raised on this plantation, and I have often heard my father say, he hadn’t a better negro on the place. Ever since the war, he has been working a little, and loafing a good deal, and I have no doubt he sometimes sighs to be a slave again at work on the old plantation. (Starts and listens.)

Uncle P. (Singing inside:)

Jay bird, jay bird, sittin’ on a limb, He winked at me, an’ I at him; Cocked my gun, an’ split his shin, An’ left the arrow a-stickin’.

George P. (Starting up.) Zounds! if that old thief hasn’t found my bitters bottle! Pete! Pete, you rascal!

Uncle P. (Continues singing:)

Snake bake a hoe cake, An’ set the frog to mind it; But the frog fell asleep, An’ the lizard come an’ find it.

George P. Pete! you rascal, come out of that.

Uncle P. (Who does not hear the planter, continues singing, and dances a gentle, old-fashioned shuffle.)

De debbil cotch the groun’ hog A-sittin’ in de sun, An’ kick him off de back-log, Jes’ to see de fun.

George P. (Furious.) Pete; you infernal nigger, come out of that, I say.

Uncle P. (Still singing and dancing.)

De ’possum up de gum tree, A-playin’ wid his toes, An’ up comes de ginny pig, Den off he goes.

George P. (Thoroughly aroused, throwing down his paper.) You, Pete; blast the nigger.

Uncle P. (Continues singing:)

De weasel went to see de polecat’s wife, You nebber smelt such a row in all yer—

George P. (Rushes in the cabin, interrupts the singing, and drags PETE out by the ear.) Pete! Pete, you infernal old rascal, is that the way you are crossing the river? Are those the songs they sing on the golden shore? Is this the way for a man to act when he has got his call—when he is all gone inside?

Uncle P. (Looking as if he had been caught in a hen-roost.) Marse George. I’s got de call, sah, an’ I’s gwine acrost de dark ribber soon, but I’s now braced up a little on de inside, an’ de ’scursion am postponed—you see, de ’scursion am postponed, sah!

George P. (Folding his arms, looking at Pete, as if in admiration of his impudence.) The excursion is postponed, is it? Well, this excursion is not postponed, you old scoundrel. (Seizes PETE by the coat-collar and runs him off stage, L.) [CURTAIN.]

PAT’S EXCUSE.

CHARACTERS:

NORA, a young Irish lass. PAT MURPHY, a gay deceiver.

Curtain rises.—Discovers NORA in kitchen, peeling potatoes.

Nora. Och! it’s deceivin’ that all men are! Now I belaved Pat niver would forsake me, and here he’s trated me like an ould glove, and I’ll niver forgive him. How praties make your eyes water. (Wipes tears away.) Almost as bad as onions. Not that I’m cryin’; oh, no. Pat Murphy can’t see me cry. (Knock without.) There is Pat now, the rascal. I’ll lock the door. (Hastens to lock door.)

Pat (without). Arrah, Nora, and here I am.

Nora. And there ye’ll stay, ye spalpeen.

Pat (without). Ah, come now, Nora,—ain’t it opening the door you are after? Sure, I’m dyin’ of cold.

Nora. Faith, you are too hard a sinner to die aisy—so you can take your time about it.

Pat. Open the door, cushla; the police will be takin’ me up.

Nora. He won’t kape you long, alanna!

Pat. Nora, if you let me in, I’ll tell you how I came to lave you at the fair last night.

Nora (relenting). Will you, for true?

Pat. Indade I will.

(Nora unlocks door. Enter PAT gayly. He snatches a kiss from her.)

Nora. Be off wid ye! Now tell me how you happened to be wid Mary O’Dwight last night?

Pat (sitting down). Well, you see it happened this way; ye know Mike O’ Dwight is her brother, and he and me is blatherin’ good friends, ye know; and as we was going to Caltry the ither day, Mike says to me, says he: “Pat, what’ll you take fur that dog?” and I says, says I—

Nora (who has been listening earnestly). Bother you, Pat, but you are foolin’ me again.

