14508	----	THE CHRISTMAS DINNER by SHEPHERD KNAPP The Heidelberg Press Publishers for Discriminators Fifteenth and Race Streets, Philadelphia 1921 TO THOSE WHO FIRST ACTED IN THIS PLAY TO THOSE WHO WITH SO MUCH SKILL AND PATIENCE TRAINED THE PARTICIPANTS AND TO THE FRIENDLY AUDIENCES OF BOYS AND GIRLS WHO ENCOURAGE US BY THEIR APPLAUSE IT IS DEDICATED Preface This play is intended, not only for acting, but also for reading. It is so arranged that boys and girls can read it to themselves, just as they would read any other story. Even the stage directions and the descriptions of scenery are presented as a part of the narrative. At the same time, by the use of different styles of type, the speeches of the characters are clearly distinguished from the rest of the text, an arrangement which will be found convenient when parts are being memorized for acting. The play has been acted more than once, and by different groups of people; sometimes on a stage equipped with footlights, curtain, and scenery; sometimes with barely any of these aids. Practical suggestions as to costumes, scenery, and some simple scenic effects will be found at the end of the play. What sort of a Christmas play do the boys and girls like, and in what sort do we like to see them take part? It should be a play, surely, in which the dialogue is simple and natural, not stilted and artificial; one that seems like a bit of real life, and yet has plenty of fancy and imagination in it; one that suggests and helps to perpetuate some of the happy and wholesome customs of Christmas; above all, one that is pervaded by the Christmas spirit. I hope that this play does not entirely fail to meet these requirements. Worcester, Mass. SHEPHERD KNAPP. Introduction Before the Play begins, MOTHER GOOSE comes out in front of the curtain, and this is what she says: Well, well, well, well, well, here we all are again. And what's more important, Christmas is here again, too. Aren't you glad? Now I want to tell you children something. Do you know what I enjoy most at Christmas time? It's to come in here and see all you children sitting in rows and rows, all your faces looking up at me, and a smile on every one of them. Why, even some of those great big men and women back there are smiling, too. And I think I know why you are all smiling. There are two reasons for it, I believe. One is that you think old Mother Goose is a good friend of yours, and loves you all very much. And you're quite right about that, for I declare, I love every one of you as much as I love--plum pudding. And the second reason why you are all smiling, I guess, is because you think I am going to show you a Christmas Play. And you're right about that, too. I have a play all ready for you, there behind the curtain, and the name of it is "The Christmas Dinner." Doesn't the very name of it make you hungry? Well, you just wait. Now when the curtain opens, you'll see the warm cozy kitchen of a farm house, where six people live. Two of them are quite young, because they are just a boy and a girl, and their names are Walter and Gertrude. And two of them are older, and yet not so very old either: they are the father and mother of the two children. And the last two are the oldest of all, and they are really old, for they are the children's grandfather and grandmother. It is late in the afternoon of the day before Christmas, the hour when it has begun to get dark. The father is out cutting some good big sticks of wood for the Christmas fire, and the two children are playing outside of the house. So you'll not see them at first. But you will see the mother, who is just finishing the day's work, and the old grandfather and grandmother, who are sitting by the fire. Are you ready, all of you? Be quiet, then, for now it is going to begin. The Christmas Dinner The First Scene Now the Curtain opens, and you see a farmhouse kitchen, just as Mother Goose promised. At the back, opposite to you, is a fire-place, with a mantel shelf over it. A bright fire is burning. On the mantel is a lamp, lighted, and an unlighted candle; also some other things that you'll hear about later. There is a cupboard against the back wall. At one side of the room is the door leading out of doors; beside it is a large wood box, where the fire-wood is kept; and nearby are a broom, leaning against the wall, and a dustpan. On the other side of the room is another door, which leads to the rest of the house; beside that is a big clothes basket, where the soiled clothes are kept. Close to the fire, one on each side, the Grandfather and the Grandmother are sitting in comfortable chairs. Near the front and a little at one side are a table and a chair. On the table is a dishpan and a number of dishes, which the Mother is washing when the curtain opens. The first one to speak is the GRANDMOTHER, and this is what she says: Haven't you nearly finished, Mary? Yes, almost, answers MOTHER: only a few more things to be washed, and then I can sit down and rest. GRANDMOTHER asks, Is everything ready for the Christmas dinner tomorrow? Every single thing, MOTHER answers. The goose is ready to go on the fire; the apple sauce is made; the bread and the pies are baked; and the plum pudding--well, you saw the pudding yourself, so that I don't need to tell you about that. It's a beauty, if I do say so. At this moment the outside door opens, and the two children, Walter and Gertrude, run in. Their coats and mittens show that they have been playing in the snow. Oh, Mother, says WALTER, it's getting dark outside. May we come in now? Is your work all done? Not quite yet, dears, his MOTHER answers. Run out, both of you, for ten minutes more, and then I'll have everything cleared away. It makes me nervous to have you about while things are in a mess. All right, mother, says GERTRUDE. Come on, Walter, I'll race you to the gate. And both the children go out-of-doors again, running. Gertrude was nearer the door, and gets out first. Such energy as those children have! exclaims MOTHER, with a sigh, as she goes on with her work. Sometimes it makes me tired to watch them. There, every last thing is washed, and now, when I've dried them, I can sit down. She goes on talking while she dries. There's one thing I haven't had time to do--those paper caps. I suppose the children will be disappointed, but I simply couldn't find time to make them. The colored paper and paste and scissors are all on the mantel shelf and I suppose I ought to sit right down now and go to work on them, but I declare, I'm too tired. Getting ready for Christmas seems to take all the strength I have. I think I must be getting old. You getting old! exclaims GRANDMOTHER. Nonsense! Wait till you get to be our age; then you might talk of getting old and feeling tired. Isn't that so, John? John is Grandfather's first name. Yes, GRANDFATHER answers, when you get to be as old as we are, then you'll know what it is to be tired, Christmas or another day. I tried to help James shut the gate this morning, where the snow had drifted against it, and it tired me so, I haven't stirred out of this chair since. Now the outside door opens a second time, and the children come in again, Gertrude first. Isn't it time now, mother? asks GERTRUDE. Yes, answers MOTHER, I've just finished. Take off your coats, and try to quiet down. She puts the clean dishes away in the cupboard and carries the dish pan away into the next room. The children take of their coats and caps. Walter goes over by his Grandfather and leans against his chair. Gertrude sits down on a low stool beside her Grandmother. What have you children been doing all the afternoon? asks GRANDFATHER. Oh, we've had the greatest fun, cries GERTRUDE. First we went skating down on the mill pond. And then we built a snow fort, WALTER chimes in, and the Indians attacked it, and we drove them off with snow-balls. And then we played tag out by the barn, adds GERTRUDE. No, WALTER corrects her, that was afterwards; don't you remember, Gertrude? Before that, we raced down to the crossroads to see if the postman had brought any mail. Oh, yes, GERTRUDE agrees, and you tripped and fell down in the snow drift, and oh, grandfather, you ought to have seen him when he got up; he was a sight. But it all brushed off. And don't you feel tired after doing all that? GRANDMOTHER asks. No, says GERTRUDE, I'm not a bit tired; are you, Walter? Not a bit, says WALTER. Well, that's the beauty of being young, GRANDMOTHER says, in a tired sort of voice. I suppose that when I was your age, I was just the same as you children are now. How long is it since you were our age? WALTER asks. So many years, says GRANDMOTHER, that I haven't time to count them up. But I can remember it all clearly enough, even if it was so long ago. Everything about it was very different then from the way it is now. How was it different, grandmother? asks GERTRUDE. Why, in all sorts of ways, GRANDMOTHER answers. For one thing, the days seemed ever so much shorter when I was a little girl. And the nights, adds GRANDFATHER. Nowadays the nights are sometimes quite long, but when I was a boy they were so short, that it almost seemed as though there weren't any nights at all. And food used to taste quite different then, says GRANDMOTHER. I used to care a lot more for breakfast and dinner and supper then than I do now. Grandfather, asks WALTER, do you wish that you could have stayed on being a little boy, always? Well, I don't know, Walter, GRANDFATHER replies thoughtfully; there are two sides to that. I'll tell you what I would like, though. I'd like to be a little boy now and then, just for a short time, to see once more how it would feel to run and shout and play and eat and laugh, the way I used to. But then I think I'd pretty soon want to be myself again, old as I am, because there are some grand things about old age that I think I'd miss if I had to be a little boy for good and all. A good many wonderful things happen to you when you grow old, and even if my old body does get pretty tired sometimes, and you children think perhaps that grandfather looks very stupid, sitting so quiet by the fire-side here, I'm often thinking, inside, of splendid things that little boys and girls don't know anything about. But, grandfather, says GERTRUDE, tell us some more things that were different when you were a boy. Well, let me see, GRANDFATHER says, and stops for a moment to think. Then he goes on. There were the brownies. I haven't said anything about them, have I? The brownies? exclaims WALTER, his eyes big with interest. What about the brownies? Only that when I was a little boy, answers GRANDFATHER, I used to see the brownies sometimes. But now I never see them. It's many a long year since I caught sight of a single one. Where did you used to see them? asks WALTER, still excited. Right here in this room, answers GRANDFATHER. There used to be two of them, when I was a boy; and often I would see them, though none of the grown-up people could see them at all. During the daytime they used often to hide in the wood-box over there: and then at night, they used to come out and play. And sometimes they worked, too, for I can remember my father saying sometimes in the morning, "The floor looks so clean that I think the brownies must have swept it last night." But, Grandfather, says WALTER, for there is one thing about this that puzzles him, I'm a little boy, and I've never seen the brownies. No, not yet, GRANDFATHER admits, but I think you're likely to any time now. You see, they don't show themselves to very little boys, for fear of frightening them. GERTRUDE, who has been listening carefully to all of this, has a question to ask. Grandmother, she says, did you see the brownies, too, when you were a little girl? No, indeed, answers GRANDMOTHER. The brownies never wanted any girls to see them. But I used to see the house-fairies often, and they always hid away from the boys, so that only we girls ever saw them. How many house-fairies were there, Grandmother, asks GERTRUDE eagerly, and where did you see them, and what did they do? My, what a lot of questions! GRANDMOTHER says, smiling at Gertrude's excitement. There were two of them at our house, and they lived in the kitchen just as the brownies did here. They used to hide in a big clothes basket very much like that one over there. At night, like the brownies, they used to do some of the house-work to help mother; and how pleased she used to be, when she found in the morning that some of the work had been done for her while she was asleep. Do you suppose, says WALTER, that if I woke up some night, and came and looked in here, I'd see the brownies working or playing? Very likely, answers GRANDFATHER. Oh, I'd like to try it, cries WALTER. Can I do it tonight? But GRANDMOTHER says: No, indeed, Walter. What is your Grandfather thinking of to put such a notion into your head. And as for tonight--well, of all nights in the year!--the very night when we expect Santa Claus to come and fill the stockings. And you know how displeased he would be to find the children awake and watching him. Why, he very likely would go away without leaving a single present. To be sure, says GRANDFATHER. No, it wouldn't do at all. And, besides, think how tired you'd be for tomorrow. And then you'd be sorry with all the goings-on. By dinner time, you'd probably be falling asleep, and we'd have to eat all the goose and the pudding without you. We wouldn't want to miss that, says GERTRUDE, shaking her head decisively. I saw the pudding out in the store closet, and I tell you, it smelt good. I bet you tasted it, exclaims WALTER. Indeed I did not, answers GERTRUDE in a hurt tone; not even the eentiest teentiest bit of it. What time will the dinner begin, grandfather? asks WALTER. About twelve o'clock noon, I expect, GRANDFATHER answers. And I suppose, says WALTER in a sorrowful voice, that the pudding will be the last thing of all. Yes, I suppose so, GRANDFATHER admits. It will be an awfully long time to wait, says WALTER. And then when mother begins to help it, Gertrude and I will have to wait and wait while all the rest of you are helped. It's pretty tiresome waiting sometimes. But have you forgotten, Walter? GRANDMOTHER says, reminding him, You won't have to wait as long as that tomorrow. For tomorrow is Christmas, and don't you remember, that one of the ways in which Christmas is different from all the other days in the year, is the way in which the food is helped out at the Christmas dinner? On other days the oldest people are helped first, and the youngest ones have to wait: but at Christmas dinner, the first one to be helped to each thing is the very youngest one of all, and then comes the next youngest, and so on all the way round, and the oldest one has to wait till the very last. Oh, I remember, exclaims GERTRUDE. That was the way we did last year. Don't you remember, Walter? Walter nods. And last year, GERTRUDE goes on, I was the youngest and I was helped first to every single thing. Grandmother, who is the youngest this year? Why, you are the youngest, answers GRANDMOTHER, just as you were last Christmas. But I'm a whole year older than I was then, says GERTRUDE, looking puzzled. And so is everybody else, GRANDMOTHER explains. Really? says GERTRUDE, not quite convinced. So I'm the youngest still? Will I be helped first to the goose and the apple sauce? Yes, answers GRANDMOTHER. And will she be helped first to the pudding, too? asks WALTER anxiously. Yes, answers GRANDMOTHER. Oh, I'm so glad, cries GERTRUDE. Isn't it nice to be the youngest? Am I the next youngest? asks WALTER. Yes, GRANDMOTHER answers, and the second helping of everything will go to you. Oh, well, that's all right, says WALTER, a good deal relieved. There's sure to be plenty left. Gertrude couldn't eat it all. Now there is the sound of someone outside the door, stamping to shake the snow from his boots. There's Father, cries GERTRUDE. She and Walter go to the door and open it. Their father comes in, carrying several good-sized pieces fire-wood. How late you are, James, says GRANDFATHER, and how tired you look. I am tired, answers FATHER. He lifts the lid of the wood-box, and throws in the wood with a great clatter. Then, while he takes off his cap and gloves and muffler, he says: The snow is so deep that it's hard to walk in it, especially carrying a load as heavy as that wood was. He sits down. Children, says GRANDMOTHER, go, tell your mother that father is here. She'll want to give us supper at once and hurry you both off to bed. But when are we to hang up our stockings? asks WALTER. We'll do that right after supper, answers FATHER. Run along now, and tell mother that I'm here. The children go, and FATHER continues speaking. Is everything all ready for tomorrow? he asks. Yes, answers GRANDMOTHER, Mary finished everything quite a while ago. Or almost everything. She didn't get the paper caps made for the children, but she was just too tired to do it after all the other work. I don't wonder, says FATHER. When there is so much to be done, some things simply have to be left. Perhaps there will be time tomorrow morning. I'm leaving some things for tomorrow myself. For instance, I promised Mary I'd sweep out the kitchen here, after I'd brought in the wood; and it needs it, sure enough, for I see I've tracked in a lot of dirt. But I'm going to beg off for tonight. I'll do it first thing in the morning. I only hope that Santa Claus won't notice it, and think we're an untidy household. But we leave such a dim light in the kitchen at night, that I don't believe he'll be able to tell whether the room is broom-clean or not. And any way, I guess he must get tired himself sometimes. So he'll know how it is, and won't lay it up against us. And that is the end of the First Scene. The Interlude Again before the Second Scene begins, MOTHER GOOSE comes out in front of the Curtain, and this is what she says: Children, do you want to know what has happened in that Kitchen since the curtain closed? Well, I've come to tell you all about it. The first thing was that they all had supper; not a very hearty supper, because they all wanted to save up their appetites for the Christmas dinner the next day. But they had as much as they needed. And then the two children went and got their stockings, one for each member of the family, and then they all hung up their own stockings. Gertrude hung up her stocking, and Walter hung up his stocking, and Mother hung up her stocking, and Father hung up his stocking, and Grandmother hung up her stocking, and--and--and--now, I declare, I've left somebody out. Who can it be, I wonder? Why, to be sure--Grandfather. Yes, Grandfather hung up his stocking; and there they were, all six stockings hanging in a row. You look for them there, when the curtain opens. I think you'll see them. Well, then of course the children went to bed, and by this time I think they are both asleep. And now the rest of the family are beginning to feel sleepy, and in just a moment, I think one of them is going to say, "It's time we all went to bed." What happens after that you can see for yourselves, for now it's going to begin. The Second Scene When the Curtain opens, you see the Kitchen again just as before, except that now the six stockings are hanging from the mantel shelf over the fire-place. Father is sitting beside the table reading the newspaper. The two Grandparents are still sitting close to the fire, one on each side. Grandfather has fallen asleep, and Grandmother is drowsy, so that her head nods. Then she wakes up, and tries to stay awake; but in a minute her head goes nodding again. Father yawns, puts down his newspaper; yawns once more and stretches; then goes on reading. MOTHER comes in and says, The children are sound asleep. It's time we all went to bed, says FATHER, putting down the newspaper. I know I'm ready for it. He yawns. Besides, adds MOTHER, the fire is almost out; and indeed it ought soon to be put out entirely, so as to cool the chimney for old Santa Claus, when he comes. That's right, too, FATHER agrees. He gets up and goes to Grandfather, laying his hand on his shoulder. Father, he says, speaking loud so as to waken him. It's time to go to bed. What? says GRANDFATHER, waking up with a start; and then he says, Why, I must have been dozing. Where are the children? They went to bed long ago, says MOTHER. Don't you remember? And now it's bed time for all of us. Are you ready, mother? Yes, I'm more than ready, answers GRANDMOTHER. She rises and Grandfather, also, and with feeble steps, they go toward the door. Good-night, GRANDMOTHER says. Good-night, FATHER and MOTHER answer her, and FATHER continues, Good-night, father. Pleasant dreams. Good-night, answers GRANDFATHER, and he and Grandmother go out. I'll be off too, James, says MOTHER, if you'll look after the fire and the light. Yes, I'll attend to all that, answers FATHER. Then Mother goes out, and Father deadens the fire, using the tongs and shovel. He takes the chair, in which he has been sitting, and sets it against the wall beside the clothes basket. Then he lights the candle on the mantel shelf, blows out the lamp, leaving the room in a dim light, and goes out. For a little while everything is quiet. Then there is a noise from the direction of the wood box. The cover rises, and the head of a brownie appears, inside the box. He climbs out, followed by another. They caper about the room, looking at everything, listening at the doors, looking up the chimney. Then they go to the clothes basket and raise the lid. Up come four arms, and then two house-fairies stand up in the basket, and get out with the help of the chair. They, also, flit about the room, looking at things. Meanwhile the brownies have taken the broom and dust pan, and begun to sweep, especially over by the outside door and by the wood box. The fairies take a chair, and climb up by the mantel shelf. They take down the colored paper, paste and scissors, and, carrying them to the table, set to work, making paper caps. In a few moments they hold up two, complete. They leave them on the table. Now sleigh bells are heard approaching. The brownies and fairies leave their work, and clapping their hands, run to the fire-place, and stand in a group, facing it, looking in. Now the sleigh bells have come very near: and now they are still. And NOW Santa Claus is heard scrambling down the chimney. As he comes out from the fire-place, the brownies and fairies separate to let him through. He sets down his pack. Then the brownies, on one side, and the fairies, on the other, take hold of his hands and draw him toward the front of the stage. SANTA CLAUS smiles down at them, and, shaking the hands that hold his, says, How are you all? Merry as crickets? They nod, and dance up and down, still holding his hands. And what have you been doing with yourselves? he asks them. Playing? They all nod. And working? he asks. They nod again. Then the brownies draw him over to the their side, and show him how clean the floor is. Good! says SANTA CLAUS. Then the brownies let go his hand, and the fairies draw him over to their side, and show him the caps they have made. Fine! says SANTA CLAUS. Then the fairies let go his other hand, and he goes on talking. How are Gertrude and Walter? Have they been good? They all nod. As for the older people, he says, I don't need to ask you about them. Do you want to know why? They nod. It's because I've heard all about them already, SANTA CLAUS continues. There's a little bird that lives up in the eaves of the house and often he flies down and listens at the window, and then he tells me all he hears. Tonight he flew way up to the pine woods on the hill, to meet me, and he told me some things about all the older people in this house which made me feel quite upset. Shall I tell you what it was? They nod. He says that they all of them seem to think that they are growing old, not only the grandfather and grandmother, but the father and mother, too. They are all the time talking about feeling tired, and saying how different it all was when they were children, and how long ago that seems. Now isn't that a shame? I don't blame them altogether, because I know myself how that sort of thing sometimes happens. Two or three years ago I was sick for awhile, and I declare that even I began to feel old and tired. But all the same I don't believe in letting that sort of thing go on too long; and do you want to know what I am going to do about it? They nod eagerly. It's the best scheme you ever heard of, and I want you to help me with it. Well, I'm going to use some magic to make them all little boys and girls again for half an hour. And the way I'm going to do it is this. I've got here a bag of magic hazel nuts. He takes the bag out of his pocket. I always keep them in my pocket, because you never know when a thing of that sort will come in handy. Now, I want you to take these nuts and stick them into the plum pudding, which they are all going to eat tomorrow for their Christmas dinner. You must stick them in all around in different places, so that each of the older people will be sure to get one; and it won't do the children a bit of harm if they get some, too. In fact they are so young that this kind of magic won't have any effect on them at all. But with all the older folks, as soon as the nuts have been eaten, the magic will begin to work; and what do you suppose will be the first thing they will all want to do? Do you want to know? They all nod. They will all want to get down on their hands and knees, Grandfather and Grandmother and all, and crawl under the table. Won't that be funny? They all clap their hands and dance up and down. That's what the magic hazel nuts will make them do, says SANTA CLAUS. And when they have crawled under the table--you see, it's a table that has a Christmas dinner on it, and that makes a difference, of course--well, when they have crawled under the table, then--. No. I believe I won't tell you about what will happen then. I'll keep it for a surprise and it's something worth seeing you may be sure. So that's the plan. Will you help me? They all nod most emphatically. Here are the nuts, then, he says. Run and stick them into the pudding, while I fill the stockings. They take the bag and all run out through the door. Santa Claus goes to the fire-place, and from his pack fills all six stockings. Then, as he finishes and takes up his pack, the brownies and fairies return, and gather round him as he stands in front of the fire-place. SANTA CLAUS says to them, Did you stick them in? They nod. All around? They nod again. That's right. Well, I'm off. And, tomorrow, if I can manage it, I'm going to come back here at about the time when the nuts begin to work, for I'd like to see the fun myself. Good-bye. They all shake him by the hand. Then he disappears into the fire-place. They stand in front of it for a moment, and one of the brownies kneels down and looks up the chimney after him. Then sleigh bells are heard