Pat (coaxingly takes her hand). No—no—Nora—I’ll tell ye the truth this time, sure. Well, as I was sayin’, Mike and me is good friends; and Mike says, says he: “Pat, that’s a good dog.” “Yis,” says I, “it is.” And he says, says he. “Pat, it is a blatherin’ good dog.” “Yis,” says I; and then—and then—(Scratches his head as if to aid his imagination.)

Nora (angrily snatching away hand). There! I’ll not listen to another word!

She Sings.

(Tune—Rory O’Moore.)

Oh, Patrick Murphy, be off wid you, pray, I been watching your pranks this many a day; You’re false, and ye’re fickle, as sure as I live And your hateful desaivin’ I’ll niver forgive. Ouch! do you think I was blind yester night, When you walked so fine with Mary O’Dwight? You kissed her, you rascal, and called her your own, And left me to walk down the dark lane alone.

Pat (taking up song).

Oh, Nora, me darlint, be off wid your airs, For nobody wants you, and nobody cares! For you do want your Patrick, for don’t you see, You could not so well love any but me. When my lips met[1] Miss Mary’s, now just look at me, I shut my eyes tight just this way, don’t you see? And when the kiss came, what did I do?— I shut my eyes tight, and made believe it was you!

Nora.

Be off wid your nonsense—a word in your ear, Listen, my Patrick, be sure that you hear; Last night when Mike Duffy came here to woo, We sat in the dark, and made believe it was you— And when the kiss came, now just look at me,— I shut my eyes tight, just this way, don’t you see? And when our lips met, what did I do, But keep my eyes shut, and make belave it was you!

(Nora, laughing; Pat, disconcerted.)

[QUICK CURTAIN.]

[1] From the asterisk they sing only the first strain of “Rory O’More”—omitting the minor strain, with which Nora finishes her first stanza.

THE DUEL.

Enter SIR LUCIUS O’TRIGGER to left, with pistols, followed by ACRES.

Acres. (L.[2]) By my valor, then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a good distance. Odds levels and aims!—I say it is a good distance.

Sir Lucius. (R.) Is it for muskets or small field-pieces? Upon my conscience Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to me.—Stay, now—I’ll show you. (Measures paces along the floor.) There, now, that is a very pretty distance—a pretty gentleman’s distance.

Acr. (R.) Zounds! we might as well fight in a sentry-box! I tell you, Sir Lucius, the further he is off, the cooler I shall take my aim.

Sir L. (L.) Faith! then I suppose you would aim at him best of all if he was out of sight!

Acr. No, Sir Lucius; but I should think forty or eight-and-thirty yards—

Sir L. Pooh! pooh! nonsense! Three or four feet between the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile.

Acr. Odds bullets, no!—by my valor! here is no merit in killing him so near! Do, my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring him down at a long shot:—a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me!

Sir L. Well, the gentlemen’s friend and I must settle that. But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, is there any little will or commission I could execute for you?

Acr. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius—but I don’t understand—

Sir L. Why, you may think there’s no being shot at without a little risk; and if an unlucky bullet should carry a quietus with it—I say it will be no time then to be bothering you about family matters.

Acr. A quietus!

Sir L. For instance, now—if that should be the case—would you choose to be pickled and sent home?—or would it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey?—I’m told there is very snug lying in the Abbey.

Acr. Pickled!—Snugly in the Abbey!—Odds tremors! Sir Lucius, don’t talk so!

Sir L. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged in an affair of this kind before.

Acr. No, Sir Lucius, never before.

Sir L. Ah! that’s a pity!—there’s nothing like being used to a thing. Pray, now, how would you receive the gentlemen’s shot?

Acr. Odds files!—I’ve practiced that—there, Sir Lucius—there. (Puts himself in an attitude.) A side front, hey? I’ll make myself small enough: I’ll stand edgeways.

Sir L. Now—you’re quite out—for if you stand so when I take my aim—(Leveling at him.)

Acr. Zounds! Sir Lucius—are you sure it is not cocked?

Sir L. Never fear.

Acr. But—but—you don’t know—it may go off of its own head!

Sir L. Pooh! be easy. Well, now, if I hit you in the body, my bullet has a double chance; for, if it misses a vital part of your right side, ’twill be very hard if it don’t succeed on the left.

Acr. A vital part!

Sir L. But, there, fix yourself so—(placing him)—let him see the broadside of your full front, there, now, a ball or two may pass clean through your body, and never do any harm at all.

Acr. Clean through me!—a ball or two clean through me!

Sir L. Ay, may they; and it is much the genteelest attitude into the bargain.

Acr. Look’ee, Sir Lucius! I’d just as lieve be shot in an awkward posture as a genteel one; so, by my valor! I will stand edgeways.

Sir L. (Looking at his watch.) Sure, they don’t mean to disappoint us. Ha! no, faith; I think I see them coming. (Crosses to R.)

Acr. (L.) Hey!—what!—coming!—

Sir L. Ay. Who are those yonder, getting over the stile?

Acr. There are two of them, indeed! Well—let them come—hey, Sir Lucius! we—we—we—we—won’t run!

Sir L. Run!

Acr. No,—I say,—we won’t run, by my valor!

Sir L. What’s the matter with you?

Acr. Nothing—nothing—my dear friend—my dear Sir Lucius! but I—I don’t feel quite so bold, somehow, as I did.

Sir L. O, fy! Consider your honor.

Acr. Ay—true—my honor. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in a word or two every now and then about my honor.

Sir L. Well, here they’re coming. (Looking R.)

Acr. Sir Lucius, if I wa’n’t with you, I should almost think I was afraid! If my valor should leave me!—Valor will come and go.

Sir L. Then pray keep it fast while you have it.

Acr. Sir Lucius, I doubt it is going!—yes—my valor is certainly going!—it is sneaking off! I feel it oozing out, as it were, at the palms of my hands!

Sir L. Your honor! your honor! Here they are.

Acr. O mercy!—now—that I was safe at Clod Hall! or could be shot before I was aware! (SIR LUCIUS takes Acres by the arm, and leads him reluctantly off, R.)

SHERIDAN.

[2] L. signifies left; R., right, and C., centre of stage.

READING THE WILL.

CHARACTERS:

_SWIPES, a brewer. CURRIE, a saddler. FRANK MILLINGTON, and ’SQUIRE DRAWL._

Enter SWIPES, R.,[3] CURRIE, L.

Swipes. A sober occasion this, brother Currie! Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end?

Currie. Ah! we must all die, brother Swipes. Those who live longest outlive the most.

Swipes. True, true; but, since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed?

Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. ’Squire Drawl told me she read every word of her last will and testament aloud, and never signed her name better.

Swipes. Had you any hint from the ’Squire what disposition she made of her property?

Cur. Not a whisper! the ’Squire is as close as a miser’s purse. But one of the witnesses hinted to me that she has cut off her graceless nephew with a shilling.

Swipes. Has she? Good soul! Has she? You know I come in, then, in right of my wife.

Cur. And I in my own right; and this is, no doubt, the reason why we have been called to hear the reading of the will. ’Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your own beer-barrels, brother Swipes. But here comes the young reprobate. He must be present, as a matter of course, you know. (Enter FRANK MILLINGTON, R.) Your servant, young gentleman. So, your benefactress has left you, at last!

Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr. Millington.

Frank. It is so, sir; but I could bear her loss better, had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value.

Cur. It is too late to repent, Master Millington. You will now have a chance to earn your own bread.

Swipes. Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better people are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer’s boy, if you were not too old.

Cur. Ay, or a saddler’s lackey, if held with a tight rein.

Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly, as I shall mine submissively. I shall retire. (As he is going, R., enter ’SQUIRE DRAWL, R.)

’Squire. Stop, stop, young man! We must have your presence. Good-morning, gentlemen: you are early on the ground.

Cur. I hope the ’Squire is well to-day.

’Squire. Pretty comfortable for an invalid.

Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs.