on the roof, as the sleigh starts. The brownies and fairies turn around then, and come away from the fire-place. The brownies run to the wood box, climb in, and pull the lid down over them. At the same time the fairies carry the chair over to the clothes basket, climb onto the chair, step over into the basket, and pull the lid down over them. Then everything is quiet again. And that is the end of the Second Scene. The Interlude Again before the Third Scene begins, MOTHER GOOSE comes out in front of the Curtain, and this is what she says: Children, I've got a lot to tell you about what has happened to Walter and Gertrude since the curtain closed. For quite a while they went on sleeping, because it was still night, you know. And then morning came, and it didn't take them long to wake up after that, I can tell you. As soon as it was really light, they put on their wrappers, and woke their father and mother, and then they went for the stockings. They took them into their grandparents' room, and Grandmother and Grandfather sat up in bed with shawls over their shoulders, and the rest sat on the edge of the bed. Then they all opened their stockings, and I couldn't begin to tell you what fine presents they found in them, nor how happy they all were. After breakfast they all sat down by the kitchen fire, and father got the big family Bible, and laid it on Grandfather's lap, and Grandfather polished up his spectacles till they shone, and put them on his nose, and then he read about the story of the first Christmas long ago in Bethlehem. And it was all so quiet while he was reading that you could almost hear the snow flakes falling outside, for it had begun to snow. Then, when Grandfather had finished reading, and closed the Bible, they all sang a Christmas carol, which they always sings together every Christmas in that house; and they sang it out so clear and strong, that a traveler in a sleigh, way down at the cross-roads, heard it, and it sounded so good that he stopped his horse in spite of the storm, and listened till it was over. Well, I can't tell you everything else they did that morning except that Father found the floor all swept, and knew it must have been done by the brownies; and then Mother found the paper caps that the house-fairies had made. She was ever so glad; and so were the children when they opened them up and put them on. You'll see how they look on the children's heads when the curtain opens. Then about the dinner. Father had brought in the big table, and set it up in the kitchen in front of the fire-place, and Mother put on the plates and the forks and the knives and the spoons and all the rest. Then the goose was roasted, and, oh, how good it smelt when it was cooking. At last everything was ready and twelve o'clock came, and they all sat down at the table. And do you know, I believe they are still sitting there behind the curtain. But they have finished the goose and the apple sauce and all the good things that went with them, and now they are just going to begin on the pudding. They don't know a thing about the magic nuts, because the brownies and the fairies stuck them in so neatly, that not one of them shows. Mother is just starting to put the pudding on the saucers. I wonder if she will remember about giving it to the youngest first. That's Gertrude, you know. Do you want to see for yourselves whether she remembers? Well, be very quiet then, for now it is going to begin. The Third Scene When the Curtain opens, you again see the kitchen, but it looks a good deal different, because the chairs that Grandmother and Grandfather used to sit in have been moved out; so has the small table on which Mother washed the dishes in the First Scene; and now in front of the fire-place is the great big table that Mother Goose told you about. The table cloth on it is so big that it hangs all the way down to the floor. At one end of the table sits Father; then next to him, back of the table facing you, is Grandfather, then Gertrude, then Walter, then Grandmother and at the other end of the table, next to Grandmother, Mother is seated. The children have on those bright-colored paper caps that the house-fairies made. MOTHER, who is helping the pudding, is the first to speak and this is what she says: There's the first plateful of our Christmas pudding, and that goes to Gertrude, of course. She hands it to Grandmother, who passes it on to Walter. Um! says WALTER, holding it for a moment under his nose. That smells good! He passes it to Gertrude. GERTRUDE asks, Shall I wait till everybody else is served, before I begin? No, not today, says FATHER. Begin at once. We all want to know how it tastes. Gertrude tastes it. Oh, it is good, she says. Mother meanwhile has helped another plateful, and passed it to GRANDMOTHER, who says, Walter, here is yours. And she hands it to him. He tastes it. Is it good, Walter? asks GRANDFATHER. WALTER with his mouth very full can only say, Um! Pass this down to Father, says MOTHER, and she starts to hand another plateful of pudding to Grandmother. Oh, Mother, exclaims GERTRUDE, aren't you younger than Father? Yes, just by two months, answers MOTHER, keeping the plateful of pudding in her hand. You think I ought to be helped next? All right; we'll keep strictly to the rules, and I'll set this aside for myself, while I help the others. She helps another plateful. This is for you James, she says to Father, and passes it along. And Grandmother, she says, this is for you. She hands a plateful of pudding to Grandmother. Grandfather, here is yours last of all, because you are the oldest of us, MOTHER says, and starts the last plateful of pudding on its way to Grandfather. Suddenly FATHER, who has been eating some of his pudding, exclaims, Here's something new. You never put nuts in the plum pudding before, Mary. Nuts? says MOTHER, very much surprised, There aren't any nuts in the pudding. But, indeed there are, FATHER insists, I've just eaten one. And so have I, adds GRANDMOTHER. And here is another one, declares GRANDFATHER, and he holds it up in his spoon. It's a hazel nut, he says, and puts it into his mouth. Why, I don't understand it all, exclaims MOTHER. I didn't put any hazel nuts in the plum pudding. Who ever heard of such a thing! Children, have you found any in yours? Yes, says GERTRUDE. I've had two, says WALTER. Mother has been looking carefully at the pudding on her plate. I declare, you're right, she says. Here's one in mine. She eats it. They are very good nuts, too; but how they ever got into the pudding is a mystery. During this last speech the lid of the wood box has been pushed up, showing the two brownies, sitting up in the box, and also the top of the clothes basket, showing the fairies, looking out from the basket. Walter happens to catch sight of the brownies in the wood box. He starts up from his chair, and, pointing toward the wood box, cries, There they are! What? asks FATHER, looking in the direction to which Walter points. The brownies, cries WALTER. See! In the wood box. I don't see anything, says FATHER, except that someone has left the lid of the wood box open. Oh, and the fairies, cries GERTRUDE, pointing toward the clothes basket. There they are. I see them. MOTHER turns around to look, and then says to Gertrude. There's nothing there, my dear. Oh, but there is, GERTRUDE declares. They are in the basket. Everybody stands up. Gertrude and Walter come around from behind the table, and look at the fairies and brownies, but they don't go very close to them, because they are just a little bit scared. At the same time, Father begins to act rather queerly, looking down at the floor, and keeping himself up by holding onto the table. Now he goes down on his hands and knees near the end of the table. Why, James, exclaims MOTHER, what are you doing? How queerly you are acting. FATHER gets up again, as though by a great effort. I don't know what is the matter, he says: But I have the funniest sort of feeling. It seems as though I should just have to get down on the floor and crawl under the table. Well, that's queer, says MOTHER. Do you know, I begin to feel the same way myself. So do I, says GRANDMOTHER. So do I, says GRANDFATHER. It's perfectly absurd the way I seem to want to crawl under the table, FATHER says, and his knees keep bending under him. But you're surely not going to do it, cries MOTHER. Oh, no FATHER answers, I'm not going to do it. But all the same he goes down on his knees again. But you are doing it, cries MOTHER. Well, I can't help it, shouts FATHER. Here goes. Watch me come out at the other end. If he goes, I've got to follow, says MOTHER, and she gets down on her hands and knees behind him. So have I, says GRANDFATHER, and he kneels down behind Mother. And I, says GRANDMOTHER, and she kneels behind Grandfather. Then, close behind one another, they go under the table, and when they come out at the other end, Father and Grandfather have turned into little boys, and Mother and Grandmother have turned into little girls. While this is happening the brownies and fairies come out of the box and basket. Oh, Jolly! cries WALTER. Is this you, grandfather? He takes hold of hands with the little boy that Grandfather has turned into, and swings him around in a circle. Oh, mother, cries GERTRUDE to one of the little girls, hugging her, how darling you are. Isn't this fun? Let's all play some game together, proposes WALTER. "London Bridge," shall we play that? GERTRUDE suggests. The others all clap their hands; so she goes on. She says, Walter, you and I will be the bridge. What shall we choose? They whisper together. Then the game is played in the usual way. Each captive is offered a choice between "plum pudding" (that is Gertrude's side) and "ice cream" (that is Walter's side). At the very moment when the tug-of-war is about to begin, the outside door opens, and in comes Santa Claus. At once, they all leave their games, and gather around him. Oh, Santa Claus, cries WALTER, have you come to play with us? How can I play with you? answers SANTA CLAUS. I'm far too big, and far, far too old. One of the fairies has gone to the table, and gotten a plate of plum pudding, which she now offers to Santa Claus. What's this? he asks. Plum pudding? Well, I never could resist that. He begins to eat it. This surely is a first-class pudding. He takes another spoonful. Why, what's this? A nut in the pudding? A hazel-nut! He stops short, and holds the plate away from him. A hazel nut! he exclaims again. I declare, I'd clean forgotten all about that. And now I've gone and eaten one. Goodness! Is it going to work, I wonder. He puts the plate down on the table. Yes, I feel it coming. Yes, it's come. I've just got to crawl under that table. Get out of the way there. I've got to do it. It's no use trying not to. The children, the brownies, and the fairies are all delighted, and laugh, and dance up and down, and clap their hands. WALTER cries out, Go on, Santa. You'll make a jolly boy. Down goes Santa Claus on his hands and knees, and crawls under the table. When he comes out on the other end, he is a little roley poley boy, smaller and fatter than any of the others, and dressed in white with red trimmings. All the others join hands with him in a circle, and they swing around gleefully. Now for a game of "Follow my leader," shouts WALTER. I'll be leader; come after me. Off Walter starts around the room, the others following, first Gertrude, then the brownies and the fairies, then the others, with Santa Claus bringing up the rear. They go over the wood box, onto a chair and down again, and at last Walter dives under the table, in the opposite direction to that in which the magic change was made. The children, the brownies, and the fairies go through without any change, of course, but the other five all come out in their original form. They stand up straightening their clothes, Mother and Grandmother setting their hair to rights. Meantime, while the children are occupied watching the transformations of their parents and grandparents, the brownies and fairies go back into the box and basket, and pull the lids down after them. I'm all out of breath, exclaims FATHER, panting. So am I, says GRANDMOTHER; but what fun it was. I wouldn't have missed it for a thousand dollars, MOTHER declares. Nor I, echoes GRANDFATHER. Even now, although I've got my old body back again, I declare I feel as young as a boy inside. Oh, Santa Claus, cries GERTRUDE, you were the dearest, funniest little boy I ever saw. It just made me laugh to look at you. Hush! says SANTA CLAUS, looking cautiously over his shoulder, I hope you won't let any one know how foolish I looked and acted. What would people say, if they heard that a man hundreds of years old like me, has been romping around that way? Why, Santa Claus, says WALTER, everybody would think it was fine. Do you think so? asks SANTA CLAUS, looking around from one to the other. Of course, they would, answers FATHER. The fact is they'd love you all the more for it, if that's possible. Dear Santa Claus, you don't mind my laughing at you, do you? says GERTRUDE; because you were funny, you know. Well--no--I guess I don't mind much, SANTA CLAUS answers. In fact, the more I think of it, the more I think myself that it was funny. Ho! Ho! Ho! Only so high (he measures the height with his hand) and as fat as butter. Ho! Ho! Ho! He goes off into a roar of laughter, and everybody else begins laughing, and they laugh more and more, until they have to lean up against the wall and the table, and wipe their eyes. When the laughing has stopped, SANTA CLAUS says, There's only one person I don't believe I can quite forgive, and that's the sly puss of a fairy, who gave me the plum pudding. She knew what would happen well enough. Where is she? He looks around for her. Why, she's gone. So she has, says GERTRUDE, looking around. They've both gone. And the brownies, too, says WALTER. And I must be going this very minute, exclaims SANTA CLAUS. Goodness knows how late it is. He goes toward the door. Good-bye, everybody. Good-bye till next Christmas. Just at the door he turns, and says, By the way, I've got some more of those hazel nuts at home. What do you think I'd better do with them? Santa Claus, says GRANDMOTHER, bring them with you next Christmas, and let's do it all over again. Shall I? asks SANTA CLAUS, looking around at them all. Yes, yes, they ALL cry. It's a bargain, says SANTA CLAUS. Don't forget. Next Christmas. Good-bye. He opens the door to go out. Good-bye till next Christmas, they ALL call after him, and they wave their hands to him as the Curtain closes. And this is the end of the Play. Characters And Costumes SPEAKING PARTS MOTHER GOOSE--The conventional costume; full skirt, peaked hat, cane, spectacles, mitts. It is effective for her to draw her lips tight over her teeth so that her speech is that of a toothless old woman. GRANDFATHER--} simple indoor clothes GRANDMOTHER--} suitable for farmer folk. FATHER--At first in working clothes; afterwards a bit spruced up; cap and gloves for first entrance. MOTHER--At first in working clothes and apron; better clothes for the third scene. WALTER--A boy; at first outdoor clothes; indoor clothes underneath. GERTRUDE--A girl, a little younger than Walter; at first outdoor clothes; indoor clothes underneath, different in the third scene. SILENT PARTS BROWNIES--Two little boys; dressed all in brown. HOUSE FAIRIES--Two little girls; conventional fairy costumes, with gauze wings. TRANSFORMED GROWN-UPS--Three boys and two girls: the smallest and fattest boy, representing Santa Claus, should be dressed in white with red bow necktie and red stockings, the others in ordinary children's clothes. Scenery And Scenic Effects The same scene continues throughout the play, with slight changes in the furnishings. The fire-place must be an imitation one as the transformation in the last scene requires this means of exit and entrance, from under the table. A very effective fire for the first scene can be produced by means of an electric fan pointed upward and strips of bright red and yellow paper fastened to the back of a log set on the andirons: and it can, of course, be made to die down at will. In the second scene an electric light behind red paper will give the glow of a dying fire. There should be two doors, one on each side of the stage. The wood box and the clothes basket stand close against the wall, one on each side of the stage near the front. The back of each is open, and the sections of scenery back of them have corresponding holes, so that the brownies and fairies freely make their entrance and exits from behind. In the basket should be a stool to aid the fairies in getting in and out. For safety, the lamp should be lighted by electricity, and the candle likewise would better be an electric one, run by a dry battery. In the last scene the table should be set well back near the fire-place, and when the people rise from the table one of them, without attracting attention, should fasten a piece of dark cloth (already fast at one end) between the table and the top of the entrance to the fire-place. There will then be no danger that in passing in and out by that route any of the actors will show their heads above the table and betray the secret of the change. When the old folks go under the table they turn and pass out through the fire-place, their young substitutes entering there and appearing at the other end of the table. With a little practice, it can be made to seem as though the progress had been directly from one end of the table to the other. If gifts or candies are to be distributed Mother Goose may make a final appearance immediately after the final Curtain, and speak substantially as follows: Well, children, did you like it? Do you know, I rather wished I could try one of those magic nuts myself. I think I'd made a real cunning little girl, don't you? But there is no use wishing for what you can't have, and besides, there's something more important to be attended to. I notice that Santa Claus is a great one to give everybody presents, and sure enough he's done it again this time just as usual. He's brought boxes of candy for all you boys and girls. He left them outside on the door step, and I was almost afraid the snow might have spoiled them. But it was such dry snow, it didn't do them any harm at all, and in a minute, when the curtains open, they'll be brought indoors and handed out to you. Well, I guess that's all for this year, except for old Mother Goose to wish you (or, to hope that you've all had) a very Merry Christmas, and (to wish you all) a Happy New Year. 
14785	----	Proofreading Team. Down The Chimney BY SHEPHERD KNAPP [Illustration] 1921 THE HEIDELBERG PRESS * * * * * TO THOSE WHO FIRST ACTED IN THIS PLAY TO THOSE WHO WITH SO MUCH SKILL AND PATIENCE TRAINED THE PARTICIPANTS AND TO THE FRIENDLY AUDIENCES OF BOYS AND GIRLS WHO ENCOURAGE US BY THEIR APPLAUSE IT IS DEDICATED * * * * * Preface This play is intended, not only for acting, but also for reading. It is so arranged that boys and girls can read it to themselves, just as they would read any other story. Even the stage directions and the descriptions of scenery are presented as a part of the narrative. At the same time, by the use of different styles of type, the speeches of the characters are clearly distinguished from the rest of the text, an arrangement which will be found convenient when parts are being memorized for acting. The play has been acted more than once, and by different groups of people; sometimes on a stage equipped with footlights, curtain, and scenery; sometimes with barely any of these aids. Practical suggestions as to costumes, scenery, and some simple scenic effects will be found at the end of the play. What sort of a Christmas play do the boys and girls like, and in what sort do we like to see them take part? It should be a play, surely, in which the dialogue is simple and natural, not stilted and artificial; one that seems like a bit of real life, and yet has plenty of fancy and imagination in it; one that suggests and helps to perpetuate some of the happy and wholesome customs of Christmas; above all, one that is pervaded by the Christmas spirit. I hope that this play does not entirely fail to meet these requirements. Worcester, Mass. SHEPHERD KNAPP. * * * * * Down the Chimney The First Scene _Now the curtain opens, and you see the Roof of a House, just as Mother Goose promised. Keep your eyes open to see what will happen next, for here comes_ JACK FROST, _who is dressed all in white. He walks with a quick and nimble step, and this is what he says_: Would you believe from the look of things, that to-morrow is Christmas? There is not a flake of snow anywhere. This roof is as clear as it is in summer. These pine trees, whose boughs hang over the roof, are all green. The chimney has not even an icicle on it. I hear people saying that we have no old-fashioned winters any more. Even old Mother Cary said to me the other day, "Jack Frost," said she, "when are you going to give them a real snow-storm?" But I told her not to be impatient: I would attend to it all in good time. And when I do begin, it doesn't take me long to get up a fine old storm, I can tell you. _Now he walks up to the Chimney, and knocks on the side of it_. Say, old fellow. _He waits a moment; then knocks again_. Wake up there. _He waits a moment; then knocks again_. Wake up, I say. _And now--would you believe it?--the Chimney opens, first, one of his eyes, then the other; and then his mouth and nose appear together. Each of his eyes is exactly the shape and size of one brick. So is his nose. And his mouth is as long as two bricks side by side. They all turn a very bright red, when they appear, as though light were shining through them._ JACK FROST _goes on talking_: What do you mean, Mr. Chimney, by going to sleep in winter, I'd like to know? Summer is the time for you chimneys to go to sleep; but in winter when the people in the houses have their fires burning, you ought to keep wide awake, so as to carry off the smoke; don't you know that? Sleepy head! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. THE CHIMNEY _answers_: Nothing of the sort. Have you forgotten what night this is, Jack Frost? Don't you know that this is Christmas Eve, when the fires are all put out, so that Santa Claus can climb down without getting burned? That's why I was taking a little nap. See? _He winks with one eye._ JACK FROST _says_: Oh, that's it, is it? Well, that's true enough. I hadn't thought of old Santa Claus. He'll be here before long, probably. Yes, too soon, _says_ THE CHIMNEY; for I haven't had my sleep half out, and here you are, keeping me awake for nothing. With your kind permission, I'll take another forty winks. _And now his eyes close, then his nose and mouth disappear, and in a moment he is sound asleep again._ Lazy old fellow! _exclaims_ JACK FROST. Well, I must get to work if we are to have a real old-fashioned storm before morning. And first for some wind. Where are those Wind Fairies, I wonder? They ought to be here by now. _He puts his hands beside his mouth, and calls in a high voice:_ Hoo--oo! Hoo--oo! THE WIND FAIRIES _are heard from far, far away, calling in answer:_ Hoo-oo! Hoo-oo! JACK FROST, _as soon as he hears them, says joyfully:_ There they are. They'll be here in a second. _And now you can hear the Wind Fairies coming gradually nearer, making the wind-noise as the come, like this:_ z--z--z z--z--z z--Z--Z--Z--z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z z--Z--Z--Z--z--z--z _This grows louder and louder, till suddenly in come the Wind Fairies, running. They are all in gray; they have on gray peaked caps, gray capes which comes down to their knees, and long gray stockings; and they have gray masks over the upper parts of their faces. The Fairies stop short before Jack Frost, and make him a low bow. Then they sing their song, which is called_ THE SONG OF THE WIND FAIRIES[1] Do you hear us blow, in our coats of gray? Do you hear us blow, till the trees rock and sway? Do you hear us blow--for from far, far away We have come with a storm for your Christmas. REFRAIN Oh, the sound of the wind is strange for to hear; And the breath of the wind, it is cold and clear; You'll hear us blow, as we fly thro' the air, And we've brought you a storm for your Christmas. You can hear us sigh at the window-pane; And we moan and cry in the snow and the rain. Then away we fly, for we may not remain, But we leave you a storm for your Christmas. REFRAIN Oh, the sound of the wind is strange for to hear; And the breath of the wind, it is cold and clear; You'll hear us blow, as we fly thro' the air, And we've brought you a storm for your Christmas. [Footnote 1: To the tune "_D' ye ken John Peel?