’Squire. No, I believe not. You know I never hurry. Slow and sure is my maxim. Well, since the heirs-at-law are all convened, I shall proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law.

Swipes. (While the ’SQUIRE is breaking the seal.) It is a trying scene to leave all one’s possessions, ’Squire, in this manner!

Cur. It really makes me feel melancholy when I look round and see everything but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the preacher say, All is vanity!

’Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen.

(All sit.—The ’SQUIRE puts on his spectacles, and reads slowly.) “Imprimis: Whereas my nephew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer, and Christopher Currie, of Fly Court, saddler.” (’SQUIRE takes off his spectacles to wipe them.)

Swipes. (Dreadfully overcome.) Generous creature! kind soul! I always loved her.

Cur. She was good, she was kind! She was in her right mind. Brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I will take the mansion-house.

Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie! My wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it. (Both rise.)

Cur. There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. Swipes! And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did not I lend her a new chaise every time she wished to ride? And who knows what influence——.

Swipes. Am I not named first in her will? And did I not furnish her with my best small beer for more than six months? And who knows——.

Frank. Gentlemen, I must leave you. (Going.)

’Squire. (Wiping his spectacles, and putting them on.) Pray, gentlemen, keep your seats. I have not done yet. (All sit.) Let me see; where was I?—Ay,—“All my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer——”

Swipes. Yes!

’Squire. “And Christopher Currie, Fly Court, saddler——”

Cur. Yes!

’Squire. “To have and to hold in trust, for the sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one years; by which time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him.”

Swipes. What’s all this? You don’t mean that we are humbugged? In trust!—how does that appear? Where is it?

’Squire. (Pointing to the parchment.) There! In two words of as good old English as I ever penned.

Cur. Pretty well, too, Mr. ’Squire, if we must be sent for to be made a laughing-stock of! She shall pay for every ride she had out of my chaise, I promise you!

Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here to be made the sport of a graceless profligate! But we will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie! We will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with!

Cur. That will we!

’Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen; for the instrument is dated three years ago, and the young gentleman must already be of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not so, Francis?

Frank. It is, your worship.

’Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended to the breaking of this seal according to law, you are released from any further trouble in the premises.

(Exit SWIPES and CURRIE in earnest conversation.)

SARGENT.

[3] R., signifies right; L., left and C., centre of stage.

THE DEBTOR AND THE DUN.

Enter REMNANT, R.[4]

Remnant. Well, I am resolved I’ll collect my bill of Col. Blarney this time. He shan’t put me off again. This is the twentieth time, as I’m a sinner, that I have dunned him! His smooth words shan’t humbug me now. No, no! Richard Remnant is not such a goose as to be paid in fine words for fine clothes. (Takes out a long bill and unrolls it.) A pretty collection of items, that! Why, the interest alone would make a good round sum. But hark! He is coming. (Hastily rolls up the bill and returns it to his pocket.)

Enter COL. BLARNEY, R.

Blarney. Ah! my dear Remnant, a thousand welcomes! How delighted I am to see you! And what stupidity on the part of my people not to make you enter at once! True, I had given orders that they should admit nobody; but those orders did not extend to you, my dear sir, for to you I am always at home.

Rem. Much obliged, sir. (Fumbling in his pocket for his bill.)

Blar. (calling to his servants.) What, ho! John! Martha! confound you! I will teach you to keep my friend Remnant kicking his heels in the entry! I will teach you to distinguish among my visitors!

Rem. Indeed, sir, it is no sort of consequence.

Blar. But it is consequence! To tell you—you, one of my best friends—that I was not in!

Rem. I am your humble servant, sir. (Drawing forth bill.) I just dropped in to hand you this little—

Blar. Quick, there, quick! A chair for my friend Remnant!

Rem. I am very well as I am, sir.

Blar. Not at all! I would have you seated.

Rem. It is not necessary. (Servant hands a common chair.)

Blar. Rascal!—not that! An arm-chair!

Rem. You are taking too much trouble. (An arm-chair is placed for him.)