_"] _As soon as the song is over, off run the Wind Fairies, making the wind-noise as they go, which grows fainter and fainter as they get further and further away, like this_ Z--Z--Z--z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z Z--Z--Z--z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z _When the sound of the wind has quite died away_, THE CHIMNEY _opens one eye, and speaking slowly and sleepily, says:_ Look here, Jack, something's going on in my inside. _He opens the other eye, and his nose and mouth appear. He speaks more briskly_: It feels as though there were something hot in there. Do you suppose those stupid people in the house down below have forgotten all about Santa Claus, and are lighting the fire on the hearth? I believe they are. I wish you'd just climb up on my shoulder, and shout down to them to stop. Do: there's a good fellow. JACK FROST _climbs up, puts his head over the chimney, then draws back coughing_. Fire? _cries he_. I should say there was, and smoke, too; enough to choke a locomotive. _He cautiously peers down_. Hello there, you people, put that fire out. Do you hear? Put it out. Santa Claus is coming. Do you hear what I say? SANTA CLAUS IS COMING. Put out that fire. _There is a pause; then a hissing sound, loud at first, then dying away, like this_: S--S--S--s--s--s--s--s--s There! _says_ JACK FROST, they've thrown a pitcherful of water on it. _He climbs down from the chimney_. THE CHIMNEY, _who has now grown sleepy again, says to him, in a voice that grows fainter and fainter_: Thank you, my dear fellow: you--real--ly (_Here one eye closes_) are--ver--y--ki--_And he never finishes the sentence, for the other eye closes, and the nose and mouth "go out" at the same moment._ Asleep again, I declare, says JACK FROST, _with disgust_. Well, now for the Snow Fairies. _He walks to the edge of the roof at one side, and blows a shrill blast on a whistle. Almost at once snow begins to fall from the sky, slowly at first, then more and more. Jack Frost looks up at it and nods his head approvingly. When it is snowing very hard, in come on tip-toe, very softly, the Snow Fairies, dressed in snowy white, with white hoods and muffs. Some of them quietly spread snow on the boughs of the trees, taking it out of their muffs; others hang flakes on the Chimney, in such a way as to make eyebrows, mustache, and beard for the face. But this doesn't show at first, because the Chimney is still asleep. Then the Fairies, standing in front of the Chimney, so that they hide it, sing their song, which is called_ THE SONG OF THE SNOW FAIRIES[2] When children go to bed at night, We fairies come with snow-flakes white; Cover the earth, silent and still; House-top, and tree-top, and field and hill. When children wake at morning light, They find the world all snowy white. Where, then, are we? Who of you know? Cosily tucked in our beds of snow. [Footnote 2: To the tune of Schumann's "_Kindernacht._"] THE CHIMNEY, _who is still hidden behind the Snow Fairies, wakes up while they are singing the last line, and calls out_: What's this, I'd like to know? Who's been decorating my face? _The Snow Fairies stand back on either side, so that his face can now be seen, with its white eyebrows and mustache and beard, all made of snow-flakes; and he goes on talking in a jolly voice_: Oh, you sly ones, you are at your old tricks. Well, well, I'm really glad to see you. It seems like old times to have snow at Christmas. Now don't mind me; go on with your work; cover me up with your snowflakes as much as you choose--eyes, nose, mouth, and all; I don't mind it a bit. _So the Snow Fairies, moving softly about, hang more snow-flakes on the chimney, even over his eyes and nose and mouth, which show dimly through the snow. His eyes blink now and then._ _And now, sleigh-bells are heard in the distance._ Hark! _cries_ JACK FROST. _They all listen: the bells are still heard, a little nearer._ _Then_ JACK FROST _continues_: There comes Santa Claus, sure enough. Let's give the old fellow a surprise. Here! All hide behind the Chimney. _Very quickly, but very quietly, too, they all hide. The sleigh-bells come nearer and nearer, till they seem to be just outside: then they stop, and a voice, which plainly belongs to_ SANTA CLAUS, _says_: Whoa! Quiet, Prancer! Blitzen, stand still there! _And now Santa Claus himself appears, with his pack of toys. He walks to the middle of the roof, and sets down the pack._ It certainly is getting cold, _says_ SANTA CLAUS _to himself. For he does not see Jack Frost and the Snow Fairies, who are hidden behind the Chimney. He goes on talking_: And what a lot of snow there is about here. It is really like the Christmas eves we used to have fifty years ago. My pack seems to be coming undone. _He stoops to fix it._ I should hate to have it burst open, while I was going down the Chimney. _Now the Snow Fairies have come out from behind the Chimney, and are stealing up behind him on tip-toe. When they are quite close, they throw great handfuls of snow at him. He starts up, surprised, but bursts into a great laugh_: Ho! ho! ho! This is a fine way to treat an old man! _says_ SANTA CLAUS. Ho! ho! ho! ho! This is fine fun indeed! Hello, Jack Frost, is that you? And how are you, my little roley-poley snow-balls? White and light as ever, I see. And you've made me all white too, but not very light, I fear. Well, well, be off with you, for I must go down the Chimney. _He bows to the Chimney, whose eyes blink through the snow._ Good evening, my old friend, _says_ SANTA CLAUS. YOU are enjoying good health, I hope. May I climb down inside of you as usual? THE CHIMNEY _answers, in a muffled voice, because he is so covered up with snow_: Go ahead, Santa, I'm used to it. _So Santa Claus climbs to the top of the Chimney, steps over, and after throwing a kiss to the Snow Fairies, who return it, he goes down out of sight._ _And that is the end of the First Scene._ * * * * * THE INTERLUDE _Again, before the Second Scene begins_, MOTHER GOOSE _comes out in front of the curtain and this is what she says_: Well, my dears, I hope you are enjoying my little Play. And what do you suppose comes next? Wouldn't you like to see who lives down inside that house, where the chimney was; and what they were doing while Jack Frost and the others were up on the roof, and whether they heard the Wind Fairies; and whether they knew that the Snow Fairies had come; and how they came to make that mistake, lighting a fire in the fireplace where Santa Claus had come down? Well, that is just what the next scene is to be about. Last time we were up on the roof; this time we shall be down in the Room, in front of the fire-place. So be still and listen carefully, for now it is going to begin. * * * * * The Second Scene _When the curtain opens this time, you can see into the Room of the House, just as Mother Goose promised. Notice that on one side of the fire-place is a window with curtains drawn, on the other, a washstand with howl and pitcher. In front, on right and left, are two large beds. In the middle of the room, with her hack to the fire-place, the Grandmother is seated on a low chair, and about her in a half-circle on stools, sit the eight grandchildren, four girls and four boys, all in their night-clothes and wrappers._ ISABEL _begins by asking_: Grandmother, how old are you? GRANDMOTHER _replies_: How old do you think, my dear? ISABEL _guesses_: A hundred? Almost, _says_ GRANDMOTHER: Why, I can remember when all your mothers and fathers were little boys and girls like you. Your mother, Margaret and Sally, and your father, Jack and Tom and Helen, and your father, Isabel, and your mother, Ned and Frank, were my little boys and girls, you know; and on Christmas Eve I used to sit with them in the nursery, just as I am sitting with you now. That is why I told them to go downstairs and leave me alone with you for a little while tonight--for the sake of old times. Yes, they used to sit around me just like this, and then I used to tell them a story. A story! A story! _cry_ ALL THE CHILDREN. _And_ GRANDMOTHER _says_: Shall I tell you one? _The children all nod_. Let me think, _says she_. _The Wind Fairies are heard outside, making the wind-noise, like this_: z--z--z z--z--z z--Z--Z--Z--z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z z--Z--Z--Z--z--z--z GRANDMOTHER _listens to them, then begins her story_: Well, once there was a wicked king, who didn't like cold weather; so he sent his soldiers, and told them to catch all the cold Wind Fairies and-- TOM _interrupts her to ask_: Are there really Wind Fairies, Grandmother? GRANDMOTHER _answers_: Of course there are. I think I heard them a moment ago. Listen! _They all listen. The Wind Fairies are heard outside, like this_: z--z--z z--z--z z--Z--Z--Z--z--z--z Do you hear them? _asks_ GRANDMOTHER. _The children all nod_. Yes, _she continues, going on with the story_, the king told his soldiers to catch all the Wind Fairies, and all the Snow Fairies, and Jack Frost himself, and to lock them all up in prison. And did the soldiers do it? _asks_ HELEN. Yes, _answers_ GRANDMOTHER. They locked up all of them except one little Wind Fairy, and he was so small and so quick, that they couldn't catch him; and what do you suppose he did? He rattled the windows so hard that the king couldn't sleep, and he blew so hard down the chimney and through the cracks around the doors, that he blew out all the lights in the king's house, and gave the king such a bad cold in his head, that-- _Here Grandmother herself sneezes. And the Wind Fairies are heard outside, like this_: z--z--z z--z--z z--Z--Z--Z--z--z--z How the wind does blow tonight, _says_ GRANDMOTHER. Children, it seems to me very cold in this room. _She looks around to see what makes it so chilly._ Why, bless me, _she says_, they have forgotten to light the fire. _She rises, the children also, and they all go toward the fire-place._ Frank, _says_ GRANDMOTHER, hand me the matches. _He brings them. She stoops at the hearth, the children standing around, and soon a bright glow appears and is seen to dance about._ There, that will soon make a fine blaze, _says she._ Hold up your hands, children, and warm them. _But suddenly from up the chimney comes the voice of_ JACK FROST: Hello there, you people, put that fire out. _Grandmother and the children are startled._ Do you hear? _shouts_ JACK FROST. Put it out. Santa Claus is coming. Do you hear what I say? SANTA CLAUS IS COMING. Put out that fire. Why, children, _cries_ GRANDMOTHER, I had forgotten all about that. Quick! We must indeed put the fire out at once. Ned, bring me that pitcher of water. _He brings it; she throws the water on the fire. The glow disappears and a great hissing sound is heard, loud at first, then dying away, like this_: S--S--S--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s There! _says_ GRANDMOTHER. It is quite out, you see. And now, you must hang up your stockings, quickly, and hurry into bed. _A shrill whistle is heard outside_. What was that? GRANDMOTHER _asks_. It sounded like a whistle out of doors, _answers_ MARGARET; _and she goes to the window and looks out._ Why, Grandmother, _says she_, it's beginning to snow. Good! _says_ GRANDMOTHER. That will make it easier for Santa Claus to get here in his sleigh. So make haste with your stockings, and then, before you get into bed, we will read from the Good Book about what happened on the first Christmas night so many, many years ago. _They bring their stockings and hang them in a row over the fire-place. Meantime Grandmother has taken the big Bible, and seated herself in the low chair in the middle of the room. The children, when the stockings are hung, group themselves beside her, standing, looking over her shoulders, her arms around some of them. Then_ GRANDMOTHER _reads_: And there were shepherds in the same country abiding in the field, and keeping watch by night over their flock. And an angel of the Lord stood by them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, "Be not afraid; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all the people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord. And this shall be the sign unto you: Ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger?" And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." And it came to pass, when the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, "Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing that is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us." And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in the manger. _Then_ GRANDMOTHER _closes the Book_. And now your prayers, _says she_. _They all kneel down for a few moments, the boys by the bed on the right, the girls by the bed on the left. Then they rise and climb into the beds._ _But_ SALLY _has a question to ask_: May we sing one song, Grandmother, before we go to sleep? _And_ GRANDMOTHER _answers_, Well, just one. _Then sitting up in the bed, they sing the dear old song, that is called_ THE CAROL OF CHRISTMAS NIGHT Holy night! peaceful night! All is dark save the light Yonder where they sweet vigil keep O'er the Babe, who in silent sleep Rests in heavenly peace. Silent night! holiest night! Darkness flies; all is light! Shepherds hear the angels sing, "Hallelujah! Hail the King! Christ, the Saviour, is here, Jesus, the Saviour, is here." _When the song is finished, they all lie down. Grandmother tucks the bed-clothes about their shoulders, and goes out. Soon they are all asleep._ _Then a faint sound of sleigh-bells is heard on the roof._ _Then all is quiet for a moment._ _And THEN Santa Claus comes down the chimney, and steps out into the room. Silently he looks at both beds, full of sleeping children, turning his pocket flash light on them, so as to see them better. He counts the children in each bed. Then he counts the stockings hanging by the fire-place to be sure they are all there. Next he fills each of the stockings, taking the toys out of his pack. Then he takes his empty bag, and, after looking once more at the children, he disappears up the Chimney._ _And this is the end of the Play_. * * * * * Characters And Costumes MOTHER GOOSE--The conventional costume; full skirt, peaked hat, cane, spectacles, mits. It is effective for her to draw her lips tight over her teeth so that her speech is that of a toothless old woman. JACK FROST--All in white, decorated with tinsel, tall peaked cap, white gloves. THE CHIMNEY--No costume; for he sits inside the chimney throughout. THE WIND FAIRIES--Four little boys, all in gray, capes, caps, half-masks, long stockings. THE SNOW FAIRIES--Four little girls, all in white, capes or coats, hoods, muffs. The muffs full of loose cotton, which they use as snow, to hang on trees and chimney, and to throw at Santa Claus. SANTA CLAUS--The conventional costume; white hair and beard; pack, with few toys protruding from the top. THE GRANDMOTHER--Gray hair, lace cap, gray or black dress. THE GRANDCHILDREN--Four boys in pajamas, with wrappers over them; four girls in night dresses with kimonos over them. Scenery And Scenic Effects SCENE I. The Chimney, which must be large enough to hold two people, one of them Santa Claus with his pack of toys, may consist of a light frame covered with turkey red cambric and backed with cardboard or heavy paper. The cambric should be marked off into bricks. The face is produced by cutting away the cardboard or paper backing behind two bricks for the eyes, one for the nose and two together for the mouth. Boxes must cover these openings on the inside, one for each eye and a larger one for mouth and nose together. In these three boxes are three electric lights which can be turned on and off independently by the boy inside the chimney. Dry batteries have been used when an electric current was not available. The light shining through the cambric makes the face. Turning off, and on again, the light behind one of the eyes makes the chimney wink, etc. Small hooks or nails, sticking out above the eyes, under the nose, and under the mouth, should be provided to hold the snow which the fairies hang on to represent eyebrows, mustache and beard. The background and flies for this scene should be made of black cambric, dull side out, and a dim light should be used, blue or green preferable, so distributed as not to throw shadows on the "sky." The trees may be real spruces or pines, or may be painted, or may be made of green cambric touched up with paint or charcoal. The wind noise is made by some one behind the scenes, preferably not the Wind Fairies themselves. It should be plainly heard. The same applies to the sound of water thrown on the fire. If accompaniment is desired for the songs, a violin gives a better effect than a piano. The effect of falling snow is produced by a simple machine, consisting of a connected series of perforated cardboard boxes suspended from a cord or wire, and filled with finely cut paper. At one end they are attached to a wire spring, and by a cord at the other end they are shaken, so as to make the paper snow shower down. Such a machine may be bought for a small sum from firms dealing in Sunday School supplies. Two of them used together are more adequate than one. SCENE II. It is not necessary to use real beds. Boards on low horses or boxes will make excellent substitutes, and a strip of cloth will conceal their structure. An advantage of this plan is that they need not be as long as regulation beds. Four children to a bed means packing them like sardines, but it can be done, and it always amuses the audience. The effect of a fire on the hearth can be made by quick motions with an ever-ready flashlight operated from behind. The children and Grandmother, standing in front, allow but an imperfect view of the fire-place, so that the illusion is easy to produce. The fireplace, however, may be a real one, if that is more convenient. In that case the flashlight must be operated by one of the children, kneeling in front of the fire-place; and when Santa Claus enters the room must be absolutely dark, so that he will first be seen when he turns on his flashlight, as he crouches before the fire-place, having apparently just come down the chimney. If candies or gifts are to be distributed to children in the audience, as when this play is used as the Christmas entertainment of a Sunday School, Mother Goose may come out again, as soon as the curtain closes after the second scene, and speak as follows: Well, my dear children, my little Play for you is finished, and I hope you liked it. There is just one thing left to be said. Those little boys and girls whom you saw asleep in their beds found that Santa Claus had not only put into their stockings presents for THEM, but also left something for YOU; and what do you suppose it was? A box of candy for each one of you, and if you will sit still a moment longer, the curtain will open again, and the candy will be handed to you. And so, my dears, as I say Good-night, I wish you all (or I hope you have all had) a Merry Christmas and (wish you) a Happy New Year. 
14786	----	Proofreading Team. Up The Chimney BY SHEPHERD KNAPP [Illustration] Preface This play is intended, not only for acting, but also for reading. It is so arranged that boys and girls can read it to themselves, just as they would read any other story. Even the stage directions and the descriptions of scenery are presented as a part of the narrative. At the same time, by the use of different styles of type, the speeches of the characters are clearly distinguished from the rest of the text, an arrangement which will be found convenient when parts are being memorized for acting. The play has been acted more than once, and by different groups of people; sometimes on a stage equipped with footlights, curtain, and scenery; sometimes with barely any of these aids. Practical suggestions as to costumes, scenery, and some simple scenic effects will be found at the end of the play. What sort of a Christmas play do the boys and girls like, and in what sort do we like to see them take part? It should be a play, surely, in which the dialogue is simple and natural, not stilted and artificial; one that seems like a bit of real life, and yet has plenty of fancy and imagination in it; one that suggests and helps to perpetuate some of the happy and wholesome customs of Christmas; above all, one that is pervaded by the Christmas spirit. I hope that this play does not entirely fail to meet these requirements. Worcester, Mass. SHEPHERD KNAPP. The Introduction _Before the curtain opens_, MOTHER GOOSE _comes out, and this is what she says_: Good evening, dear children. I see you are all expecting me to show you a Christmas Play. Well, I have one ready, sure enough. And now let me see, what shall I tell you about it? For one thing it will take place on Christmas Eve, and then it will be all about Christmas, of course. The first scene will be in the house, where a little girl and a little boy live, with their father, who is a doctor, and their mother. It is evening and the weather is very cold outside. The little girl and boy are writing letters--can you guess to whom they are writing?--and the mother is knitting, and the father is reading his newspaper; as you will see in a moment for yourselves. So be very quiet, for now it is going to begin. Up The Chimney The First Scene _The curtain opens, and you see a room in a house and four people, just as Mother Goose promised. On one side is a fire-place, and notice the stockings hanging by it. At the back is a window, looking out into the street, but you cannot see anything there, because it is dark out of doors. The little girl's name is Polly, but the first one to speak is her brother, named_ JACK, _who looks up from his letter and says_: Mother, how do you spell "friend"? MOTHER _answers_: F, r, i, e, n, d. Have you nearly finished your letter, Jack? Yes, _says_ JACK, _still writing. Then he stops, straightens up and says_, There! It's all done. Shall I read it to you, Mother? Do, MOTHER _answers. And Father puts down his newspaper to listen, and Polly stops writing. Mother goes on knitting, because she can knit and listen at the same time_. _So_ JACK _reads_: "Dear Santa Claus, I have been very good this year--most of the time; and I wish you would bring me a toy soldier. I am very well and I hope you are. Your loving little friend, Jack." Is that all right, Mother? It is a very good letter, _says_ MOTHER; only I thought you were going to speak about that pair of warm gloves for Father. Oh, I forget that, _says_ JACK, _looking a little bit ashamed_. I'll put it in a postscript. _So he goes on writing, and so does Polly_. JACK _says his words aloud while he writes them_: "P.S.--Fa--ather--would--like--a--pair--of--warm--gloves." MOTHER _looks over at Polly, who seems to have finished, and says_: Polly, let us hear your letter. _So_ POLLY _reads_: "Dear Santa Claus, I am so glad that tomorrow is Christmas. We have all hung up our stockings, and I think I would like best to have a doll in short dresses. I love you very much. Your little friend, Polly. P.S.--I think Mother would like a ball of white knitting cotton." I had to put that in a postscript, Mother, because I forgot, too. _And now_ FATHER, _who has been listening all this time, says_: Where will you put the letters?--on the mantel-piece or in the stockings? Oh, on the mantel-piece, _answers_ JACK. We always put them on the mantel-piece. Don't you remember that, Father? Yes, I believe I do, now that you speak of it, _says_ FATHER. _Then the children put the two letters on the mantel-piece, standing them against the clock, so that they can be easily seen. While they are doing this, some one passes the window, walking along the street, and there comes a knock at the door_. Come in, _says_ FATHER; _and in comes a little woman, rather old, and rather bent, and rather lame_. Why, if it isn't little Nurse Mary, _cries_ FATHER, _and they all rise up to greet her. She kisses both the children, and shakes hands with Father and Mother._ Here's a chair for you, Nurse Mary, _says_ JACK. Let me take your cloak and hood, Nurse Mary, _says_ POLLY. _When they were all seated again_, FATHER _says_, I am afraid I shall have to give you a little scolding, Mary, for coming out on such a cold night. It really don't do, you know. Now, Doctor John, NURSE MARY _answers_, What do you expect? Haven't I seen you every Christmas Eve since you were half the size of Master Jack here, and didn't I knit with my own hands the first little stocking you ever hung up for Santa Claus, and don't I remember how frightened you were that time when we heard the reindeers on the roof, and when the handful of walnuts came tumbling down the chimney? And do you expect me to stay away on Christmas Eve, like some lonely old woman, who never was nurse to any children at all, let alone two generations of them? What are you thinking of, Doctor John? I am thinking, _says_ FATHER _smiling_, that if you hadn't come, we should have missed you dreadfully. But tell me, Nurse Mary, how are you feeling? Well, _answers_ NURSE MARY, to speak the truth, Doctor John, I think you must give me some medicine. Medicine? _cries_ MOTHER. Are you sick, Nurse Mary? _asks_ POLLY. Yes, Miss Polly, sick, and very sick, too, NURSE MARY _answers_. But how? _asks_ FATHER. What's wrong? Where is the trouble? First of all, in my back, Doctor John, _says_ NURSE MARY. Today, after sweeping and scrubbing a little, and baking a Christmas cake, I just ironed out a few pieces, my best cap and apron, and the likes of that, and before I had finished, I give you word my back began to ache. Now what do you make of it? And then, my joints--stiff! Yes, Dr. John, stiff! How am I to do my work with stiff joints, I'd like to know? I see, _says_ FATHER, _shaking his head._ This is a serious matter. But cheer up, Nurse Mary; I believe I have the very thing that will help you. _He opens his medicine case, which stands on the table, and takes out a little bottle._ Here it is, _he says_, and let me tell you how to take it; for with this medicine that is the most important part. You must find some children to give it to you. If you take it from grown-up people, it will do you no good at all, so you must find a child somewhere, or two would be better, one to pour it out and one to hold the spoon-- Oh, let me pour it out, _cries_ JACK. And let me hold the spoon, _cries_ POLLY. Why, that will do finely, _says_ FATHER, _and hands Jack the bottle._ And now I must go out, _he continues_; for old Mrs. Cavendish is sick and has sent for me. It may be quite late, when I come home. _He begins to put on his overcoat._ And I, _says_ MOTHER, have some Christmas bundles to tie up. If Nurse Mary goes before I come back, will you both go quietly to bed like good children? Yes, Mother, _cry_ POLLY _and_ JACK _together._ Well, good night, then, Mary dear, _says_ MOTHER. Good night, Nurse Mary, _says_ FATHER. _Then Mother and Father both go out, the one to her own room and the other to the street._ Come, Nurse Mary, _says_ JACK, you must take your medicine. Do you suppose it is very bitter? _asks_ NURSE MARY. I think it is, _says_ JACK, _looking into the bottle and smelling it_. It looks bitter and it smells bitter. But you mustn't mind that, Nurse Mary, _says_ POLLY; because it will make you well. All right, _says_ NURSE MARY. Pour it out. _Then Polly holds the spoon, and Jack carefully pours the medicine into it. Nurse Mary opens her mouth, swallows the dose, and makes a wry face, shuddering._ Was it horrid? _asks_ JACK. Horrid! _answers_ NURSE MARY. Do you feel better? _asks_ POLLY. I can't tell yet, _answers_ NURSE MARY. I suppose I must wait a little for the medicine to work. And while we are waiting, _says_ JACK, tell us about when Father was a little boy. _So Nurse Mary sits down, and takes Polly on her lap, while Jack sits on a stool at her feet, and then_ NURSE MARY _begins_, When Dr. John was a very little boy-- But, Nurse Mary, JACK _says, interrupting_, he wasn't named "Dr. John" then, was he? No, _answers_ NURSE MARY, he was just "Master John" then. Well, when he was a very little boy, so that I could carry him upstairs to bed without any trouble at all, he was the most beautiful boy you ever saw. He had fat rosy cheeks, and fine big eyes, and stout little legs. Was he big enough to walk, when you first took care of him? _asks_ POLLY. No, indeed, _answers_ NURSE MARY; and the first time he ever went to a Christmas tree, I had to carry him. I held him up to see the candles. Did he like it? _asks_ JACK. I think that he was just a wee bit frightened, _says_ NURSE MARY, but I'll tell you what he did like. You know the little figures of Mary and Joseph and the Christ Child in the manger, that you always set out on Christmas Day, with the cows and the sheep standing all about? _The children both nod_. Well, when your father saw that, and heard your grandparents and all the older brothers and sisters singing "The Carol of the Friendly Beasts"--just as you will sing it again tomorrow--he held out his hands and danced up and down in my arms. I tell you, I could hardly hold him. Nurse Mary, _says_ POLLY, won't you sing us "The Carol of the Friendly Beasts" now? In my old cracked voice? _says_ NURSE MARY. Well, if you will both help me, I'll try. _So the three of them together sing_: THE CAROL OF THE FRIENDLY BEASTS[1] Jesus our brother, strong and good, Was humbly born in a stable rude, And the friendly beasts around him stood. I, said the cow, all white and red, I gave him my manger for his bed, I gave him my hay to pillow his head. I, said the camel, yellow and black, Over the desert, upon my back, I brought him a gift in the wise man's pack. I, said the donkey, shaggy and brown, I carried his mother uphill and down, I carried her safely to Bethlehem town. I, said the sheep, with the curly horn, I gave him my wool for his blanket warm, He wore my coat on Christmas morn. I, said the dove, from my rafter high, Cooed him to sleep that he should not cry, We cooed him to sleep my mate and I. And every beast, by some good spell In the stable dark, was glad to tell Of the gift he gave Immanuel. [Footnote 1: By Robert Davis.] _When the carol is finished_, NURSE MARY _looks at the clock, and says_, My dears, it is time we were all in bed, or Santa Claus when he comes, will find us awake, and that would never do. So I must be going home. But how do you feel? _asks_ POLLY. Has the medicine done your back good? My back? _says_ NURSE MARY. Why, I had forgotten all about my back--not an ache in it. And your joints? _asks_ JACK. I wouldn't know I had any joints, _answers_ NURSE MARY. I declare, I believe I could dance the Highland Fling. But where is my cloak? _Then Polly gets the cloak and hood, and helps her put them on, and as Nurse Mary goes out at the door_, Good-night, Nurse Mary, _cry_ JACK _and_ POLLY. Good-night, my dears, NURSE MARY _answers. And the door closes behind her_. _Now while the children had their backs turned, a funny thing happened, for out of the fire-place there stepped, without making a sound, a little man dressed all in green. Jack and Polly, when they turn about, see him standing there._ Why, who are you? _asks_ JACK, _standing still, but very bravely keeping in front of Polly._ _The little green man says never a word, but after waiting a moment with his finger on his lips, he beckons to them to come forward, and slowly, for they are a little frightened, they obey him. When they are quite close, he looks cautiously around, and then draws a large white letter out of his pocket, and hands it to Jack. Jack looks at it, and shows it to Polly. Then he looks at the little green man, who nods his head with a funny little jerk._ Shall I open it? _asks_ JACK. _And the little green man nods again. So Jack opens it._ Shall I read it? _asks_ JACK. _And the little green man nods again. So Jacks begins to read:_ "My dear Children all over the world, I, who write you this letter, am your old friend Santa Claus, and how shall I tell you the sad news, for tonight is the night when I ought to get into my reindeer sleigh and go about filling your precious stockings with Christmas gifts, and I cannot do it because I am sick. My back aches like a tooth ache, and every joint in my whole body is so stiff that I can hardly move. Old Father Time, who pretends to be something of a doctor, says the trouble is that I am growing old--the idea of it! I sent him packing about his business, I can tell you. But all the same I do feel mighty queer, and that's a fact. And the worst of it is that this is Christmas Eve, and here I am shut up indoors in my house at the North Pole, and every stocking in the world is hanging empty. I cannot bear to have Christmas come and go without any word at all from me, so I have gotten my good little friends the gnomes and fairies and elves to help me out. They had some old fairy toys, that are almost as good as new, and these they are going to carry about to all the children; and although these gifts are rather different from what you usually receive from me, I hope they will at least keep you from forgetting poor old Santa Claus." _Jack and Polly look sadly at one another, and then at the little green man. He reaches out his hand, takes the letter, folds it up, replaces it in the envelope, and tucks it away in his pocket. Then he brings out two little packages, all in green paper, tied with green string, and gives one to Polly and one to Jack. Then, quick as a flash, he has disappeared in the fire-place._ Where did he go to? _asks_ POLLY, _after a moment of surprise._ Up the chimney, _says_ JACK. But what has he given to us? _says_ POLLY, _looking at the little green package in her hand._ Let's open them, _says_ JACK. _So the two children untie the strings, and open the papers, and soon hold up the things they have found inside. Jack has a pair of spectacles with large round glasses and black rims. Polly has a curious little brown cap. They look at them in perplexity._ Oh, there is some writing fastened to mine, _says_ POLLY. And to mine, too, _adds_ JACK. POLLY _reads:_ "A fairy wishing-cap am I; So put me on, and away you fly. Wherever you wish, 'tis there you'll be, And quicker than saying three-times-three." _Polly puts the cap on her head. Then_ JACK _reads_: "Fairy spectacles are we; Put us on, and you shall see Things you never saw before, Easy as saying four-times-four." _Jack puts the spectacles on his nose, and begins to go about the room looking at everything through them_. Oh, Polly, _he exclaims_, I can see all sorts of queer things. I can see what is in the table drawer without opening it, and I can see the pictures in the books right through the covers. And oh, Polly, look here. _He is looking into the fire-place, when he says this_. I can see now how the little green man went up the chimney, for there are steps in the side, all the way up. Look at them. POLLY _looks. Then she says_, I don't see any steps, Jack. It's the fairy spectacles, Polly, _cries_ JACK. Isn't it wonderful? Jack! _says_ POLLY _suddenly_, do you know what we must do? We must go to Santa Claus, and carry him the medicine that cured Nurse Mary's back and joints. You will go first up the chimney, and I will go after, stepping just where I see you step, and then at the top I will take tight hold of your hand, and with my wishing cap on I will wish to be at Santa Claus' house at the North Pole. Splendid! Let's start this minute, _cries_ JACK. _Polly takes the spoon, and Jack takes the medicine bottle, and one after the other they go up the chimney._ _A moment later_ MOTHER _comes in._ Children, _she begins, looking about; but then she continues_, Oh, I see: they have gone to bed. _She goes across to the other door and listens. Then she says_: Not a sound! They are fast asleep already. _So she takes the lamp from the table, and carries it out with her, leaving the room all in black darkness._ _And that is the end of the First Scene._ * * * * * Interlude _While the curtain is closed_, MOTHER GOOSE _comes out, and this is what she says:_ Children, did you see Jack and Polly go up that chimney? Well, as soon as they got to the top, Polly took fast hold of Jack's hand and wished to be at the North Pole, and away they went flying through the air. They have gotten there already, I think. Hark! Yes, they are just going in at the gate that leads up to Santa Claus's house, and soon they will be knocking at his door. Then you will see them come in, for you will be there before they are; and when the curtain opens, as it will in just a moment, you will see the inside of the house where Santa Claus lives. You must be very quiet for Santa Claus is sick, remember, and a noise might make his head ache. Hush! It is going to begin. * * * * * The Second Scene _When the Curtain opens, you again see a room, but quite different from the first one. There is a door on one side, and at the back is a sort of tall box with closed doors in the front of it, a kind of cupboard. On shelves at the sides of the room are some toys and packages, and a bag, nearly full, leans against the wall. There are two people in the room. One of them, of course, is Santa Claus, but oh, how sick he looks. The other person is a woman, you will see, and she must be Mrs. Santa Claus. There are two other figures that look a good deal like people, but they are only big toys that Santa Claus and his wife have been making, a soldier on one side, and a doll on the other._ SANTA CLAUS, _who is sitting, wrapped up in a great blanket wrapper, and is leaning his head on his hand, while he holds a cane in the other is saying_, What is the use of working any longer, for if I can't carry the presents to the children, what is the good of finishing them? But you might feel better at the last moment, _says_ MRS. SANTA CLAUS, _who is tieing a sash on the big doll that stands beside her._ That's true, _says_ SANTA CLAUS. Well, I believe I'll finish this soldier, then. He's the last one I need to make, and he's all done except to have his cheeks painted. I'll get my paint out and finish him. _So Santa Claus rises up very stiffly and painfully, and hobbles across the room to get his paint and paintbrush. Then he sits down again in front of the big toy soldier, and paints both its cheeks a fine bright red. Just as he is finishing, there comes a knock at the door._ Come in, _says_ MRS. SANTA CLAUS. _And in walk Jack and Polly, hand in hand, wearing the fairy spectacles and the wishing cap, one holding the bottle and the other the spoon._ Donner and Blitzen! _exclaims_ SANTA CLAUS, _laying down his brush,_ if it isn't Polly and Jack! Oh, Santa, _cries_ POLLY, we got your letter and the wishing-cap-- And the fairy spectacles, says JACK. And we've brought you some of father's medicine, _continues_ POLLY, because it made Nurse Mary quite well--her back, you know. And her joints, _adds_ JACK. And you have to take it from children, POLLY _goes on._ One of them holds the spoon--_Here_ POLLY _holds out the spoon._ And the other pours out the medicine, _says_ JACK, _and with that he pours it out._ It's very bitter, _he adds, as Polly holds it out for Santa Claus to take._ _Then Santa Claus opens his mouth, and swallows the dose, with a wry face and a shudder._ Is it horrid? _asks_ POLLY. Horrid! _says_ SANTA CLAUS. But it will make you well, you know, _says_ POLLY _encouragingly._ Only you have to wait a little for the medicine to work. And you came all the way to the North Pole, to bring me this medicine? _says_ SANTA CLAUS, _looking from Polly to Jack and back to Polly again_. How did you get here? First, we went up the chimney, _says_ JACK, I saw the steps with the fairy spectacles, you know. And then, _says_ POLLY, I held fast hold of his hand, and wished. I had the wishing-cap, you see. But weren't you afraid? _asks_ SANTA CLAUS. When you climbed up the black chimney, and when you stood on the top, in the black night under the stars, and when you came flying through the air, weren't you frightened? Well, it wasn't much fun, _says_ POLLY, but we didn't know how else to get here. And we knew you were sick, _says_ JACK. But, _asks_ SANTA CLAUS, what difference did it make to you children whether an old man like me was sick or not? Why, Santa Claus, _answers_ POLLY, we all just love you, you know. Well, well, _says_ SANTA CLAUS. _Then he lays down his cane on the floor, and stretches himself, and stands up, and walks across the room without hobbling at all._ How do you feel now? _asks_ JACK. Feel? _answers_ SANTA CLAUS, _moving more and more briskly_. I feel as young as a snow flake; I feel as strong as a northeast blizzard. Quick, Mrs. Santa Claus, bring me my fur cap and gloves. There's time yet to fill the children's stockings. _While Mrs. Santa Claus is out of the room_, JACK _says_: Santa, I didn't even know there was a Mrs. Santa Claus. Have you ever been very sick? _asks_ SANTA CLAUS. We've had chicken pox, _answers_ JACK. Oh, that doesn't count, _says_ SANTA CLAUS, but some times, when children are very sick indeed--or, for days and days--and when they are very good and patient, and take their medicine, and never kick the bed clothes off, then Mrs. Santa Claus comes in the night, and brings them a present, and when they wake up, they find it beside the bed. Oh, _says_ POLLY, I think she must be almost as good as you, Santa Claus. And besides that, _says_ SANTA CLAUS, who do you suppose dresses all the dolls that I put into the stockings? She does, of course. Look here at this fine one that she has just finished. To be sure, I make the doll part myself, and this one here is a very fine one, if I do say it: it can talk. Would you like to hear it, Polly? Just pull that string there. _Polly pulls the string and the_ DOLL, _in a very squeaky voice, says_, Ma-ma. And, by the way, SANTA CLAUS _goes on_, I must put this doll and that soldier into the shrinking-machine. Why, what is that, Santa Claus? _asks_ JACK. The shrinking-machine? _says_ SANTA CLAUS. That is it, over there. _He points to the tall cupboardy thing at the back. Then he goes on_. You see it's easier to make toys big, but I couldn't carry them that way, for the sleigh wouldn't hold them, and besides they wouldn't go into the stockings. So after they are made, I put them into the machine, and shrink them. Open the doors, Polly, and we will shrink these two. _So Polly opens the doors, and at a signal from Santa Claus the doll and the soldier walk in; but they move in a funny stiff way, because they haven't any joints at their knees or elbows._ _Then_ SANTA CLAUS _shuts the doors_. Jack, _say he,_ you may turn the crank, if you want. _So Jack turns the crank._ _After a little_ SANTA CLAUS _says_: Stop! _Then he opens the door and out walk, in the same funny stiff way, the doll and the soldier, only now they are about half as big as they were before. They walk down to the front._ SANTA CLAUS _looks at them, shakes his head, and says,_ No, you must be much smaller than that. Go back into the machine. _So back the doll and soldier go; and Jack again turns the crank and this time, when_ SANTA CLAUS _cries,_ Stop, _and the doors are opened, the toys have grown very small indeed, as you can see, when Santa Claus holds them up. He puts the soldier into a box, and then puts the box and the doll into his bag._ _And now Mrs. Santa Claus comes in with the cap and gloves; and Santa Claus puts them on. At the same time sleighbells are heard outside, and a stamping of hoofs._ We're off! _cries_ SANTA CLAUS, _taking up his pack._ Come, Polly! Come, Jack! I'll stow you away as warm as toast down under the buffalo robe. Good-bye, _cries_ MRS. SANTA CLAUS as _they go out at the door._ Good-bye, good-bye, _they_ ALL _call back._ _Then there is more stamping of hoofs outside, and a great jingling of sleighbells, which grow fainter and fainter, as they drive away._ _And that is the end of the Second Scene._ * * * * * Interlude _Again while the curtain is closed_ MOTHER GOOSE _comes out, and this is what she says:_ My dears, we must hurry back to the house where Jack and Polly live, for Santa Claus's sleigh is going so fast through the sky, that it will be there before us, unless we are quick about it. It is still dark night there, and nothing has happened since we were there before, except that Dr. John has come home from seeing sick old Mrs. Cavendish, and he has let himself in with his key, and has felt his way in the dark to his own door, and has gone to bed. He and Mother are both fast asleep, and they haven't an idea but that Jack and Polly are fast asleep in their beds too. But you and I know that they are in the reindeer sleigh with Santa Claus. And all the time they are coming nearer and nearer. Listen for the sleighbells, for now it is going to begin. * * * * * The Third Scene _When the curtain opens you can see nothing at all at first, for the room is all dark, just as Mother left it, you remember, when she went out and took the light with her. But after a moment you can hear something--the sleighbells far away. Nearer and nearer they come; then there is a stamping sound on the roof; then a sort of scrambling sound in the place where you know the chimney is; and then Santa Claus, who by this time is crouching down in the fire-place, turns the light of his lantern into the room. He steps out carrying his pack, and then down the chimney come Jack and Polly._ Hush! _says_ SANTA CLAUS, _with his finger at his lips._ Off to bed with you both! And don't you dare to open your eyes until the day-light comes. It won't be long. _On tiptoes Polly and Jack go out at the door. Then Santa Claus turns to his work. First he reads Polly's letter by the light of his lantern, and fills Polly's stocking and Mother's; then he reads Jack's letter and fills Jack's stocking and Father's; then he puts out the light so that the room is all dark again. You hear him climbing up the chimney, then there is a jingling of sleighbells on the roof, which grows fainter and fainter, and then all is still once more._ _After a little while you notice that you can see faintly through the window at the back, because it is beginning to be daylight. Very, very slowly it grows brighter. Then the door, that Jack and Polly went out by, opens, and in come the two children in their wrappers._ Is it daylight now? _asks_ JACK, _but he is looking toward the fire-place instead of toward the window._ Yes, I think it is, _says_ POLLY, _and she is looking in the same direction._ _Then they go on tiptoe to the door of the other room, where Father and Mother sleep; they open the door and shout:_ Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! _Two rather sleepy voices, from_ MOTHER _first and then from_ FATHER, _answer:_ Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. _And_ MOTHER _continues,_ All right, children; we'll be there in a moment, as soon as we have put our wrappers on. _The children go over to the fire-place, and feel the lumpy stockings; and then in come Father and Mother in wrappers and nightcaps._ Oh, _says_ FATHER, old Santa Claus hasn't forgotten us, has he? And candy canes are still in fashion, I see; I'm glad of that. Bring Mother her stocking, Polly; and Jack, get mine for me. We'll sit down and take our time about it. No fair, Jack, _cries_ POLLY. You're peeking into your stocking. I've only felt of mine. But my thing is in a box, _says_ JACK, so that I can't see anything anyway. Oh, let's begin quick. All right, _says_ FATHER, and ladies first. Mother, you lead off. Shall I? _says_ MOTHER, _feeling her stocking_. Oh, I know what this round thing is: it's an orange. No, it isn't either: it's a ball of knitting cotton. Just what I want, and the very kind I use. Now, Polly, it's your turn to see what is in the top of yours. I'm sure I know what mine is, _says_ POLLY, _and then as she draws it out._ Yes, it is: it's a doll. Why, Polly, _cries_ JACK, it's the very same doll that we-- Hush! _says_ POLLY _quickly_. Yes, it's the very same kind of a doll I asked for. See, Mother, she has a pink sash. Isn't she lovely? Now, Jack, _says_ FATHER, I think it is your turn next. What is in that box of yours? Slate pencils, probably. Slate pencils! _says_ JACK, _indignantly_. You know I didn't want slate pencils. But are you sure you will get just what you want? _asks_ FATHER. Yes, indeed I am, _answers_ JACK, _pulling out the box and opening it_, and there it is--a soldier. I knew it would be that, because I saw it when-- Hush! _says_ POLLY _quickly_. Father, it is now your turn at last. And I know all about mine, _says_ FATHER. It is soft and squashy, so of course it's a sponge. Now why do you suppose Santa Claus brought me a sponge? for my old one is quite good enough. But it isn't a sponge at all, _cries_ JACK, _who has been peeking into the little bundle_. Not a sponge? _says_ FATHER. But what is it, then? _He opens the paper_. A pair of warm gloves, I declare--just what I need. Well, Santa Claus is a great old fellow, and no mistake. _Mother has been turning her head toward the window, as though she were listening to something, and now she says:_ Hush! Is that singing that I hear, far away? _They all listen, and sure enough from some distance can be heard the sound of singing voices. The children, nodding their heads, show that they hear it._ What can it be? _says_ MOTHER. Why, I know; it's the Christmas Waits, of course, singing carols from house to house. Oh, I wish they would sing in our street, _cries_ POLLY, _and runs to the window. Then she exclaims,_ There they are: they are coming around the corner. _The others all go toward the window, and_ JACK _says delightedly._ One of them has a fiddle. Oh, I do hope they will stop here. _Then outside the window the Christmas Waits can be seen, all in warm caps and mittens and mufflers. They stop just in front of the window, hold up their music before them, and begin to sing the dear old carol, called_: THE CAROL OF CHRISTMAS MORNING God rest you merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ our Saviour Was born on Christmas Day. _When the carol is finished_, POLLY _and_ JACK _and_ MOTHER _and_ FATHER _wave to the Waits, and cry,_ Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! _And the_ WAITS _wave back and cry_: Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! _And this is the end of the Play._ * * * * * Characters and Costumes MOTHER GOOSE--The conventional costume; full skirt, peaked hat, cane, spectacles, mits. It is effective for her to draw her lips tight over her teeth so that her speech is that of a toothless old woman. POLLY--A little girl } first in ordinary indoor clothes; } JACK--a little boy } afterwards in wrappers. DOCTOR JOHN--Their father; indoor clothes; also overcoat and hat; medicine case; afterwards in a dressing gown. MOTHER--Doctor John's wife; indoor clothes; afterwards in kimono or wrapper. NURSE MARY--A little old woman; first dressed for outdoors, in cloak and hood; simple dark dress underneath. AN ELF--Acted by a very little boy, dressed all in green; he does not speak. SANTA CLAUS--At first in heavy wrapper, preferably white; underneath this his conventional costume; later he puts on fur cap and gloves. MRS. SANTA CLAUS--Indoor clothes of red and white, corresponding to the conventional costume of Santa Claus. DOLL--Acted by two girls, one much smaller than the other, but both exactly alike as to dress, stockings, sash, hair ribbons, and color and arrangement of hair. SOLDIER--Acted by two boys, one much smaller than the other, but corresponding as closely as possible in uniform and appearance, except that the small one has bright red cheeks from the beginning. CHRISTMAS WAITS--Boys in outdoor clothes; warm caps, mufflers, gloves or mittens; one carries and plays a violin; others hold copies of the carols. * * * * * Scenery and Scenic Effects SCENES I AND III. The stage should contain a table, a little at one side, opposite the fire-place, and five chairs, one for each of the family, and the fifth for Nurse Mary when she arrives. On the table a lighted lamp. For safety, it may be lighted by an ever-ready electric torch. The lighting of the stage must, of course, be otherwise provided for. There should be two doors on opposite sides of the stage, and a practicable window at the back, through which in the last scene a view of houses or landscape is visible, and the Waits at the close. As the fire-place is at the side, it is easy to arrange steps by which the elf and the children appear to climb up and down the chimney. A box or small step ladder, just out of sight on the side toward the front, will serve the purpose. The Carol of the Friendly Beasts may be sung to the following tune: [Illustration: Music] There is also another tune composed by Clarence Dickinson. A different carol may, of course, be substituted, if desired. SCENE II. The Shrinking Machine stands at the back of the stage, and must be accessible from behind, for the changing of the doll and the soldier. There should be doors in front which can be opened wide. At one side should be the crank. For this an ice cream freezer will serve, well secured in place, only the handle showing through the cambric side wall of the Machine. The sound is effective, even though the children in the audience will announce its identity at once. For painting the soldier's cheeks, cranberry juice is both brilliant and harmless. If gifts or candies are to be distributed, Mother Goose may enter again immediately after the final curtain, and say something like this: Well, my dear children, it is all over, and I hope it has pleased you. I heard you laugh once or twice, and that makes me think that you must have liked it. But there is one more thing to tell you, and this you are sure to like very much indeed. You will remember that they had only looked at the first things, in the very top of their stockings. Well, after the curtain closed, they had time to look at what was left. And what do you suppose Father found in the bottom of his stocking, down in the very toe of it? A little note from Santa Claus, telling him that if he would look into the fire-place he would find there some boxes of candy, one for every child in this audience: And sure enough, there they were: and if you will sit very still, the curtain will open again, and they will be brought out and given to you. And so, my dears, as I bid you Good-night, I wish you all (or, I hope you have had) a very Merry Christmas and (wish you) a Happy New Year. 