Blar. No, no; you have been walking some distance, and require rest. Now be seated.

Rem. There is no need of it—I have but a single word to say. I have brought—

Blar. Be seated, I say. I will not listen to you till you are seated.

Rem. Well, sir, I will do as you wish. (Sits.) I was about to say—

Blar. Upon my word, friend Remnant, you are looking remarkably well.

Rem. Yes, sir, thank heaven, I am pretty well. I have come with this—

Blar. You have an admirable stock of health—lips fresh, skin ruddy, eyes clear and bright—really—

Rem. If you would be good enough to—

Blar. And how is Madam Remnant?

Rem. Quite well, sir, I am happy to say.

Blar. A charming woman, Mr. Remnant! A very superior woman.

Rem. She will be much obliged, sir. As I was saying—

Blar. And your daughter, Claudine, how is she?

Rem. As well as can be.

Blar. The beautiful little thing that she is! I am quite in love with her.

Rem. You do us too much honor, sir. I—you—

Blar. And little Harry—does he make as much noise as ever, beating that drum of his?

Rem. Ah, yes! He goes on the same as ever. But, as I was saying—

Blar. And your little dog, Brisk,—does he bark as loud as ever, and snap at the legs of your visitors?

Rem. More than ever, sir, and we don’t know how to cure him. He, he! But I dropped in to—

Blar. Do not be surprised if I want particular news of all your family, for I take the deepest interest in all of you.

Rem. We are much obliged to your honor, much obliged. I—

Blar. (Giving his hand.) Your hand upon it, Mr. Remnant. Don’t rise. Now, tell me, do you stand well with the people of quality?—for I can make interest for you among them.

Rem. Sir, I am your humble servant.

Blar. And I am yours, with all my heart. (Shaking hands again.)

Rem. You do me too much honor.

Blar. There is nothing I would not do for you.

Rem. Sir, you are too kind to me.

Blar. At least I am disinterested; be sure of that, Mr. Remnant.

Rem. Certainly I have not merited these favors, sir. But, sir,—

Blar. Now I think of it, will you stay and sup with me?—without ceremony, of course.

Rem. No, sir, I must return to my shop; I should have been there before this. I—

Blar. What ho, there! A light for Mr. Remnant! and tell the coachman to bring the coach and drive him home.

Rem. Indeed, sir, it is not necessary. I can walk well enough. But here— (Offering bill.)

Blar. O! I shall not listen to it. Walk? Such a night as this! I am your friend, Remnant, and, what is more, your debtor—your debtor, I say—all the world may know it.

Rem. Ah! sir if you could but find it convenient—

Blar. Hark! There is the coach. One more embrace, my dear Remnant! (Shakes hands again.) Take care of the steps. Command me always; and be sure there is nothing in the world I would not do for you. There! Good-by.

(Exit REMNANT, conducted by COL. B.)

ALTERED FROM MOLIÈRE.

[4] The initials R. and L. stand for the Right and Left of the stage, facing the audience.

THE DISAGREEABLE MEDDLER.

Enter DOUBLEDOT and SIMON, L.[5]

Doubledot. Plague take Mr. Paul Pry! He is one of those idle, meddling fellows, who, having no employment themselves, are perpetually interfering in other people’s affairs.

Simon. Ay, and he’s inquisitive into all matters, great and small.

Doub. Inquisitive! Why, he makes no scruple of questioning you respecting your most private concerns. Then he will weary you to death with a long story about a cramp in his leg, or the loss of a sleeve-button, or some such idle matter. And so he passes his days, “dropping in,” as he calls it, from house to house at the most unreasonable times, to the annoyance of every family in the village. But I’ll soon get rid of him.

Enter PRY, L., with umbrella, which he places against the wall.

Pry. Ha! how d’ye do, Mr. Doubledot?

Doub. Very busy, Mr. Pry, and have scarcely time to say, “Pretty well, thank ye.” (Turns from him as if writing in memorandum book. SIMON advances.)