48832	----	THE MERRY CHRISTMAS OF THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "Better than Gold," "Our Folks," "The Flower of the Family," "Enlisted for the War," "My Brother's Keeper," "The Little Brown Jug," "Above the Clouds," "One Hundred Years Ago," "Among the Breakers," "Bread on the Waters," "Down by the Sea," "Once on a Time," "The Last Loaf," "Stand by the Flag," "The Tempter," "A Mysterious Disappearance," "Paddle Your Own Canoe," "A Drop too Much," "A Little More Cider," "A Thorn Among the Roses," "Never Say Die," "Seeing the Elephant," "The Boston Dip," "The Duchess of Dublin," "Thirty Minutes for Refreshments," "We're all Teetotalers," "A Close Shave," "A Public Benefactor," "A Sea of Troubles," "A Tender Attachment," "Coals of Fire," "Freedom of the Press," "Shall Our Mothers Vote?" "Gentleman of the Jury," "Humors of the Strike," "My Uncle the Captain," "New Brooms Sweep Clean," "The Great Elixir," "The Hypochondriac," "The Man with the Demijohn," "The Runaways," "The Thief of Time," "Wanted, a Male Cook," "A Love of a Bonnet," "A Precious Pickle," "No Cure No Pay," "The Champion of Her Sex," "The Greatest Plague in Life," "The Grecian Bend," "The Red Chignon," "Using the Weed," "Lightheart's Pilgrimage," "The Revolt of the Bees," "The Sculptor's Triumph," "The Tournament of Idylcourt," "The War of the Roses," "An Original Idea," "Bonbons," "Capuletta," "Santa Claus' Frolics," "Snow-Bound," "The Merry Christmas of the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe," "The Pedler of Very Nice," "The Seven Ages," "Too Late for the Train," "The Visions of Freedom," "Rebecca's Triumph," "Comrades," "Past Redemption," "Nevada," "Messmates," &c., &c. BOSTON [Illustration: Walter H. Baker & Co.] THE EXHIBITION DRAMA COMPRISING DRAMA, COMEDY AND FARCE TOGETHER WITH Dramatic and Musical Entertainments FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS, HOME REPRESENTATIONS, HOLIDAY AND SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS BY GEORGE M. BAKER _CONTAINING_ Enlisted for the War The Champion of Her Sex The Tournament of Idylcourt A Thorn among the Roses Never Say Die The Visions of Freedom A Christmas Carol The Merry Christmas of the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by GEORGE M. BAKER in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts Copyright, 1902, by Emily F. Baker (in renewal). [Illustration] THE MERRY CHRISTMAS OF THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE. CHARACTERS. THE OLD WOMAN who lived in a Shoe. SANTA CLAUS, disguised as a Beggar. Ten or twelve CHILDREN, Boys and Girls of various ages. SCENE.--_The exterior of "Copper Toe Shoe House," which is set at back of platform._ _Chorus (invisible); air, "Revolutionary Tea"_ (p. 194, "Golden Wreath"). There was an old woman who lived in a shoe; Of children she had a score: So many had she, to know what to do Was a question which puzzled her sore. (_Head of_ CHILD _appears at 1_.) To some she gave broth without any bread; But never contented were they, Till she whipped them all soundly, and put them to bed, And then very happy were they, And then very happy were they. (_Head appears at 2._) "Now, mother, dear mother," the young ones would cry, As they dropped off with a nod, "To train up a child in the way to go, O mother, dear, ne'er spare the rod. (CHILD'S _head appears at 3_.) For broth without bread is a watery waste; And never contented are we, Till with your good stick it is thickened to taste; (_Three heads appear at 4._) And then, oh, how happy are we! And then, oh, how happy are we!" _Enter_ OLD WOMAN, R. _Her costume, bodice, quilted petticoat, sugar-loaf hat, high-heeled shoes, and cane._ _O. W._ Aha! (_Heads disappear quick._) Good gracious! can't I leave the house a minute, But what a head's at every window in it? Don't let me see the tip of a single nose; For, if you do, we'll surely come to blows. Poor dears! they want the air. Well, that is cheap And strengthening; for they live on air and sleep. Food is so high, and work is so unstiddy, Life's really wearing on this poor old widdy. [Illustration: FRONT VIEW OF COPPER TOE SHOE HOUSE. 1. Split in the Heel. 2. Patch on the best Corn. 3. Copper Toe. 4. Lookout, or Observatory at top of House.] (_Heads appear, one after the other, as before._) Ah me! here's good old Christmas come again. How can I join in the triumphant strain Which moves all hearts? I am so old and poor, With none to aid me from their generous store. CHILD _at 1_. Mother, I want a drum. CHILD _at 2_. I want a doll! CHILD _at 3_. Gimme a sword! _Three_ CHILDREN _at 4_. Got presents for us all? _O. W._ Aha! (_Heads disappear quick._) Poor dears! if with the will I had the power, The choicest Christmas gifts should on them shower. _Song:_ OLD WOMAN; _air_, "_Comin' through the Rye_." If a widdy's with her biddies, Living in a shoe, If a widdy's work unstiddies, What'll widdy do? (_Heads appear as before._) Every mother loves her biddies; Many a one have I; But where get gifts to fill their fists, When I've no gold to buy? Aha! (_Heads disappear quick._) There is a sprite oft comes this night, Whom children love full well; But what's his name, and where's his hame, He does not always tell. (_Heads appear as before._) Lads and lassies know good Santa, With presents not a few; Would he were here, my chicks to cheer, Living in a shoe! Aha! (_Heads disappear._) Well, I'll get in, and make the children warm. Tucked in their beds, they're always safe from harm. And in their dreams, perhaps, such gifts will rise As wakeful, wretched poverty denies. (_Disappears behind shoe._) _Enter cautiously_, R., SANTA CLAUS; _his fabled dress is hidden by a long domino, or "waterproof;" he has, swung about his neck, a tin kitchen, on which he grinds an imaginary accompaniment to his song_. _Santa._ "You'd scarce expect one of my age"-- For gray hair is the symbol of the sage-- To play at "hide-and-seek," to your surprise. Here's honest Santa Claus, in rough disguise. But 'tis all right, as I will quick explain, For I've a mystic project "on the brain." I've dropped down chimneys all this blessed night, Where warmth and comfort join to give delight; I've filled the stockings of the merry elves, Who, to fond parents, are rich gifts themselves; And now I've come, resolved to make a show In that old mansion with the copper toe, Where dwells a dame, with children great and small, Enough to stock a school, or crowd a hall. If they are worthy of our kind regard, Christmas shall bring to them a rich reward. So I have donned for once a meaner dress, To personate a beggar in distress. If to my wants they lend a listening ear, The rough old shoe shall glow with Christmas cheer: If they are rude, and turn me from the door, Presto! I vanish, and return no more. _Song:_ SANTA CLAUS; _air_, "_Them blessed Roomatics_." My name's Johnny Schmoker, and I am no joker; I don't in my pockets no greenbacks perceive. For, what with high dressing in fashions distressing, I can't with a morsel my hunger relieve. My stomach so tender, that aches there engender; The whole blessed day I am crying out, "Oh!" Drat these grand fashions! they wakens my passions, A-nippin' and gnawin' my poor stomach so! (_Heads appear as before._) I've had the lumbager, dyspepsy, and ager, With tight-fitting veskits and pantaloons too; Highsterics and swimins, delirious trimins, St. Vestris's dance, and the tick dolly-oo. But not the whole gettin', one's body tight fits in, Is noffin' to this, which is drefful. Oh, oh! Drat these grand fashions! they wakens my passions, A-nippin' and gnawin' my poor stomach so! (_Heads disappear._) Now, there's a touching song to move the heart, Hark! what's that? I thought I heard them start. _Song:_ CHILDREN, _outside; air_, "_Oh, dear, what can the matter be?_" Oh, dear, what can the matter be? Dear, dear, what can the matter be? Oh, dear, what can the matter be? Somebody's groaning out there! A hungry old beggar has come here to tease us, By grinding an organ he knows will not please us. He hopes it may bring him a handful of pennies, To buy him a loaf of brown bread. _Enter_ OLD WOMAN, _with_ CHILDREN, L., _from behind shoe. The largest hangs on to her skirts, the next in size to the largest, until they dwindle to the smallest; repeat song as they enter slowly, turn to_ R., _march across stage; turn to_ L., _march across again; turn to_ R., _and form across stage._ _O. W._ Now go away, old man. 'Tis very queer That you should seek to waste your sweetness here; For we've no money, not a cent, to pay For music; so you'd better up and move away. _Santa._ Alas, alas! and can you be unkind To one who's been by Fortune left behind; Who has no friend, no money, and no clo'es; The hunted victim of unnumbered woes? Good dame, I ask not money: if you please, A simple crust my hunger to appease. _O. W._ Good gracious! Starving! Children, do you hear? The old man's hungry: quickly disappear! (CHILDREN _scamper behind shoe._) _Santa._ She drives them in. To me 'tis very clear Old Santa fails to find a welcome here. _O. W._ We're very poor, have fasted many a day, Yet from our door ne'er drove the poor away. _Song; air, "Balm of Gilead," by the_ CHILDREN, _who march in as before, carrying sticks, on which are stuck apples, potatoes, crusts of bread, turnip, carrot, "beat," &c. They move around the stage, singing as they pass_ SANTA; _the last time, pitch their potatoes, &c., into his tin kitchen. He stands_ L. _of stage_; OLD WOMAN, R. Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Down at Copper Toe Shoe. Cold potato--tato, Cold potato--tato, Cold pota--to, Down at Copper Toe Shoe. (_No interlude._) Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Down at Copper Toe Shoe. Crusts for breakfast--breakfast, Crusts for breakfast--breakfast, Crusts for break--fast, Down at Copper Toe Shoe. Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Oh, you sha'n't be hungry now, Down at Copper Toe Shoe. Broth for supper--supper, Broth for supper--supper, Broth for sup--per, Down at Copper Toe Shoe. Oh, you sha'n't, &c. _Santa._ Well, well, I'm puzzled! Here's a grand surprise. Bless me, the tears are dropping from my eyes! Thank you, my children. This is quite bewitchin'; With eatables you've nearly filled my kitchen. Ah, little ones! you've learned the better part. They are the poor who lack the kindly heart; And they the rich, the noble, and the high, Who never willing pass the sufferer by. Now comes my triumph. Children, speak up bright: What day is this? _All._ Christmas. _Little Girl._ No; 'tis Christmas night! _Santa._ That's true. Now tell me who, against the laws, Drops down the chimneys? _All._ Why, old Santa Claus! _Santa._ Bless me! how bright and nice these children are! Each eye doth sparkle like the evening star. Now, then, suppose I were that ancient sprite, What would you ask, to give you most delight? _Child 1._ I'd have a sled. _Child 2._ A doll. _Child 3._ A kite for me. _Child 4._ Something still better. _Santa._ What? _Child 4._ A Christmas tree! _All Children._ Oh, my! Good gracious! Wouldn't that be grand? _O. W._ Too grand, my chicks, for you to understand. Why, such a tree within our old shoe spread, Would from their fastenings tear out every thread; Make every peg to start from out its socket, And send the buckle flying like a rocket. _Santa._ Good, good! there's fun beneath that wrinkled phiz. At playing Santa Claus, let's make a biz. Suppose me Santa Claus. I bless you all: Then from my waistcoat let this oven fall, (_Takes off kitchen._) Throw off this mantle with a sudden jerk, (_Throws off disguise, and appears as_ SANTA CLAUS.) And in an instant set myself to work. _Children._ 'Tis Santa Claus! _Santa._ You're right. I am the man, Yours to command. I'll serve you if I can; For I have found, good dame, that honest worth Can burrow in the lowliest spot on earth; That sweet compassion's ne'er so poorly fed, But what she finds an extra crust of bread. Now, to reward your generous hearts, my chicks, Into the earth these magic seeds I sticks; These cabalistic words in Hebrew mutter,-- "Ene, mene, moni, suti, sutter;" Presto! appear! and, glittering bright and free, Beams on your sight the mystic Christmas tree. (_Shoe divides, and disappears_ R. _and_ L. _Curtains at back open, disclosing tree._) _Song_: "_We'll gather round the Christmas Tree._" SANTA CLAUS _and_ OLD WOMAN _distribute presents to the company_. _Curtain falls._ [Illustration: REAR VIEW OF COPPER TOE SHOE HOUSE.] NOTE.--This entertainment was prepared for a Sunday school's Christmas Eve, and was arranged as follows: A stage, fourteen feet square, was fitted with a "roll-up" curtain in front. Drapery was hung at the sides and back; a Christmas tree, filled with presents, was placed well back on the stage, and hidden by curtains arranged to separate in the middle. In front of these was placed "Copper Toe Shoe House." The rear view represents the frame made of wood, in two pieces, to separate in the middle, of the following dimensions: ten feet from toe to heel, five feet and one half from heel to top, four feet and one half across top, heel about twenty inches long, eight inches high. Cover front, in two separate sections, with black cambric; for toe, copper tinsel paper; for sole and patch, brown cambric; for buckle, silver tinsel paper; the patch fastened only at bottom. A curtain, of same material or color as back stage, should be hung in rear of shank, that children standing behind may not be seen. A settee is placed behind it, on which the children in the dwelling stand. 1, 2, and 3 lie upon the stage, and stick their heads out when required. The characters can pass between the curtains at back, to their places. When the tree is disclosed, all the characters are in front, the settee is removed, the braces unfastened, and, at a signal, two boys run off the shoe, and others draw the curtains. A. W. Pinero's Plays Price, 50 Cents Each MID-CHANNEL Play In Four Acts. Six males, five females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays two and a half hours. THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH Drama in Four Acts. Eight males, five females. Costumes, modern; scenery, all interiors. Plays a full evening. THE PROFLIGATE Play in Four Acts. Seven males, five females. Scenery, three interiors, rather elaborate; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. THE SCHOOLMISTRESS Farce in Three Acts. Nine males, seven females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY Play in Four Acts. Eight males, five females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. SWEET LAVENDER Comedy in Three Acts. Seven males, four females. Scene, a single interior, costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. THE THUNDERBOLT Comedy in Four Acts. Ten males, nine females. Scenery, three interiors; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. THE TIMES Comedy in Four Acts. Six males, seven females. Scene, a single interior; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. THE WEAKER SEX Comedy in Three Acts. Eight males, eight females. Costumes, modern; scenery, two interiors. Plays a full evening. A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE Comedy in Three Acts. Five males, four females. Costumes, modern; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. Sent prepaid on receipt of price by Walter H. Baker & Company No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts Recent Popular Plays THE AWAKENING Play in Four Acts. By C. H. CHAMBERS. Four males, six females. Scenery, not difficult, chiefly interiors; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. =Price, 50 Cents.= THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT Comedy in Four Acts. By L. TOLSTOI. Twenty-one males, eleven females. Scenery, characteristic interiors; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. Recommended for reading clubs. =Price, 25 Cents.= HIS EXCELLENCY THE GOVERNOR Farce in Three Acts. By R. MARSHALL. Ten males, three females. Costumes, modern; scenery, one interior. Acting rights reserved. Time, a full evening. =Price, 50 Cents.= AN IDEAL HUSBAND Comedy in Four Acts. By OSCAR WILDE. Nine males, six females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved. Sold for reading. =Price, 50 Cents.= THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST Farce in Three Acts. By OSCAR WILDE. Five males, four females. Costumes, modern; scenes, two interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved. =Price, 50 Cents.= LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN Comedy in Four Acts. By OSCAR WILDE. Seven males, nine females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved. =Price, 50 Cents.= NATHAN HALE Play in Four Acts. By CLYDE FITCH. Fifteen males, four females. Costumes of the eighteenth century in America. Scenery, four interiors and two exteriors. Acting rights reserved. Plays a full evening. =Price, 50 Cents.= THE OTHER FELLOW Comedy in Three Acts. By M. B. HORNE. Six males, four females. Scenery, two interiors; costumes, modern. Professional stage rights reserved. Plays a full evening. =Price, 50 Cents.= THE TYRANNY OF TEARS Comedy in Four Acts. By C. H. CHAMBERS. Four males, three females. Scenery, an interior and an exterior; costumes, modern. Acting rights reserved. Plays a full evening. =Price, 50 Cents.= A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE Comedy in Four Acts. By OSCAR WILDE. Eight males, seven females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. Stage rights reserved. Offered for reading only. =Price, 50 Cents.= Sent prepaid on receipt of price by Walter H. Baker & Company No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts S. J. PARKHILL & CO., PRINTERS, BOSTON. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. 
41739	----	Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including non-standard spelling and punctuation. Some changes have been made. They are listed at the end of the text. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. THE MINOR DRAMA. No. CCCCI. A CHRISTMAS CAROL; OR, THE MISER'S WARNING! (ADAPTED FROM CHARLES DICKENS' CELEBRATED WORK.) BY C. Z. BARNETT, _Author of Fair Rosamond, Farinelli, The Dream of Fate, Oliver Twist, Linda, The Pearl of Savoy, Victorine of Paris, Dominique, Bohemians of Paris, &c._ +-------+ Samuel French (Canada) Limited | PRICE | 480-486 University Avenue | | TORONTO - CANADA | | +-------+ NEW YORK | LONDON SAMUEL FRENCH | SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD. PUBLISHER | 26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET 25 WEST 45TH STREET | STRAND _THE MIDDLE WATCH_ A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Ian Hay and Stephen King-Hall. Produced originally at the Times Square Theatre, New York. 9 males, 6 females. Modern costumes and naval uniforms. 2 interior scenes. During a reception on board H. M. S. "Falcon," a cruiser on the China Station, Captain Randall of the Marines has become engaged to Fay Eaton, and in his enthusiasm induces her to stay and have dinner in his cabin. This is met with stern disapproval by Fay's chaperon, Charlotte Hopkinson, who insists that they leave at once. Charlotte, however, gets shut up in the compass room, and a gay young American widow accepts the offer to take her place, both girls intending to go back to shore in the late evening. Of course, things go wrong, and they have to remain aboard all night. By this time the Captain has to be told, because his cabin contains the only possible accommodations, and he enters into the conspiracy without signalling the Admiral's flagship. Then the "Falcon" is suddenly ordered to sea, and the Admiral decides to sail with her. This also makes necessary the turning over to him of the Captain's quarters. The presence of the ladies now becomes positively embarrassing. The girls are bundled into one cabin just opposite that occupied by the Admiral. The game of "general-post" with a marine sentry in stockinged feet is very funny, and so are the attempts to explain matters to the "Old Man" next morning. After this everything ends both romantically and happily. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. _NANCY'S PRIVATE AFFAIR_ A comedy in 3 acts. By Myron C. Fagan. Produced originally at the Vanderbilt Theatre, New York. 4 males, 5 females., 2 interior scenes. Modern costumes. Nothing is really private any more--not even pajamas and bedtime stories. No one will object to Nancy's private affair being made public, and it would be impossible to interest the theatre public in a more ingenious plot. Nancy is one of those smart, sophisticated society women who wants to win back her husband from a baby vamp. Just how this is accomplished makes for an exceptionally pleasant evening. Laying aside her horn-rimmed spectacles, she pretends indifference and affects a mysterious interest in other men. Nancy baits her rival with a bogus diamond ring, makes love to her former husband's best friend, and finally tricks the dastardly rival into a marriage with someone else. Mr. Fagan has studded his story with jokes and retorts that will keep any audience in a constant uproar. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. A CHRISTMAS CAROL; OR, THE MISER'S WARNING! (ADAPTED FROM CHARLES DICKENS'S CELEBRATED WORK.) BY C. Z. BARNETT, _Author of Fair Rosamond, Farinelli, The Dream of Fate, Oliver Twist, Linda, The Pearl of Savoy, Victorine of Paris, Dominique, Bohemians of Paris, &c._ NEW YORK | LONDON SAMUEL FRENCH | SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD. PUBLISHER | 26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET 25 WEST 45TH STREET | STRAND DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Ebenezer Scrooge, the Miser Mr. R. Honner Frank Freeheart, his Nephew Mr. J. T. Johnson Mr. Cheerly Mr. Hawkins Mr. Heartly Mr. Green Bob Cratchit, Scrooge's Clerk Mr. Vale Dark Sam Mr. Stilt CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM. Euston, a ruined Gentleman Mr. Lawler Mr. Fezziwig Mr. Dixie Old Joe, a Fence Mr. Goldsmith Ghost of Jacob Marley Mr. Morrison Ghost of Christmas Past Mr. Lewis Ghost of Christmas Present Mr. Heslop Ghost of Christmas to Come * * * Dark Sam Mr. Stilt Peter, Bob's Eldest Son Miss Daly Tiny Tim Master Brady Mrs. Freeheart Mrs. Hicks Ellen, Scrooge's former love Mrs. H. Hughes Mrs. Cratchit Mrs. Daly First produced at the Royal Surrey Theatre, Feb. 5th, 1844. COSTUME. SCROOGE--Brown old-fashioned coat, tea colour breeches, double-breasted white waistcoat. 2nd.--Dressing gown and slippers. FRANK--Private dress. MR. CHEERLY--Blue coat, cord breeches, and gaiters. MR. HEARTLY--Green coat, black breeches, top boots. BOB CRATCHIT--Black old-fashioned coat, black trousers. DARK SAM--Dark green shooting coat and breeches, ragged. Second dress--Shabby black coat. EUSTON--Shabby private clothes. MR. FEZZIWIG--Black coat, black breeches, double-breasted waistcoat, and striped stockings. MARLEY'S GHOST--Slate coloured coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons, black boots, white frill, white band. CHRISTMAS PAST--White dress trimmed with summer flowers, rich belt, fleshings and sandals. CHRISTMAS PRESENT--Long green robe, trimmed with ermine, flesh body and legs, wreath round head. CHRISTMAS TO COME--Very long black gown. TINY TIM--Blue jacket and trousers. ALL THE LADIES--Modern dresses. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. ACT I. SCENE I.--_Chambers of SCROOGE, the Miser. One side of it is filled up with a desk and high stool, the other is a fireplace, fire lighted. Easy chair table, with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ _SCROOGE, the Miser, discovered near fire. BOB CRATCHIT, writing near desk, L. H. As the Curtain rises he descends from stool--approaches fire to stir it._ SCROOGE. Bob--Bob, we shall be obliged to part. You'll ruin me in coals! BOB. Ruin you--with such a fire in such weather! I've been trying to warm myself by the candle for the last half hour, but not being a man of strong imagination, failed. SCR. Hark! I think I hear some one in the office. Go--see who it is. BOB. (_Aside._) Marley's dead--his late partner is dead as a door nail! If he was to follow him, it wouldn't matter much. (_Exit 2 E. L. H._ SCR. Marley has been dead seven years, and has left me his sole executor--his sole administrator--his sole residuary legatee--his sole friend--his sole mourner! My poor old partner! I was sorely grieved at his death, and shall never forget his funeral. Coming from it, I made one of the best bargains I ever made. Ha, ha. Folks say I'm tight-fisted--that I'm a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching miser. What of that? It saves me from being annoyed by needy men and beggars. So, this is Christmas eve--and cold, bleak, biting weather it is, and folks are preparing to be merry. Bah! what's Christmas eve to me? what should it be to them? _Enter FRANK and BOB, 2 E. L. H._ BOB. There's your uncle, sir. (_Aside._) Old covetous! He's worse than the rain and snow. They often come down, and handsomely too, but Scrooge never does! (_Exit 2 E. L. H._ SCR. Who's that? FRANK. A merry Christmas, uncle! SCR. Bah! humbug! FRANK. Uncle, you don't mean that, I'm sure. SCR. I do. Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? You're poor enough. FRANK. (_Gaily._) Come, then, what right have you to be dismal! What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough. SCR. Bah! humbug! FRANK. Don't be cross, uncle. SCR. What else can I be, when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon Merry Christmas. What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money--a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer. If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart--he should! FRANK. Uncle! SCR. Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. FRANK. Keep it! But you don't keep it. SCR. Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it do you. Much good it has ever done you. FRANK. There are many things from which I might have derived good by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest, but I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round, as a good time--a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys, and, therefore, uncle, though it has not put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good, and I say, Heaven bless it! BOB. (_Looking in._) Beautiful--beautiful! SCR. Let me hear another sound from you--(_To BOB._)--And you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation. BOB. (_Aside._) He growls like a bear with a sore head! (_Disappears._) SCR. You're quite a powerful speaker. I wonder you don't go into Parliament. FRANK. Don't be angry. Come--dine with me to-morrow. SCR. No, no---- FRANK. But why not? SCR. Why did you get married? FRANK. Because I fell in love. SCR. Because you fell in love! Bah! good evening. FRANK. I want nothing--I ask nothing of you. Well, I'm sorry to find you so resolute--we have never had any quarrel--I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last--so, a merry Christmas, uncle. SCR. Good evening! FRANK. And a happy new year! SCR. Good evening! _Enter BOB, 2 E. L. H._ FRANK. And a happy Christmas, and a merry new year to you, Bob Cratchit. (_Shaking him by the hand._) BOB. The same to you, sir, and many of 'em, and to your wife, and to your darling children, and to all your friends, and to all you know, and to every one, to all the world. (_Exit FRANK, 2 E. L. H._) SCR. (_Aside._) There's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam. BOB. Two gentlemen want you, sir, as fat as prize beef--shall I call 'em in? (_Goes to side._) Walk this way if you please, gentlemen. _Enter MR. CHEERLY and MR. HEARTLY, 2 E. L. H., with books and papers._ CHEER. Scrooge and Marley's--I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Marley! SCR. Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years. CHEER. At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute--many thousands are in want of common necessaries--hundreds of thousands are in want of common comfort, sir. SCR. Are there no prisons? and the union workhouses, are they still in operation? CHEER. They are still--I wish I could say they were not. SCR. The treadmill and the poor law are in full vigour then? CHEER. Both very busy, sir. SCR. Oh! I was afraid from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course. I'm very glad to hear it! CHEER. Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time because it is a time of all others, when want is keenly felt and abundances rejoice. What shall we put you down for? SCR. Nothing! CHEER. You wish to be anonymous? SCR. I wish to be left alone. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry--I help to support the establishments I have named--they cost enough--those who are badly off must go there. CHEER. Many can't go there--many would rather die! SCR. If they'd rather die, they'd better do it, and decrease the surplus population. However, it's not my business, so good evening, gentlemen. CHEER. I am sorry we disturbed you. (_As they are about to exeunt, BOB approaches them--SCROOGE retires up._) BOB. Beg pardon, gentlemen, I've got an odd eighteen-pence here that I was going to buy a new pair of gloves with in honour of Christmas day, but my heart would feel warmer though my hands were colder, if it helped to put a dinner and a garment on a poor creature who might need. There take it. CHEER. Such acts as these from such men as you sooner or later, will be well rewarded. BOB. This way, gentlemen. I feel as light as my four-and-ninepenny gossamer! (_Exeunt 2 E. L. H._) SCR. (_Coming down._) Give money--humbug! Who'd give me anything, I should like to know? _Re-enter BOB, 2 E. L. H._ BOB. A letter, sir. (_Gives it and retires up._) SCR. (_Opens it--reads._) Ah! what do I see? the Mary Jane lost off the coast of Africa. Then Frank is utterly ruined! his all was embarked on board that vessel. Frank knows not of this--he will apply to me doubtless--but no, no. Why should I part with my hard gained store to assist him, his wife and children--he chooses to make a fool of himself, and marry a smooth-faced chit, and get a family--he must bear the consequences--I will not avert his ruin, no, not by a single penny. BOB. (_Coming down._) Please, sir, it's nine o'clock. SCR. Already! You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose. BOB. If quite convenient, sir. SCR. It's not convenient, and it's not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound, and yet you don't think me ill used when I pay a day's wages for no work. BOB. Christmas comes but once a year. SCR. A poor excuse for picking a man's pockets every twenty-fifth of December! Well, I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. Here's your week's money, fifteen shillings--I ought to stop half-a-crown--never mind! BOB. Thank you, sir! I'll be here before daylight, sir, you may depend upon it. Good night, sir. Oh, what a glorious dinner Mrs. C. shall provide. Good night, sir. A merry Christmas and a happy new year, sir. SCR. Bah! humbug! (_Exit BOB, 2 E. L. H._) So--alone once more. It's a rough night! I will go to bed soon--that will save supper. (_Takes off his coat, boots, etc., and puts on morning gown and slippers, talking all the time._) 'Tis strange now the idea of Marley is haunting me to-night--everywhere I turn his face seems before me. Delusion--humbug! I'll sit down by the fire and forget him. (_Takes basin of gruel from hob._) Here's my gruel! (_Sits in easy chair by fire--puts on night cap, and presently appears to dose. Suddenly a clanking of chains and ringing of bells is heard--he's aroused, and looks up terrified._) That noise! It's humbug! I won't believe it! (_The door slowly opens, and the GHOST OF MARLEY glides in. A chain is round his body, and cash boxes, ledgers, padlocks, purses, etc., are attached to it._) How now! What do you want with me? GHOST. Much. SCR. Who are you? GHOST. Ask me who I was. SCR. Who were you, then. You're particular for a shade--I mean to a shade. GHOST. In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. You don't believe in me! Why do you doubt your senses? SCR. Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef--a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. GHOST. (_Unfastening the bandage round its head._) Man of the worldly mind, do you believe me or not? SCR. I do--I must! But why do spirits walk the earth? Why do they come to me? GHOST. It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men, and travel far and wide--if not in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world, oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness. SCR. You are fettered! GHOST. I wear the chain I forged in life--I made it link by link. Is its pattern strange to you? Oh, no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused. SCR. But you were always a man of business---- GHOST. Business! Mankind was my business--charity, mercy, were all my business. At this time of the year I suffered most, for I neglected most. Hear me! I am here to-night to warn you that you have a chance and a hope of escaping my fate. You will be haunted by three spirits---- SCR. I--I'd rather be excused! GHOST. Without their visits you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first when the clock strikes one. Look to see me no more. For your own sake, remember what has passed between us. (_Binds wrapper round its head once more--slowly approaches the door and disappears. SCROOGE follows the phantom towards the door._) SCR. It is gone. The air seems filled with phantoms--shades of many I knew when living--they all wear chains like Marley--they strive to assist the poor and stricken, but in vain--they seek to interfere for good in human nature, but have lost the power forever. (_The clock strikes one--SCROOGE staggers to a chair--the room is filled with a blaze of light--the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST rises through trap--As described in WORK, page 43._) Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me? 1ST SPIRIT. I am! SCR. Who and what are you? 1ST SPIRIT. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Your welfare--your reclamation brings me here. Turn, and behold! (_The Stage, becomes dark--a strong light is seen behind--the wall of the Miser's chamber fades away and discovers a school-room--a child is seated reading by a fire._) All have departed but this poor boy. SCR. My poor forgotten self--and as I used to be! 1ST SPIRIT. Look again! (_A figure of ALI BABA is shown beyond the CHILD._) SCR. Why it's dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, one Christmas time, when yonder poor child was left alone, he _did_ come just like that! (_The figures of VALENTINE and ORSON appear._) Ha! and Valentine and his wild brother Orson, too! (_ROBINSON CRUSOE and FRIDAY appear._) Ha! and Robinson Crusoe, and his man Friday! Poor boy! he was left alone, while all the rest were making holiday. (_The figures of ALI BABA, etc., disappear. As he speaks, a little GIRL enters the school-room, and approaches the BOY._) GIRL. I am come to bring you home, dear brother--we are to be together this Christmas, and be so merry! (_She leads him out. Scene fades away._) SCR. My sister! poor little Fanny! 1ST SPIRIT. A delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. She died a woman, and had, as I think, children. SCR. One child! 1ST SPIRIT. True--your nephew. Know you this place? (_The Scene at back is again lighted up, and discovers Fezziwig's warehouse. FEZZIWIG and CHARACTERS grouped as in FRONTISPIECE of WORK. SCROOGE, as a young man._) SCR. Why, 'tis old Fezziwig, to whom I was apprenticed--he is alive again! My fellow-apprentice, Dick Wilkins, too--myself, as I was _then_. 'Tis Christmas eve there. The happiness he gave at so small a price was quite as much as though it cost a fortune. (_The tableau fades away. The Stage becomes dark. Enter ELLEN in mourning. During the fading of the tableau SCROOGE puts a cloak around him, etc., and seems a younger man._) I feel as if my years of life were less. Ha! who is this beside me? 1ST SPIRIT. Have you forgotten your early love? SCR. Ellen! ELLEN. Ebenezer, I come to say farewell forever! It matters little to you--very little--another idol has displaced me, and if I can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve. SCR. What idol has displaced you? ELLEN. A golden one--the master passion. Gain alone engrosses you. SCR. I have not changed towards you. ELLEN. Our contract is an old one--it was made when we were both poor. You are changed--I am not. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this I will not say. I _have_ thought of it, and can release you. SCR. Have I ever sought release? ELLEN. In word--no, never! SCR. In what, then? ELLEN. In a changed nature--in an altered spirit--in every thing that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out, and try to win me now? Ah, no! SCR. You think not---- ELLEN. I would think otherwise if I could--but if you were free to-day, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you who weigh everything by gain? Or did you so, do I not know your repentance and regret would surely follow. I do--and I release you, with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. You will forget all this--may you be happy in the life you have chosen! (_She slowly exits R. H. SCROOGE throws aside his cloak, and appears as before._) SCR. Spirit, show me no more! Why do you delight to torture me? 1ST SPIRIT. One shadow more. She whom you resigned for gold--for gain--for sordid ore--she you shall now behold as the tender wife of a good and upright man--as the happy mother of smiling children. You shall see them in their joyous home. Come, thou lonely man of gold--come! SCR. No, no! 1ST SPIRIT. I told you these were the shadows of the things that have been--that they are what they are do not blame me. Come---- SCR. No, no--I've seen enough--haunt me no longer! (_The Spirit seizes him--he seizes the cap presses it upon the Spirit's head, who sinks under it, and disappears in a flood of light while SCROOGE sinks exhausted on the floor._) SCENE II.--_A Street. Houses covered with snow._ _Enter DARK SAM, L. H._ SAM. It's very odd! I an't nimmed nothing to-night. Christmas eve, too--when people's got sich lots of tin! But they takes precious good care of it, 'cos I s'pose they thinks if they loses it, they shan't be able to get no Christmas dinner. If I can't prig nothin', I'm sure I shan't be able to get none. Unless this trade mends soon, I must turn undertaker's man again. There is a chance, in that honourable calling of a stray thing or two. Somebody comes! I wonder if I shall have any luck now. _Enter BOB, R. H._ BOB. I shall soon be home! Won't my Martha be glad to see me--and what a pleasant happy Christmas Day we shall spend. What a dinner we shall have! I've got fifteen shillings--my week's wages--and I'm determined to spend every farthing of it. Won't we have a prime goose, and a magnificent pudding! And then the gin and water--and oranges--and the--oh, how jolly we shall be! And Tiny Tim, too--he never tasted goose before--how he will lick his dear little chops at the sage and onions! And as for Martha--my dear Martha, who is a dress-maker, and can only come to see us once in about four months--she shall have the parson's nose. Let me see--a goose will cost seven shillings--pudding five--that's twelve. Oranges, sage and onions, potatoes, and gin, at least three shillings more. Oh, there will be quite enough money, and some to spare. (_During this speech SAM advances cautiously and picks his pocket._) SAM. (_Aside._) Some to spare! It can't fall into better hands than mine, then! (_Exit R. H._ BOB. I've a good mind to buy the goose going home; but then if it should turn out fusty--I think I had better leave it for Mrs. C. The moment I get home, I'll pop the money into her hands, and--(_Feeling in his pockets._)--Eh?--what--what's this? Somebody has been having a joke at my expense. Eh? my week's salary--my fifteen shillings--it's gone! I'm ruined--lost----undone! My pocket has been picked! I've lost my Christmas dinner before I've got it! Oh, how can I face Mrs. C., and Bob, and Martha, and Tiny Tim! Oh, what can I do? _Enter FRANK, L. H._ FRANK. What my worthy friend Bob Cratchit--how is this, man? you look sorrowful, and on Christmas eve, too! BOB. Some of those boys whom I was sliding with on the ice in Cornhill must have done it. FRANK. Done it! Done what, man? BOB. Stole my Christmas dinner--my--salary--I mean my fifteen shillings, that your uncle paid me not an hour ago. FRANK. That's unfortunate! BOB. Unfortunate! Think of Tiny Tim's disappointment--no goose--no pudding--no nothing! FRANK. Tiny Tim shall not go without his Christmas dinner notwithstanding your loss--no, nor you either--nor any of your family, Bob Cratchit. At such a time as this, no one should be unhappy--not even my hard-hearted uncle, much less a worthy fellow like you. Here, Bob, here's a sovereign--you can return it when my uncle raises your wages--no thanks, but go and be as happy as you deserve to be--once more, a merry Christmas to you! (_Exit R. H._ BOB. He's a regular trump! I wanted to thank him, and couldn't find the words! I should like to laugh, and I feel as if I could cry. If Tiny Tim don't bless you for this my name's not Bob Cratchit! I've lost fifteen shillings, and I've found a sovereign! (_Dances._) Tol lol li do! Oh, Mrs. Cratchit! Oh, my little Cratchit! what a happy Christmas Day we shall spend, surely! What a pity Christmas don't last all the year round! (_Exit L. H._) SCENE III.--_SCROOGE'S chamber, as before._ _SCROOGE discovered, sleeping in a chair. The Stage becomes suddenly quite light, and the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT discovered, as in WORK, page 78, the wall at back covered with ivy, holly, and mistletoe--heaped upon the floor, almost to form a throne, are turkeys, geese, plum puddings, twelfth cake, etc._ (_See PAGE 78._) 2ND SPIRIT. Know me, man? I am the ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me. (_SCROOGE rises, approaches, and gazes at the figure._) You have never seen the like of me before? SCR. Never! 2ND SPIRIT. Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family, meaning, for I am very young, my elder brothers born in these latter years. SCR. I'm afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit? 2ND SPIRIT. More than eighteen hundred! SCR. A tremendous family to provide for! (_The SPIRIT rises._) Spirit, conduct me where you will--if you have ought to teach me, let me profit by it. Why do you carry that torch? 2ND SPIRIT. To sprinkle the light and incense of happiness every where--to poor dwellings most. SCR. Why to poor ones most? 2ND SPIRIT. Because they need it most. But come--touch my robe--we have much to see. (_As SCROOGE approaches nearer to him, the Scene changes._) SCENE IV.--_A Bleak and Barren Moor. A poor mud cabin._ (_Painted in the flat._) _The SECOND SPIRIT and SCROOGE enter._ SCR. What place is this? 2ND SPIRIT. A place where miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth--they know me. See! (_As he speaks, the window is lighted from within. The SPIRIT draws SCROOGE to window._) What seest thou? SCR. A cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire--an old man and woman, with their children, and children's children all decked gaily out in their holiday attire. I hear the old man's voice above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste; singing a Christmas song, while all swell out the chorus. 2ND SPIRIT. Come, we must not tarry--we will to sea--your ear shall be deafened by the roaring waters. SCR. To sea? no, good Spirit! 2ND SPIRIT. See yonder solitary lighthouse built on a dismal reef of sunken rocks. Here we men who watch the light, have made a fire that sheds a ray of brightness on the awful sea, joining their horny hands over the rough table where they sit, they wish each other a merry Christmas in can of grog and sing a rude lay in honour of the time. All men on this day have a kinder word for one another--on such a day--but come--on--on! (_As he speaks the Scene changes._) SCENE V.--_Drawing-room in FRANK FREEHEART'S house._ _FRANK, CAROLINE his wife, MR. CHEERLY, and male and female Guests discovered--some are seated on a sofa on one side, others surround a table on the other side. SCROOGE and the SPIRIT remain on one side._ (_At opening of Scene all laugh._) FRANK. Yes, friends, my uncle said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live! He believed it, too! OMNES. More shame for him. FRANK. He's a comical old fellow! However, his offences carry their own punishment. CHEER. He's very rich! FRANK. But his wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it! LADIES. We have no patience with him! FRANK. But I have! I'm sorry for him! I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself! He loves a good dinner--pleasant moments, and pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, or in his mouldy chambers. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it, I defy him! If he finds me going there, year after year and saying, Uncle Scrooge, how are you? If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something, and I think I shook him yesterday! (_All laugh._) Well, he has given us plenty of merriment so here's his health. Uncle Scrooge! OMNES. (_Drinks._) Uncle Scrooge! FRANK. A merry Christmas and a happy new year to him wherever he is! SCR. Spirit, their merriment has made me so bright and gay, that I could almost pledge them in return, and join in all their innocent mirth! _A servant enters, L. H. and gives a letter to FRANK, then exits._ FRANK. (_Opens it and reads. Aside._) Ah! what do I see, the vessel lost at sea that bore my entire wealth within her! Then I'm a lost and ruined man! (_His wife approaches him._) CHEER. No ill news, I hope, Mr. Freeheart. FRANK. (_Aside._) The stroke is sudden and severe but I will bear it like a man! Why should I damp the enjoyment of those around by such ill tiding? No, it is Christmas time--I will not broach such bad news now--no--at least to-night. All shall be happy--nor word of mine shall make any otherwise. (_To his friends._) Come, friends, let's have a merry dance, shall we not? OMNES. A dance! a dance! (_Short, Country Dance, in which SCROOGE joins without being observed by the rest. Towards the conclusion of it the SPIRIT advances--draws SCROOGE back from the group--a bright glow lights up the Scene, as the SPIRIT and SCROOGE sink through the Stage unnoticed by the groups._) END OF ACT I. ACT II. SCENE I.--_Humble Apartment in BOB CRATCHIT'S House. Table, chairs, etc., on._ _MRS. CRATCHIT and BELINDA CRATCHIT discovered laying the cloth. PETER CRATCHIT is by fire. SCROOGE and the SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT rise through the Stage, and stand aside and observe them._ SCR. So, this is my clerk's dwelling, Spirit--Bob Cratchit's. You blessed it with the sprinkling of your torch as we passed the threshold. Bob had but fifteen _Bob_ a week. He pockets on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name, and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house. (_Two of CRATCHIT'S younger children, BOY and GIRL, run in._) BOY. Oh, mother--outside the baker's we smell such a goose! It must have been ours--no one has got such a goose. Oh, gemini! (_They dance round the table in childish glee._) MRS. C. Whatever has got your precious father, Bob, and Tiny Tim. And Martha warn't as late this Christmas Day by half an hour! _Enter MARTHA, L. H._ MART. Here's Martha, mother! CHILDREN. Here's Martha, mother--hurrah! There's such a goose, Martha! MRS. C. (_Kissing MARTHA, and assisting her off with her bonnet, etc._) Why bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! MART. We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother. MRS. C. Well, never mind, so long as you are come. Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm. Lord bless ye! CHILDREN. (_Looking off._) Father's coming! Hide, Martha, hide! (_MARTHA runs behind closet door in F. BOB CRATCHIT enters with TINY TIM upon his shoulder, L. H._) BOB. (_Looking round._) Why, where's our Martha? MRS. C. Not coming. BOB. Not coming upon Christmas Day! MARTHA. (_Running towards him._) Yes, dear father, yes. (_They embrace._) CHILDREN. Come, Tiny Tim, into the washhouse, to hear the pudding singing in the copper! (_They carry TIM out--PETER exits L. H._) MRS. C. And how did little Tim behave? BOB. As good as gold. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the sweetest things you ever heard! (_The CHILDREN re-enter with TIM._) CHILDREN. The goose! the goose! (_PETER re-enters carrying the goose--it is placed on the table, etc. All seat themselves at table._) SCR. Bob's happier than his master! How his blessed urchins, mounting guard upon their posts, cram their spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn arrives to be helped! And now, as Mrs. Cratchit plunges her knife in its breast, a murmur of delight arises round the board, and even Tiny Tim beats the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cries hurrah! BOB. Beautiful! There never was such a goose. It's tender as a lamb, and cheap as dirt. The apple sauce and mashed potatoes are delicious--and now, love, for the pudding. The thought of it makes you nervous. MRS. C. Too nervous for witnesses. I must leave the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in. (_Exit L. H._ BOB. Awful moment! Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in turning out? Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it? (_Gets up, and walks about, disturbed._) I could suppose all sorts of horrors. Ah! there's a great deal of steam--the pudding's out of the copper! A smell like a washing day--that's the cloth! A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that--that's the pudding. (_MRS. CRATCHIT re-enters with pudding, which she places on table. BOB sits._) CHILDREN. Hurrah! SCR. Mrs. Cratchit looks flushed, but smiles proudly, like one who has achieved a triumph. BOB. Mrs. Cratchit, I regard this pudding as the greatest success you have achieved since our marriage. MRS. C. Now that the weight's off my mind, I confess I had my doubts about it, and I don't think it at all a small pudding for so large a family. BOB. It would be flat heresy to say so. A Cratchit would blush to hint at such a thing! SCR. Their merry, cheerful dinner's ended, but not their sweet, enjoyment of the day. (_MRS. CRATCHIT, etc., clears the table. A jug and a glass or two are placed on it. BOB fills the glasses._) BOB. A merry Christmas to us all, my dear--heaven bless us! (_They drink and echo him--TINY TIM is near his father, who presses his hand._) SCR. Spirit tell me if Tiny Tim will live? 2ND SPIRIT. If the shadows I see remain unaltered by the future, the child will die. SCR. No, no--say he will be spared. 2ND SPIRIT. If he be like to die--what then? He had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. SCR. My own words! 2ND SPIRIT. Man--if man you be in heart, and not adamant--forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live--what men shall die? To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust. BOB. My dear, I'll give you, "Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast!" MRS. C. The founder of the feast indeed! I wish I had him here--I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon! BOB. My dear--the children--Christmas Day---- MRS. C. It should be Christmas Day, I'm sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know what he is, Robert--no one better. BOB. My dear--Christmas Day---- MRS. C. I'll drink his health for your sake not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy new year! He'll be very merry and very happy, no doubt! (_All drink._) 2ND SPIRIT. Your name alone has cast a gloom upon them. But they are happy--grateful--pleased with one another. SCR. And they look happier yet in the bright sprinkling of thy torch, Spirit. (_As he speaks the Stage becomes quite dark. A medium descends, which hides the group at table. SCROOGE and the SPIRIT remaining in front._) We have seen much to-night, and visited many homes. Thou hast stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful--by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope--by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital and jail--in misery's every refuge, thou hast left thy blessing, and taught me thy precepts. 2ND SPIRIT. My life upon this globe is very brief--it ends to-night--at midnight--the time draws near. SCR. Is that a claw protruding from your skirts? 2ND SPIRIT. Behold! (_Two Children, wretched in appearance, appear from the foldings of his robe--they kneel, and cling to him._) Oh, man--look here! SCR. Spirit, are they yours? (_See PLATE in WORK, page 119._) 2ND SPIRIT. They are man's--and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance--this girl is Want. Beware all of their degree--but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow is written that which is doom, unless the writing be erased. Admit it for your factious purposes, and bide the end. SCR. Have they no regular refuge or resource? (_SCROOGE shrinks abashed._) 2ND SPIRIT. Are there no prisons--no workhouses? Hark, 'tis midnight! I am of the past! (_The CHILDREN exeunt--the SPIRIT disappears through trap--at the same moment the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS TO COME, shrouded in a deep black garment rises behind medium, which is worked off, discovering_---- SCENE II.--_A Street. Night._ _The SPIRIT advances slowly. SCROOGE kneels on beholding it._ SCR. This Spirit's mysterious presence fills me with a solemn dread! I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas yet to come! (_The SPIRIT points onward._) You are about to show me shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us? (_The SPIRIT slightly inclines its head._) Though well used to ghostly company by this time. I fear this silent shape more than I did all the rest. Ghost of the future, will you not speak to me? (_The SPIRIT'S hand is still pointing onward._) Lead on, Spirit! (_The SPIRIT moves a few steps on, then pauses. SCROOGE follows. The Stage becomes light._) _Enter CHEERLY and HEARTLY._ HEART. He's dead, you say? When did he die? CHEER. Last night, I believe. HEART. What has he done with his money? CHEER. I haven't heard, he hasn't left it to me. It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for I don't know of any one likely to go to it. HEART. Well, I don't mind going to it if lunch is provided. I'm not at all sure I was not one of his most particular friends. CHEER. Yes--you used to stop, and say "How d'ye do?" whenever you met. But, come--we must to 'Change. (_Exit R. H._ SCR. A moral in their words, too! Quiet and dark beside me stands yet the phantom, with its outstretched hand. It still points onward and I must follow it! (_The SPIRIT exits slowly followed by SCROOGE._) SCENE III.