Pry. Ha, Simon! you here? Rather early in the morning to be in a public house. Been taking a horn, eh? Sent here with a message from your master, perhaps? I say, Simon, when this wedding takes place, I suppose your master will put you all into new liveries, eh?

Simon. Can’t say, sir.

Pry. Well, I think he might. (Touches SIMON’S sleeve.) Between ourselves, Simon, it won’t be before you want ’em, eh?

Simon. That’s master’s business, sir, and neither yours nor mine.

Pry. Mr. Simon, behave yourself, or I shall complain of you to the colonel. By the way, Simon, that’s an uncommon fine leg of mutton the butcher has sent to your house. It weighs thirteen pounds five ounces.

Doub. And how do you know that?

Pry. I asked the butcher. I say, Simon, is it for roasting or boiling?

Simon. Half and half, with the chill taken off. There’s your answer. (Exit SIMON, R.)

Pry. That’s an uncommon ill-behaved servant! Well, since you say you are busy, I won’t interrupt you; only, as I was passing, I thought I might as well drop in.

Doub. Then you may now drop out again. The railway ’bus will be in presently, and—

Pry. No passengers by it to-day, for I have been to the hill to look for it.

Doub. Did you expect any one by it, that you were so anxious?

Pry. No; but I make it my business to see the coach come in every day. I can’t bear to be idle.

Doub. Useful occupation, truly!

Pry. Always see it go out; have done so these ten years.

Doub. (Going up.) Tiresome blockhead! Well; good morning to you.

Pry. Good-morning, Mr. Doubledot. Your tavern doesn’t appear to be very full just now.

Doub. No, no.

Pry. Ha! you are at a heavy rent? (Pauses for an answer after each question.) I’ve often thought of that. No supporting such an establishment without a deal of custom. If it’s not an impertinent question, don’t you find it rather a hard matter to make both ends meet when the first of the month comes round?

Doub. If it isn’t asking an impertinent question, what’s that to you?

Pry. O, nothing; only some folks have the luck of it: they have just taken in a nobleman’s family at the opposition house, the Green Dragon.

Doub. What’s that? A nobleman at the Green Dragon!

Pry. Traveling carriage and four. Three servants on the dickey and an outrider, all in blue liveries. They dine and stop all night. A pretty bill there will be to-morrow, for the servants are not on board wages.

Doub. Plague take the Green Dragon! How did you discover that they are not on board wages?

Pry. I was curious to know, and asked one of them. You know I never miss any thing for want of asking. ’Tis no fault of mine that the nabob is not here, at your house.

Doub. Why, what had you to do with it?

Pry. You know I never forget my friends. I stopped the carriage as it was coming down the hill—brought it to a dead stop, and said that if his lordship—I took him for a lord at once—that if his lordship intended to make any stay, he couldn’t do better than to go to Doubledot’s.

Doub. Well?

Pry. Well,—would you believe it?—out pops a saffron-colored face from the carriage window, and says, “You’re an impudent rascal for stopping my carriage, and I’ll not go to Doubledot’s if there’s another inn to be found within ten miles of it!”

Doub. There, that comes of your confounded meddling! If you had not interfered I should have stood an equal chance with the Green Dragon.

Pry. I’m very sorry; but I did it for the best.

Doub. Did it for the best, indeed! Deuce take you! By your officious attempts to serve, you do more mischief in the neighborhood than the exciseman, the apothecary, and the attorney, all together.

Pry. Well, there’s gratitude! Now, really, I must go. Good-morning. (Exit PAUL PRY.)

Doub. I’m rid of him at last, thank fortune! (PRY re-enters.) Well, what now?

Pry. I’ve dropped one of my gloves. Now, that’s very odd—here it is in my hand all the time!

Doub. Go to confusion! (Exit.)

Pry. Come, that’s civil! If I were the least of a bore, now, it would be pardonable—But—Hullo! There’s the postman! I wonder whether the Parkins’s have got letters again to-day. They have had letters every day this week, and I can’t for the life of me think what they can—(Feels hastily in his pockets.) By the way, talking of letters, here’s one I took from the postman last week for the colonel’s daughter, Miss Eliza, and I have always forgotten to give it to her. I dare say it is not of much importance. (Peeps into it—reads.) “Likely—unexpected—affectionate.” I can’t make it out. No matter; I’ll contrive to take it to the house—though I’ve a deal to do to-day. (Runs off and returns.) Dear me! I had like to have gone without my umbrella.

[CURTAIN.]

JOHN POOLE.

[5] L. signifies left; R., right, and C., centre of stage.

SPARTACUS AND JOVIUS.

Enter SPARTACUS, L.,[6] JOVIUS, R.

Spartacus. Speak, Roman! wherefore does thy master send Thy gray hairs to the “cut throat’s” camp?

Jovius. Brave rebel—

Spart. Why, that’s a better name than rogue or bondman; But in this camp I am called General.

Jov. Brave General,—for, though a rogue and bondman, As you have said, I’ll still allow you General, As he that beats a consul surely is.

Spart. Say two—two consuls; and to that e’en add A proconsul, three prætors, and some generals.

Jov. Why, this is no more than true. Are you a Thracian?

Spart. Ay.

Jov. There is something in the air of Thrace Breeds valor up as rank as grass. ’Tis pity. You are a barbarian.

Spart. Wherefore?

Jov. Had you been born A Roman, you had won by this a triumph.

Spart. I thank the gods I am barbarian; For I can better teach the grace-begot And heaven-supported masters of the earth How a mere dweller of a desert rock Can bow their crowned heads to his chariot-wheels, Their regal necks to be his stepping-blocks. But come, what is thy message?

Jov. Julia, niece Of the prætor, is thy captive.

Spart. Ay.

Jov. For whom Is offered in exchange thy wife, Senona, And thy young boy.

Spart. Tell thou the prætor, Roman, The Thracian’s wife is ransomed.

Jov. How is that?

Spart. Ransomed, and by the steel, from out the camp Of slaughtered Gellius! (Pointing off.) Behold them, Roman!

Jov. (Looking as SPART. points.) This is sorcery! But name a ransom for the general’s niece.

Spart. Have I not now the prætor on the hip? He would, in his extremity, have made My wife his buckler of defence; perhaps Have doomed her to the scourge! But this is Roman. Now the barbarian is instructed. Look! I hold the prætor by the heart; and he Shall feel how tightly grip barbarian fingers.

Jov. Men do not war on women. Name her ransom.

Spart. Men do not war on women! Look you: One day I climbed up to the ridgy top Of the cloud-piercing Hæmus, where, among The eagles and the thunders, from that height, I looked upon the world, as far as where, Wrestling with storms, the gloomy Euxine chafed On his recoiling shores; and where dim Adria In her blue bosom quenched the fiery sphere. Between those surges lay a land, might once Have matched Elysium; but Rome had made it A Tartarus. In my green youth I looked From the same frosty peak where now I stood, And then beheld the glory of those lands, Where Peace was tinkling on the shepherd’s bell And singing with the reapers. Since that glad day, Rome’s conquerors had passed With withering armies there, and all was changed. Peace had departed; howling War was there, Cheered on by Roman hunters. Then, methought E’en as I looked upon the altered scene, Groans echoed through the valleys, through which ran Rivers of blood, like smoking Phlegethons; Fires flashed from burning villages, and Famine Shrieked in the empty cornfields! Women and children, Robbed of their sires and husbands, left to starve— These were the dwellers of the land! Say’st thou Rome wars not, then, on women?

Jov. This is not to the matter.

Spart. Now, by Jove, It is! These things do Romans. But the earth Is sick of conquerors. There is not a man, Not Roman, but is Rome’s extremest foe: And such am I; sworn from that hour I saw Those sights of horror, while the gods support me, To wreak on Rome such havoc as Rome wreaks, Carnage and devastation, woe and ruin. Why should I ransom, when I swear to slay? Begone! This is my answer!

BIRD.