--_Interior of a Marine Store Shop. Old iron, phials, etc., seen. A screen extends from R. H. to C. separating fireplace, etc., from shop. Chair and table near the fire._ OLD JOE _seated near the fire, smoking. A light burns on the table. The SPIRIT enters, followed by SCROOGE._ SCR. What foul and obscure place is this? What place of bad repute--of houses wretched--of people half naked--drunken and ill-favoured? The whole quarter reeks with crime--with filth and misery. (_Shop door opens, and MRS. DIBLER enters. She has hardly time to close the door when it opens again, and DARK SAM enters closely followed by MRS. MILDEW. Upon perceiving each other they at first start, but presently burst into a laugh. JOE joins them._) SAM. Let the charwoman alone to be the first--let the laundress alone to be second--and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here old Joe, here's a chance! If we all three haven't met here without meaning it. JOE. You couldn't have met in a better place. Come into the parlour--you're none of you strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! how it shrieks! There an't such a rusty bit of metal here as its own hinges--and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha, ha! we're all suitable to our calling. We're well matched. Come into the parlour. (_They come forward by screen._) MRS. M. (_Throwing down bundle._) What odds, then, Mrs. Dibler? Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did. SAM. No man more so, so don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman--who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose? OMNES. No, indeed! we should hope not! MRS. M. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose? OMNES. (_Laughing._) No, indeed! SAM. If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? MRS. M. If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying, gasping out his last, alone there by himself--it's a judgment upon him! Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. SAM. Stop! I'll be served first, to spare your blushes, though we pretty well knew we were helping ourselves, and no sin neither! (_Gives trinkets to JOE._) JOE. Two seals, pencil case, brooch, sleeve buttons! (_Chalking figures on wall._) Five bob! Wouldn't give more, if you was to boil me! Who's next? (_MRS. DIBLER offers bundle which he examines._) There's your money! (_Chalks on wall._) I always give too much to ladies--it's my weakness, and so I ruin myself. If you asked for another penny, and made it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half a-crown! (_Examines MRS. MILDEW'S bundle upon his knees._) What do you call this? bed curtains? You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there? MRS. M. Yes. I do! Why not? JOE. You were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it! Blankets! his blankets? MRS. M. Whose else's? He won't take cold without 'em! JOE. I hope he didn't die of anything catching! MRS. M. No, no! or I'd not have waited on such as he! There, Joe, that's the best shirt he had--they'd ha' wasted it, but for me! JOE. What do you call wasting it? MRS. M. Putting it on him to be buried, to be sure! Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again! If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it ain't good enough for anybody! It's quite as becoming to the body! He can't look uglier than he did in that one! SCR. I listen to their words in horror! JOE. There is what I will give you! (_Chalks on wall, then takes out a small bag, and tells them out their money._) MRS. M. Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see--he frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead--ha, ha, ha! (_All laugh._) SCR. (_Shuddering._) Spirit, I see--I see! The case of this unhappy man might be my own--my life tends that way now. Let us be gone. (_The SPIRIT points onward. The Scene changes._) SCENE IV.--_A chamber. Curtain drawn over recess. The SPIRIT points to it--then approaches it, followed by SCROOGE trembling. The curtain is withdrawn--a bed is seen--a pale, light shows a figure, covered with a sheet upon it._ SCR. (_Recoiling in terror._) Ah! a bare uncurtained bed, and something there, which, though dumb, announces itself in awful language! Yes, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, is the body of this man! (_The SPIRIT points towards the bed._) It points towards the face--the slightest movement of my hand would instantly reveal it--I long yet dread to do it. Oh, could this man be raised up and see himself! Avarice, hard dealing, griping cares! They have brought him to a rich end, truly! He lays alone in a dark empty house, with not a man, woman, or a child, to say--"He was kind to me--I will be kind to him!" Spirit, this is a fearful place! in leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson. Let us hence. If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death, show that person to me, I beseech you. (_As he speaks the Scene changes._) SCENE V.--_A chamber. SCROOGE and SPIRIT on L. H._ _Enter ELLEN, R. H., second dress, followed by EUSTON, L. H._ ELLEN. What news my love--is it good or bad? EUS. Bad! ELLEN. We are quite ruined! EUS. No! there is hope yet, Ellen! ELLEN. If he relents, there is--nothing is past hope if such a miracle has happened. EUS. He is past relenting! He is dead! ELLEN. Dead! It is a crime but heaven forgive me, I almost feel thankful for it! EUS. What the half drunken-woman told me last night, when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and which I thought a mere excuse to avoid me, was true,--he was not only ill, but dying then! ELLEN. To whom will our debt be transferred! EUS. I don't know, but before that time we shall be ready with the money, and were we not, we can hardly find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Ellen. Come! (_Exeunt R. H._) SCR. This is terrible! Let me see some tenderness connected with a death in that dark chamber, which we left just now, Spirit--it will be for ever present to me. (SPIRIT _points onward and slowly exits followed by SCROOGE._) SCENE VI.--_Apartment at BOB CRATCHIT'S._ (_MRS. CRATCHIT, PETER, and the two younger CRATCHIT'S discovered. Candle lighted. The SPIRIT enters, followed by SCROOGE._) SCR. As through the old familiar streets we passed, I looked in vain to find myself, but nowhere was I to be seen. MRS. C. (_Laying down her work. Mourning._) The colour hurts my eyes, and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father. It must be near his time--he walks slower than he used, and yet I've known him walk, with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed--but he was very light to carry, and his father loved him, so that it was no trouble--no trouble---- _Enter BOB, L. H. MRS. C. advances to meet him--the CHILDREN crowd around him._ BOB. There, wife, I've returned at last. Come, you have been industrious in my absence--the things will be ready before Sunday. MRS. C. Sunday! You went to-day, then? BOB. Yes, my dear! I wish you could have gone--it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often--I promised him I would walk there of a Sunday--my little--little child--(_With much emotion._) MRS. C. Don't fret! BOB. Fret! I met Mr. Scrooge's nephew just now, who, seeing that I looked a little down, asked me what had happened. Ah, he's the pleasantest spoken gentleman you ever heard--he told me he was sorry for me and for my good wife--but how he knew _that_ I don't know! MRS. C. Knew what? BOB. Why, that you were a good wife! and he was so kind--it was quite delightful! He said he'd get Peter a better situation--and, mark me, whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim, shall we, or this first parting that was among us? OMNES. Never! never! (_The CHILDREN crowd around their PARENTS, who kiss them tenderly. A medium descends and hides the group._) SCR. Spectre, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand--tell me, ere you quit me, what man that was whom we saw lying dead? (_The SPIRIT points onward slowly traverses the stage._) Still he beckons me onward--there seems no order in these latter visions, save they are in the future. Through yonder gloom I can see my own dwelling--let me behold what I shall be in days to come--the house is yonder--why do you point away? Ah! that house is no longer mine--another occupies it. Ah! why is this? (_The medium is worked off, and discovers._) SCENE VII.--_A Churchyard. On slab centre, is engraved "EBENEZER SCROOGE."_ SCR. A churchyard! Here, then, the wretched man who's name I have now to learn, lays underneath the ground! (_The SPIRIT points to centre slab. SCROOGE advances, trembling, towards it._) Before I draw nearer to the stone to which you point, answer me one question. Are these the things of the shadows that will be, or are they the shadows of the things that may be only? (_The SPIRIT still points downward to the grave._) Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in they must lead--but if the courses be departed from the ends will change--say is it thus with what you show me? Still as immovable as ever! (_Draws nearer to grave._) "Ebenezer Scrooge!" My own name! (_Sinks on his knees._) Am I that man who lay upon the bed? (_The SPIRIT points from the grave to him, and back again._) No, Spirit! Oh, no, no! (_See PLATE, page 150. The FIGURE remains immovable._) Spirit! (_Clutching its robe._) Hear me! I am not the man I was--I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse! why show me this if I am past all hope? (_The hand trembles. SCROOGE sinks on his knees._) Good Spirit, your nature intercedes for me--assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life! (_The hand trembles still._) I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year--I will live the past, the present, and the future--the spirits of all three shall strive within me--I will not shut out the lessons that they teach--oh tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone! (_In his agony he catches the SPECTRE'S hand--it seeks to free itself--his struggles become stronger in his despair--the SPIRIT repulses him--he sinks prostrate to the earth--the SPIRIT disappears, as the medium is worked on. Clouds roll over the stage--they are worked off, and discovers._) SCENE VIII.--_SCROOGE'S Chamber. Same as Scene I, Act I. It is broad day--the fire is nearly extinguished--the candle nearly burnt down to the socket. The stage arrangement in other respects, precisely the same as at end of Scene I, Act I._ SCROOGE _discovered, sleeping in his chair. He appears restless and uneasy, then starts up, exclaiming._ SCR. Pity me! I will not be the man I have been! Oh, no, no! (_Pauses, and looks around him._) Ah! here! Could it all have been a dream! A dream--ha, ha, ha! A dream! Yes! this table's my own--this chair's my own--this room's my own--and happier still, the time before me is my own to make amends in! I will live the past, the present, and the future! Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this! I say it on my knees--on my knees! My cheek is wet with tears, but they are tears of penitence! (_Busies himself in pulling on his coat, throwing off his cap, etc., and speaking all the time._) I don't know what to do--I'm as light as a feather--I'm as happy as an angel--I'm as merry as a school-boy--I'm as giddy as a drunken man! A merry Christmas to every body--a happy new year to all the world! Hallo, there! Whoop! Hallo! there's the jug that my gruel was in--there's the door where the ghost of Jacob Marley entered. It's all right--it's all true--it all happened--ha, ha, ha! I don't know what day of the month it is--I don't know how long I've been among the spirits--I don't know anything--I'm quite a baby--never mind, I don't care--I'd rather be a baby! Hallo! Whoop! Hallo, here! (_Runs to window--opens it._) Here, you boy! what's to-day? BOY. (_Without._) Why, Christmas Day! SCR. Ah! I haven't missed it! Glorious! I say--go to the poulterer's round the corner, and buy the prize turkey for me! BOY. (_Without._) Wal-ker! SCR. Tell 'em to send it, and I'll give you half a crown. He's off like a shot! I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's. How astonished he'll be. (_Coming down._) I'll write a cheque for that society that they called on me about yesterday. Oh, I'll make every one happy, and myself, too! (_Knocks heard without._) That must be the turkey! (_Opens door._) As I live, it's Bob Cratchit! _Enter BOB CRATCHIT, 2 E. L. H._ BOB. Excuse my calling, sir, but the fact is, I couldn't help it. That worthy gentleman, your nephew, is ruined. I said, ruined, sir---- SCR. I'm glad of it! BOB. Glad of it! There's an unnatural cannibal! _Enter FRANK, 2 E. L. H._ FRANK. Oh uncle, you know all! I come not to ask your assistance--that would be madness--but I come to bid you farewell. In three days' time, with my unfortunate family, I shall quit England. SCR. No, you shan't. You shall stay where you are! FRANK. You mock me! SCR. I say you shall stay where you are! (_Writes at table._) There's a cheque for present use--to-morrow I will see how I can make up your losses, and at my death you shall inherit all my wealth--but I don't mean to die yet, you dog! FRANK. This generosity---- SCR. No thanks. I'll dine with you to-day, Frank--and as for you, Bob, Tiny Tim shall be my care, and your salary's trebled from this hour. BOB. Oh, this can't be my master! Oh, I'm quite sure it must be somebody else. Yes--it is him, too! He must have gone mad! I've a great mind to knock him down with the ruler, and get Mr. Frank to help me to fit him on a strait waistcoat! Well, I never! SCR. A merry Christmas, Frank--a merry Christmas, Bob--and it _shall_ be a merry one. I have awoke a better man than I fell asleep. So may it be with all of us! Oh, may my day dreams prove as happy as my night ones? (_As he speaks, the gauze medium is lit up behind, and the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST, the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT, and the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS TO COME, with the other characters in the Miser's dream, are seen in separate groups._) Their remembrance haunts me still. Oh, my friends--forgive but my past, you will make happy my present, and inspire me with hope for the future! THE CURTAIN FALLS. _THE BAT_ A mystery play in 3 acts. By Mary Roberts Rinehart and Avery Hopwood. Produced originally at the Morosco Theatre, New York. 7 males, 3 females. 2 interior scenes. Modern costumes. Miss Cornelia Van Gorder, a maiden lady of sixty, has leased as a restorative for frayed nerves, a Long Island country house. It had been the property of a New York financier who had disappeared coincidentally with the looting of his bank. His cashier, who is secretly engaged to marry Miss Van Gorder's niece, is suspected of the defalcation and is a fugitive. The new occupants believe the place to be haunted. Strange sounds and manifestations first strengthen this conviction but presently lead them to suspect that the happenings are mysteriously connected with the bank robbery. Any sensible woman would have moved to the nearest neighbors for the night and returned to the city next day. But Miss Van Gorder decided to remain and solve the mystery. She sends for detectives and then things begin to happen. At one time or another every member of the household is suspected of the theft. The audience is kept running up blind alleys, falling into hidden pitfalls, and darting around treacherous corners. A genuine thriller guaranteed to divert any audience. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. _THE HAUNTED HOUSE_ Comedy in 3 acts. By Owen Davis. Produced originally at the George M. Cohan Theatre, New York. 8 males, 3 females. 1 interior. Modern costumes. A newly married couple arrive to spend their honeymoon in a summer cottage owned by the girl's father, who has begged them not to go there, because he claims the house is haunted. Almost immediately after their arrival, strange sounds are heard in the house. The bride leaves the room for a few moments and when she returns, her husband is talking very confidentially to a young woman, who he claims has had trouble with her automobile down the road, and he goes out to assist her. But when he comes back, his wife's suspicions force him to confess that the girl is an old sweetheart of his. The girl is subsequently reported murdered, and the bride believes her husband has committed the crime. A neighbor, who is an author of detective stories, attempts to solve the murder, meantime calling in a prominent New York detective who is vacationing in the town. As they proceed, everyone in the action becomes involved. But the whole thing terminates in a laugh, with the most uproarious and unexpected conclusion imaginable. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. _LOUDER, PLEASE_ A comedy in 3 acts. By Norman Krasna. Produced originally at the Masque Theatre, New York. 12 males, 3 females. 1 interior scene. Modern costumes. The breathless and amusing comedy has to do with the efforts of Criterion Pictures to keep one of its stars, Polly Madison, before the public gaze, and Press Agent Herbert White is called in to promote the necessary ballyhoo. He conceives the brilliant but ancient idea of having Polly get "lost at sea" in a motor boat. There is a law making it a punishable crime to fake a false news report to the press, but what is a law to Herbert if he can get over the necessary publicity? He broadcasts the news that Polly has strangely disappeared and is lost at sea. Consequently the forces of the law get busy, the Coast Guard sends out a fleet of airplanes to rescue the lost film star, with the result that the front pages of the papers are loaded with stories of the frantic search for the actress, and the world at large is on its ear. Detective Bailey becomes suspicious of the fake and puts the Criterion staff through a stiff third degree. A prison cell looms up for Herbert White and he has to resort to the most desperate measures to make the fake story appear true. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. _SKIDDING_ Comedy in 3 acts. By Aurania Rouverol. Produced originally at the Bijou Theatre, New York. 5 males, 5 females. 1 interior. Modern costumes. A fresh, sincere picture of American family life, showing Marion Hardy, a modern college girl who falls ecstatically in love with Wayne Trenton just as a career is opening up to her, and the difficulties she has in adjusting her romance. Then there are the two pretty young daughters who chose to marry before they finished their education and want to "come home to Mother" at the first sign of trouble. Mother Hardy is so upset at the modern tendencies of her daughters, that she goes on strike in order to straighten out her family. Young Andy Hardy is an adorable adolescent lad with his first "case"--a typical Booth Tarkington part. He keeps the audience in a gale of merriment with his humorous observances. Grandpa Hardy touches the heart with his absent-mindedness and his reminiscences about Grandma; and the white satin slippers he makes for Marion to be married in, have a great deal to do with straightening out her love affair. Humor is blended with pathos and a deliciously garnished philosophy makes "Skidding" more significant than the average comedy. It is life. "Skidding" is one of our most popular plays for High School production. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. Transcriber's notes: The line "happy as my night ones? (_As he speaks, the gauze_" was duplicated in the original. The following is a list of changes made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. _Author of Fair Rosamond, Fairinelli, The Dream of Fate,_ _Author of Fair Rosamond, Farinelli, The Dream of Fate,_ CHRISTAMAS CAROL. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. _Easy chair Table with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ _Easy chair, table with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ (_Binds wrappr round its head once more--slowly_ (_Binds wrapper round its head once more--slowly_ either--nor ony of your family, Bob Cratchit. At either--nor any of your family, Bob Cratchit. At MRS. C. Sunday! You went to day, then? MRS. C. Sunday! You went to-day, then? 
40729	----	[Illustration: Cover: OLD SCROOGE] "OLD SCROOGE:" A Christmas Carol in Five Staves. DRAMATIZED FROM Charles Dickens' Celebrated Christmas Story, By CHARLES A. SCOTT. NEWARK, N. J.: NEW JERSEY SOLDIERS' HOME PRINT. 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, BY CHARLES A. SCOTT, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. All Rights Reserved. _This edition is limited, and is printed for the convenience of to enable the owner to make such alterations as may seem judicious._ _CHARACTERS._ Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly broker Frederick Merry, a nephew to Scrooge Bob Cratchit, clerk to Scrooge Ghost of Jacob Marley, dead seven years Spirit of Christmas Past Spirit of Christmas Present Mr. Thomas Topper Mr. Henry Snapper Mr. Mumford | philanthropic citizens Mr. Barnes | Peter Cratchit Little Cratchit Tiny Tim Scrooge's former self Mr. Stevens | Mr. Jones | Mr. Fatchin | Scrooge's business friends Mr. Snuffer | Mr. Redface | Mr. Kemper Mr. Fezziwig, Scrooge's former master Mr. James Badger Dick Wilkins, Fezziwig's apprentice Old Joe, a pawnbroker Mr. Shroud, an undertaker Old Baldhead, the fiddler The Lamp Lighter First Man Second Man Ignorance The boy with the turkey Thomas, a servant Mrs. Belle Kemper, Scrooge's first and last love Mrs. Frederick Merry | Miss Julia Kemper | her daughters Miss Sarah Kemper | Mrs. Cratchit, a devoted wife Belinda Cratchit | her daughters Martha Cratchit | Mrs. Caroline Badger Mrs. Mangle, a laundress Mrs. Dilber, a char-woman Mrs. Fezziwig, a worthy matron Clara Fezziwig | her daughters Emma Fezziwig | Little Fanny Scrooge Want Six or eight children for tableaux. [Illustration: hand with pointing finger] By a distribution of two or three character to one person, the piece can be performed by fifteen males and nine females. _COSTUMES._ _Scrooge._ First dress: Brown Quaker-cut coat, waistcoat and pants. Dark overcoat. Low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat. Black silk stock and standing collar. Bald wig with tufts of white hair on each side. Smooth face. Second dress: Dressing gown, cotton night-cap and slippers. _Fred. Merry._ First dress: Walking suit, overcoat, black silk hat. Black silk stock and standing collar. Side whiskers. Second dress: Dress suit. _Bob Cratchit._ Long-tailed business coat of common material, much worn, and buttoned up to the neck. Woolen pants and waistcoat of check pattern. Colored scarf and standing collar. Large white comforter. Narrow-rimmed silk hat, old style and the worse for wear. Smooth face. _Ghost of Marley._ Drab cut-away coat and breeches. Low-cut single-breasted vest. Ruffled shirt. White neckcloth. Drab leggings. Gray, long-haired wig, with queue. Shaggy eyebrows. _Spirit of Christmas Past._ White tunic trimmed with flowers. Fleshings. Jeweled belt around waist. Long white hair hanging loose down neck and back. Jeweled star for forehead. White conical hat, very high, carried under the arm. Smooth, pale face--no wrinkles. Wand of holly. _Spirit of Christmas Present._ Green robe bordered with white fur. Fleshings. Trunks. Brown hose. Dark-brown curls. Holly wreath for the head. _Mumford._ Overcoat. Under suit of the period--1840. Black silk hat. White neckcloth and standing collar. Gray, long-haired wig. Smooth face. Spectacles. _Barnes._ Blue cloth over and under coats. Black silk hat. Black silk stock and standing collar. Iron-gray short-haired wig. Mutton-chop whiskers. Walking stick. _Topper and Snapper._ Dress suits of the period--1840. _Peter Cratchit._ Jacket or short coat. Very large standing collar and neckerchief. _Little Cratchit._ Calico shirt. Short trousers. Shoes and stockings. Apron. _Tiny Tim._ Same as Little Cratchit, with the addition of a jacket. _Scrooge's former self._ First dress: Cutaway coat. Knee breeches. Second dress: Cape coat. Hessians. _Ignorance and Want._ Clad in rags. Fleshings. _Old Joe._ Gabardine or long-skirted coat. Shaggy wig and beard. Old smoking cap. _Mrs. Cratchit._ Plain black or brown dress. Cap and apron. _Mrs. Merry, Kemper and Misses Kemper._ Handsome house dresses of the period. _Misses Fezziwig._ Low-necked dresses with short sleeves. _Mrs. Badger._ Plain walking dress. Bonnet and shawl. _SCENERY, FURNITURE and PROPERTIES._ ACT I. SCENE I.--Scrooge & Marley's Counting House, 1st G. backed by an interior 2d G. Set fire-place--painted grate fire L. Window in flat L. C. Double doors in flat, thrown open, R. C. Scrooge's desk and chair near window--ruler, pens, ink and paper on desk. Bob Cratchit's Desk in inner room in sight of audience. Lighted candles on both desks. Scuttle of coal near fire place. Clothes hooks on flat for Scrooge's hat and great coat. Coal shovel for Bob to enter with. Subscription list for Mumford to enter with. [Illustration: Hand]Clear stage of desk, chair and scuttle. SCENE II.--Scrooge's apartments 3d or 4th G. Door L. C. and window R. C. in flat, backed by a street scene. Small grate fire and mantel L. 2. Old-fashioned clock and two plaster casts on mantel. Door R. 2. Table L. C. Lighted candle, spoon, basin and writing materials on table. Saucepan of gruel on hob. Two easy chairs near fire place. Lights down. Fender at fire. Ringing bells of place. Scrooge's hat and coat hung on the wall. Chain made of cash boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purses, etc., for ghost to enter with. Toothpick for Scrooge to show. Trap ready for ghost to disappear. ACT II. SCENE I.--Scrooge's bed room 1st G. Chimney C., with painted coal fire. Door L. C., window R. C. Trap near hearth for Spirit of Christmas Past to enter. Small four-post bedstead with curtains L. Bureau or washstand R. SCENE II.--An old school room 3d G. Door L. C., and window R. C. in flat. Chair at window. A stuffed parrot on stand near R. 3. Two or three school desks, a platform and desk for the master; books for young Scrooge. SCENE III.--A wareroom, full depth of stage. An elevated platform, centre of flat, for the fiddler. Old-fashioned arm chair at L. 2, for Mrs Fezziwig. SCENE IV.--Plain room, 2d G. No properties. SCENE V.--Drawing room, 5th G., trimmed with evergreens. A Christmas tree, trimmed and lighted, R. U. E. Ornaments on mantel. Fireplace L. Suite of parlor furniture. Centre table C. Toys for children--doll and doll's dress for Belle. Trap ready for spirit to disappear. ACT III. SCENE I.--A room in Scrooge's house, 1st G. Flat painted to show game, poultry, meats, etc. Torch, shaped like a cornucopia for Spirit of Christmas Present. SCENE II.--Bob Cratchit's home--Plain room 4th G. Door R. and L. C., backed by kitchen flat. Dresser and crockery C. of flat. Fireplace L. U. E. Saucepan of potatoes on fire; six wooden or cane-seat chairs; a high chair for Tiny Tim. Large table C.; white table-cloth; large bowl on side table R.; three tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. Nuts, apples and oranges on dresser. Small crutch for Tiny Tim to enter with. Goose on dish for Peter to enter with. SCENE III.