[6] L. signifies left; R., right, and C., centre of stage

THE RESOLVE OF REGULUS.—Sargent.

(Regulus, a Roman consul, having been defeated in battle and taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, was detained in captivity five years, and then sent on an embassy to Rome to solicit peace, under a promise that he would return to Carthage if the proposals were rejected. These, it was thought, he would urge in order to obtain his own liberty; but he urged contrary and patriotic measures on his countrymen; and then, having carried his point, resisted the persuasions of his friends to remain in Rome, and returned to Carthage, where a martyr’s death awaited him. Some writers say that he was thrust into a cask covered over on the inside with iron spikes, and thus rolled down hill. The following scene presents Regulus just as he has made known to his friends in Rome his resolution to return to Carthage.)

Enter REGULUS, followed by SERTORIUS.

Sertorius. Stay, Roman, in pity!—if not for thy life, For the sake of thy country, thy children, thy wife. Sent, not to urge war, but to lead Rome to peace, Thy captors of Carthage vouchsafed thee release. Thou return’st to encounter their anger, their rage;— No mercy expect for thy fame or thy age!

Regulus. To my captors one pledge, and one only, I gave: To RETURN, though it were to walk into my grave! No hope I extended, no promise I made, Rome’s Senate and people from war to dissuade. If the vengeance of Carthage be stored for me now, I have reaped no dishonor, have broken no vow.

Sert. They released thee, but dreamed not that thou wouldst fulfil A part that would leave thee a prisoner still; They hoped thy own danger would lead thee to sway The councils of Rome a far different way; Would induce thee to urge the conditions they crave, If only thy freedom, thy life-blood, to save. Thought shudders, the torment and woe to depict Thy merciless foes have the heart to inflict! Remain with us, Regulus! do not go back! No hope sheds its ray on thy death-pointing track! Keep faith with the faithless? The gods will forgive The balking of such. O, live, Regulus, live!

Reg. With the consciousness fixed in the core of my heart, That I had been playing the perjurer’s part? With the stain ever glaring, the thought ever nigh, That I owe the base breath I inhale to a lie? O, never! Let Carthage infract every oath, Be false to her word and humanity both, Yet never will I in her infamy share, Or turn for a refuge to guilt from despair!

Sert. O, think of the kindred and friends who await To fall on thy neck, and withhold thee from fate; O, think of the widow, the orphans to be, And let thy compassion plead softly with me.

Reg. O, my friend, thou canst soften, but canst not subdue; To the faith of my soul I must ever be true. If my honor I cheapen, my conscience discrown, All the graces of life to the dust are brought down; All creation to me is a chaos once more— No heaven to hope for, no God to adore! And the love that I feel for wife, children, and friend, Has lost all its beauty, and thwarted its end.

Sert. Let thy country determine.

Reg. My country? Her will, Were I free to obey, would be paramount still. I go to my doom for my country alone; My life is my country’s; my honor, my own!

Sert. O, Regulus! think of the pangs in reserve!

Reg. What menace should make me from probity swerve?

Sert. Refinements of pain will these miscreants find To daunt and disable the loftiest mind.

Reg. And ’tis to a Roman thy fears are addressed!

Sert. Forgive me. I know thy unterrified breast.

Reg. Thou know’st me but human—as weak to sustain As thyself, or another, the searchings of pain. This flesh may recoil, and the anguish they wreak Chase the strength from my knees, and the hue from my cheek; But the body alone they can vanquish and kill; The spirit immortal shall smile at them still. Then let them make ready their engines of dread, Their spike-bristling cask, and their torturing bed; Still Regulus, heaving no recreant breath, Shall greet as a friend the deliverer, Death! Their cunning in torture and taunt shall defy, And hold it in joy for his country to die.

HOW THE MONEY GOES.

(A temperance play.)

CHARACTERS.—MAN, about thirty-five years old; his WIFE; NELLIE, his daughter, ten years old; FRIEND, man about husband’s age, dressed in a man-of-the-world style; A. and B., two young men, dressed as business men, should appear about thirty years of age.

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