--A street mansion with lighted windows showing shadow of a group inside, 1st G. Snow. Torch and ladder for lamp lighter. SCENE IV.--Drawing room 4th G. Arch 3d G. Handsome suite of furniture. Large table R. Sideboard with wine and glasses at flat C. Piano L. 2d E. Coffee-urn and cups on small table R. 3d E. Piano-stool, music stand. Sheet music on piano. Salver for waiter. ACT IV. SCENE I.--Scrooge's bed room 2d G. as in scene 1, act 2. SCENE II.--Street 1st G. Snuff-box for Snuffer to enter with. SCENE III.--Pawn shop 3d G. Doors R. and L. C. in flat--Table C., four common chairs; a smoky oil lamp--lighted, and a piece of white chalk on table. Bundle of bed curtains--same as on Scrooge's bedstead--blankets and shirts for Mrs. Mangle to enter with. Bundle of under-clothing, towels, sheets, sugar-tongs, tea-spoons and old boots for Mrs. Dilber to enter with. A package containing a seal, pencil-case, pair of sleeve-buttons and scarf pin, for Shroud to enter with. Purse of coins for Old Joe. SCENE IV.--Street--exterior of Scrooge and Marley's 1st G. Window L. C. No properties. SCENE V.--Bob Cratchit's home--same as scene 2, act, 3. Table C., candles and work-basket on table. Book for Peter on table; calico or muslin for Mrs. Cratchit and Belinda to sew. ACT V. SCENE I.--Scrooge's apartment, as in scene 2d act 1st. No additional properties. SCENE II.--Street--exterior of Scrooge's house 1st G. Brass knocker on the door. Turkey for boy to enter with. SCENE III.--Drawing room same as scene 4, act 3. Handkerchief for Fred to blindfold. OLD SCROOGE. STAVE ONE. SCENE I.--_Christmas Eve. Counting house of Scrooge & Marley. Set fireplace with small grate fire_ L. _Centre door in flat, thrown open, showing a small inner chamber and desk, at which Bob Cratchit is discovered seated, endeavoring to warm his hands over the candle. Small desk,_ L. C., _at which Scrooge is discovered busy at figures_. _Enter Bob Cratchit, from inner room, with coal shovel, going toward fireplace._ _Scrooge._ And six makes twenty-eight pounds, four shill----What do you want in here? _Bob._ My fire is nearly out, sir, and I thought I would take one or two lumps of coal, and-- _Scro._ You think more of your personal comforts than you do of your business and my interest. _Bob._ The room, sir, is very cold, and I-- _Scro._ Work sir, work! and I'll warrant that you'll keep warm. If you persist, in this wanton waste of coals, you and I will have to part. (_Bob retires to his desk, puts on his white comforter, and again tries to warm his hands. Scrooge resuming_). Four shillings and ninepence-- _Enter Fred'k Merry_, C. D., _saluting Bob as he passes him_. _Fred._ A Merry Christmas, uncle. God save you. _Scro._ Bah; humbug. _Fred._ Christmas a humbug, uncle! You don't mean that, I'm sure? _Scro._ I do. Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough. _Fred._ Come then. What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough. _Scro._ Bah; humbug. _Fred._ Don't be cross, uncle. _Scro._ What else can I be when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon Merry Christmas! What's Christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should. _Fred._ Uncle! _Scro._ (_sternly_). Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. _Fred._ Keep it! But you don't keep it. _Scro._ Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it do you. Much good it has ever done you. _Fred._ There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time, when it came round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And, therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and I say, God bless it. (_Cratchit applauds, but observing Scrooge, endeavors to be intent on something else._) _Scro._ (_to Bob_). Let me hear another sound from _you_, and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! (_To Fred_). You're quite a powerful speaker, sir, I wonder you don't go into Parliament. _Fred._ Don't be angry, uncle. Come, dine with us to-morrow? _Scro._ I'd see you in blazes first. _Fred._ But why? Why? _Scro._ Why did you get married? _Fred._ Because I fell in love. _Scro._ Because you fell in love! The only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. Good afternoon. _Fred._ Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now? _Scro._ Good afternoon. _Fred._ I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends? _Scro._ Good afternoon! _Fred._ I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So a Merry Christmas, uncle. _Scro._ Good afternoon! (_As Fred goes out he exchanges greetings with Bob._) _Fred._ A merry Christmas. _Bob._ The same to you, and many of them. _Scro._ There's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a Merry Christmas. I'll retire to the lunatic asylum. _Enter Mr. Mumford and Mr. Barnes with subscription book and paper, ushered in by Bob._ _Mr. Mumford._ Scrooge & Marley's. I believe (_referring to paper_). Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley? _Scro._ Mr. Marley his been dead these seven years. He died seven years ago this very night. _Mr. M._ We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner. (_Presents list. Scrooge frowns, shakes his head, and returns it._) At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir. _Scro._ Are there no prisons? _Mr. M._ Plenty of prisons. _Scro._ And the union work-houses--are they still in operation? _Mr. M._ They are. I wish I could say they were not. _Scro._ The tread-mill and the poor law are in full vigor, then? _Mr. M._ Both very busy, sir. _Scro._. Oh! I was afraid from what you said at first that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course. I'm very glad to hear it. _Mr. M._ Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We chose this time because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for? _Scro._ Nothing. _Mr. M._ You wish to be anonymous? _Scro._ I wish to be left alone. Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned; they cost enough, and those who are badly off must go there. _Mr. B._ Many can't go there; and many would rather die. _Scro._ If they had rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides, excuse me, I don't know that. _Mr. B._ But you might know it. _Scro._ It's not my business. It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen. _Mr. M._ It is useless, we may as well withdraw. [_Exeunt. As they go out Bob is seen to hand them money._] (_Voice at door_ R. _singing_.) God bless you, merry gentlemen. May nothing you dismay-- _Scro._ (_Seizes ruler and makes a dash at the door._) Begone! I'll have none of your carols here. (_Makes sign to Bob, who extinguishes his candle and puts on his hat and enters._) You'll want all day to morrow, I suppose? _Bob._ If quite convenient, sir. _Scro._ It's not convenient, and its not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound? (_Bob smiles faintly._) And yet you don't think _me_ ill-used when I pay a day's wages for no work. _Bob._ It's only once a year, sir. _Scro._ A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December. (_Buttoning up his great coat to the chin._) But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. (_Exit_ C.) _Bob._ I will, sir. You old skinflint. If I had my way, I'd give you Christmas. I'd give it to you this way (_Dumb show of pummelling Scrooge._) Now for a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of Christmas Eve, and then for Camden Town as hard as I can pelt. (_Exit_ C., _with sliding motions, closing doors after him_.) SCENE II.--_Scrooge's apartments._ _Grate fire_, L. _2, Window_, R. C. _Door_, L. C. _in flat_. _Table_, L. _4. Spoon and basin on table. Saucepan on hob. Two easy chairs near fire. Lights down._ [_Scrooge in dressing gown and night-cap, discovered, with candle, searching the room._] _Scro._ Pooh! pooh! Marley's dead seven years to night. Impossible. Nobody under the table, nobody under the couch, nobody in the closet, nobody nowhere (_Yawns_). Bah, humbug! (_Locks door_ R. _and seats himself in easy chair; dips gruel from saucepan into basin, and takes two or three spoonsful. Yawns and composes himself for rest._) [_One or two stanzas of a Christmas carol may be sung outside, at the close of which a general ringing of bells ensues, succeeded by a clanking noise of chain._] _Enter Jacob Marley's ghost._ R., _with chain made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purposes, etc. Hair twisted upright on each side to represent horns. White bandage around jaws._ _Scro._ It's humbug still! I won't believe it. [_Pause, during which Ghost approaches the opposite side of the mantel._] How now. What do you want with me? _Ghost._ Much. _Scro._ Who are you? _Gho._ Ask me who I _was_. _Scro._ Who _were_ you then? You're particular, for a shade. _Gho._ In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. _Scro._ Can you--can you sit down? _Gho._ I can. _Scro._ Do it, then. _Gho._ You don't believe in me? _Scro._ I don't. _Gho._ What evidence do you require of my reality beyond that of your senses? _Scro._ I don't know. _Gho._ Why do you doubt your senses? _Scro._ Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an under-done potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. You see this tooth-pick? _Gho._ I do. _Scro._ You are not looking at it. _Gho._ But I see it, notwithstanding. _Scro._ Well! I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of gobblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you; humbug. (_Ghost rattles chain, takes bandage off jaws, and drops lower jaw as far as possible._) _Scro._ (_Betrays signs of fright._) Mercy! dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me? _Gho._ Man of the worldly mind, do you believe in me, or not? _Scro._ I do. I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me? _Gho._ It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men and travel far and wide, and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me--and witness what it can not share, but might have shared on earth, turned to happiness. [_Shakes chain and wrings his hands._] _Scro._ You are fettered; tell me why? _Gho._ I wear the chain I forged in life; I made it link by link and yard by yard. I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to _you_? Or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself. It was full as heavy and as long as this seven Christmas-eves ago. You have labored on it since. It is a pondrous chain! _Scro._ Jacob, old Jacob Marley, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob. _Gho._ I have none to give. It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers to other lands of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little more is all that is permitted to me. I can not rest, I can not stay, I can not linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our counting house, mark me!--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me. _Scro._ You must have been very slow about it, Jacob. _Gho._ Slow? _Scro._ Seven years dead. And traveling all the time. _Gho._ The old time. No rest, no peace. Incessant tortures of remorse. _Scro._ You travel fast? _Gho._ On the wings of the wind. _Scro._ You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years, Jacob. _Gho._ (_Clinking his chain._) Oh! captive, bound and double-ironed, not to know that ages of incessant labor by immortal creatures; for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused. Yet, such was I. Oh, such was I! _Scro._ But you were always a good man of business Jacob. _Gho._ Business! [_wringing his hands and shaking chain._] Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business. Charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business. [_Holds up chain at arm's length, and drops it._] At this time of the rolling year I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them, to that blessed Star which led the wise men to a poor abode? Were there no poor houses to which its light would have conducted _me_? Hear me! my time is nearly gone. _Scro._ I will; but don't be hard upon me. Don't be flowery, Jacob, pray. _Gho._ How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day. That is no light part of my penance. I am here to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer. _Scro._ You were always a good friend to me. Thank 'er. _Gho._ You will be haunted by three spirits. _Scro._ Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob? _Gho._ It is. _Scro._ I--I think I'd rather not. _Gho._ Without their visits you can not hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls one. _Scro._ Couldn't I take'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob? _Gho._ Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third on the night following, when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us. [_Ghost replaces bandage around jaws, rises, winds chain about his arm, walks backward to window, beckoning Scrooge, who rises and follows. As soon as Ghost walks through window, which opens for him, he motions for Scrooge to stop, and disappears through trap. Window closes as before._] CURTAIN. STAVE TWO. SCENE I.--_Scrooge's bed room. A small, four-post bedstead with curtains at_ L. E., _bureau_ R. E. _Bell tolls twelve. Scrooge pulls curtains aside and sits on side of bed. Touches spring of his repeater, which also strikes twelve._ _Scro._ Way, it isn't possible that I can have slept through a whole day, and far into another night. It isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve o'clock at noon. (_The Spirit of Christmas Past rises from the hearth as Scrooge finishes his Speech._) _Scro._ Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me? _Spirit._ I am. _Scro._ Who, and what are you? _Spir._ I am the ghost of Christmas Past. _Scro._ Long past? _Spir._ No; your past. _Scro._ I beg you will be covered. _Spir._ What! would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give? Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow? _Scro._ I have no intention of offending you. May I make bold to enquire what business has brought you here? _Spir._ Your welfare. _Scro._ I am much obliged, but I think a night of unbroken rest would be more conducive to that end. _Spir._ Your reclamation, then. Take heed! observe the shadows of the past, and profit by the recollection of them. _Scro._ What would you have me do? _Spir._ Remain where you are, while memory recalls the past. SCENE II.--_The spirit waves a wand, the scene opens and displays a dilapidated school-room. Young Scrooge discovered seated at a window, reading._ _Scro._ (_Trembling_) Good heavens! I was a boy! It's the old school; and its the Christmas I was left alone. _Spir._ You remember it? _Scro._ Yes, yes; I know! I was reading all about Ali Baba. Dear old honest Ali Baba. And Valentine and his wild brother, Orson; and the Sultan's groom turned upside down by the Geni. Served him right, I'm glad of it; what business had _he_ to be married to the Princess! [_In an earnest and excited manner, and voice between, laughing and crying._] There's the parrot: green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin Crusoe? There goes Friday, running for his life to the little Creek. Halloo! Hoop! Halloo! [_Changing to a pitiful tone, in allusion to his former self._] Poor boy. _Spir._ Strange to have forgotten this for so many years. _Scro._ (_Putting his hand in his pocket and drying his eyes on his cuff_) I wish--but it's too late now. _Spir._ What is the matter? _Scro._ Nothing; nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas carol at my door, last night, I should like to have given him something, that's all. [_Young Scrooge rises and walks up and down. Door opens and Fanny Scrooge darts in and puts her arms about his neck and kisses him._] _Fanny._ Dear, dear brother! I have come to bring you home, dear brother. (_Clapping her hands and laughing gleefully._) To bring you home, home, home! _Young S._ Home, little Fan? _Fan._ Yes! Home for good, and all. Home for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home is like Heaven. He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you're to be a man, and never to come back here; but first we're to be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world. _Young S._ You're quite a woman, little Fan! [_She claps her hands and laughs, tries to touch his head, but being too little, laughs again. Stands on tip-toe to embrace him, and in childish eagerness and glee, drags him willingly towards the door. Exeunt._] _Voice_ [_outside_]. Bring down Master Scrooge's box, there. [_Scene Closes_] _Spir._ Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. But she had a large heart. _Scro._ So she had. You're right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit. Lord forbid. _Spir._ She died a woman, and had, as I think, children. _Scro._ One child. _Spir._ True; your nephew. _Scro._ [_uneasily_] Yes. _Spir._ Let us see another Christmas. (_Waves wand._) SCENE III.--_Fezziwig's Ball, full depth of stage, representing a wareroom. Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig L., the former standing and clapping his hands, and the latter seated in an arm-chair, manifesting delight. Old bald-headed fiddler, on an elevated seat, at the back. Dick Wilkins, with two Miss Fezziwigs, forward to right and back. Scrooge's former self advances and retires to the partners, with fancy steps: hands around; right and left; ladies change; balance; promenade. Other characters to fill up the picture. Laughter and merriment to follow Scrooge's speech._ _Spir._ Do you know it? _Scro._ Know it! I was apprenticed here. Why, its old Fezziwig. Bless his heart; its Fezziwig alive again, and Mrs Fezziwig, too. Dick Wilkins, to be sure, with Fezziwig's two daughters. Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. And see me, cutting the pigeon-wing. Dear, dear, dear! (_Dance comes to an end amid general hilarity and merriment, and the scene closes in._) _Spir._ A small matter to make these silly folks so full of gratitude. _Scro._ Small! Why, old Fezziwig was one of the best men that ever lived. He never missed giving his employees a Christmas ball. _Spir._ Why, is it not! He spent but a few pounds of money--three or four pounds, perhaps--. Is that so much that he deserves your praise? _Scro._ It isn't that, Spirit. He had the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our services light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lives in words and looks; in things so light and unsignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up; what then? The happiness he gives is quite as great if it cost a fortune--oh, dear. _Spir._ What is the matter? _Scro._ Nothing, particular. _Spir._ Something, I think. _Scro._ No, no. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk, just now, that's all. _Spir._ My time grows short, let us hurry on. Do you remember this? (_Waves wand._) SCENE IV.--_A room. Enter Belle and Scrooge's former self, at twenty-five years of age._ _Scro._ It is Belle, as sure as I am a living sinner. _Belle._ It matters little to you. To you very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve. _Young S._ What idol has displaced you? _Belle._ A golden one. _Young S._ This is the even-handed dealing of the world. There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity, as the pursuit of wealth. _Belle._ You fear the world too much. All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion _gain_, engrosses you. Have I not? _Young S._ What then? Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed toward you, (_She shakes her head._) Am I? _Belle._ Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You _are_ changed. When it was made you were another man. _Young S._ I was a boy. _Belle._ Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are. I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I _have_ thought of it, and can release you. _Young S._ Have I ever sought release? _Belle._ In words; no, never. _Young S._ In what, then? _Belle._ In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another hope as to its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no! _Young S._ You think not? _Belle._ I would gladly think otherwise, if I could; Heaven knows. When I have learned a truth like this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you, who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by gain; or choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you, with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. (_He is about to speak, but with her head turned from him she resumes._) You may--the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will--have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen. Fare well. [_Exit._] _Young S._ (_Following_) Belle, Belle! Hear me. Let me explain. [_Exit._] [_Scene Closes._] _Scro._ Spirit, show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me? _Spir._ O, mortal, what a treasure didst thou cast away. She, whom you resigned for paltry gold, became the happy wife of your former schoolmate, Kemper. One shadow more. Behold now the tender mother of smiling children, in their joyous home--a home that might have been your own. _Scro._ No more! no more! I don't wish to see it. _Spir._ Behold. (_Waves Wand._) SCENE V.--_Drawing room. Six or eight children, of various sizes, in groups, playing with toys. A Christmas tree, trimmed and lighted. Mr. and Mrs. Kemper seated at table; their daughter Belle seated at fire, dressing a doll for one of the girls._ _Mr. K._ Belle, I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon. _Mrs. K._ Who was it? _Mr. K._ Guess? _Mrs. K._ How can I? Tut, don't I know (_laughingly_), Mr. Scrooge? _Mr. K._ Mr. Scrooge it was--your old sweetheart (_laughing_). I passed his office window, and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. His partner, old Jacob Marley, lies upon the point of death, I hear. And there he sat, alone. Quite alone in the world, I do believe. _Mrs. K._ Poor old man. [_Scene Closes._] _Scro._ Spirit (_in a broken voice_), remove me from this place. _Spir._ I told you these were shadows of the things that have been. That they are what they are, do not blame me. _Scro._ I am to blame for what they are, and now that I see what they might have been, I am more wretched than ever. Remove me! I can not bear it. (_Turns upon the spirit, and struggles with it._) Leave me! Take me back! Haunt me no longer! (_Seizes the extinguisher-cap, presses it down, while spirit sinks through trap, and disappears. When trap is replaced, Scrooge reels to the bedstead, apparently exhausted, and with the cap grasped in his hand, falls asleep._) CURTAIN. STAVE THREE. SCENE I.--_Adjoining room in Scrooge's house. Flat to represent piles of turkeys, geese, game, poultry, joints of meat, sucking-pigs, strings of sausages, oysters, mince pies, plum-puddings, pears, apples, oranges, cakes and bowls of punch; also holly, mistletoe and ivy._ _The Spirit of Christmas Present_ R. [_a giant_], _discovered holding a glowing torch--shaped like a cornucopia, to shed its light on Scrooge's entrance._ _Spir._ Come in! _Enter Scrooge, timidly_, L. _Spir._ Come in, and know me better, man. You have never seen the like of me before. _Scro._ Never. _Spir._ Have never walked forthwith the younger members of my family, meaning--for I am very young--my elder brothers, born in these later years? _Scro._ I don't think I have. I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit? _Spir._ More than eighteen hundred. _Scro._ A tremendous family to provide for. Spirit, conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learned a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it. _Spir._ Touch my robe, and remember that we are invisible, and unable to manifest our presence to those with whom we come in contact. Loose not your hold, lest you should lose yourself. [_Exeunt_ L.] SCENE II.--_Bob Cratchit's home. Mrs. Cratchit discovered laying cloth. Belinda assisting her. Master Peter Cratchit blowing the fire._ _Mrs. C._ What has ever got your precious father, then? And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour? _Enter Little Cratchit and Martha. Door in flat._ _Little C._ Here's Martha, mother! Here's Martha Hurrah! Oh, Martha, there's such a big goose at the bakers, next door. I smelt it cooking. _Mrs. C._ Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! (_Kissing her and taking off her bonnet and shawl._) _Martha._ We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother. _Mrs. C._ Well, never mind, so long as you are come. Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye. _Little C._ No, no! There's father coming. Hide, Martha, hide. (_Martha gets behind the door._) _Enter Bob Cratchit with Tiny Tim on his shoulder and little crutch in his hand. Spirit and Scrooge following, coming down front, and observing with interest all that passes._ _Bob._ Why, where's our Martha? (_Looking around and putting Tiny Tim down._) _Little C._ Come, Tiny Tim, and see the pudding boil. [_Exeunt children._] _Mrs. C._ Not coming. _Bob._ Not coming! not coming, on Christmas Day? _Mar._ (_Running into his arms._) Dear father! I could not see you disappointed, if it were only in joke. _Bob._ (_Embraces her._) You're a good girl, Martha, and a great comfort to us all. (_Commences to mix a bowl of punch._) _Mrs. C._ And how did little Tim behave? _Bob._ As good as gold, and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see. Tiny Tim is growing strong and hearty. _Enter Little Cratchit and Peter Cratchit with the goose, followed by Tiny Tim._ _Little C._ Hurrah! Hurrah! Here's Peter with the big goose. _Tiny Tim._ Hurrah! (_Children place chairs around the table; Bob puts Tiny Tim in a high chair beside him, and Peter on his left, facing front, Belinda and Little Cratchit opposite. Mrs. C. and Martha at the end of the table. Bob carves and serves the goose, Mrs. C. the gravy and mashed potatoes, and Martha the apple-sauce._) _Little C._ Oh! oh! Look at the stuffing. _Tiny T._ Hurrah! _Bob._ I don't believe there ever was such a goose as this cooked. It's more tender than a woman's love, and only cost two and sixpence. A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us. _All._ God bless us. _Tiny T._ God bless us every one. _Scro._ Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live? _Spir._ I see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner and a crutch without an owner carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, none other of my race will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. _Scro._ (_Hangs his head._) My very words. _Spir._ Man--if man you be in heart, not adamant--forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die. It may be, in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh, Heaven! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers of the dust! _Mrs. C._ Now, Martha and Belinda, change the plates, while I bring the nuts, apples and oranges. _Bob._ (_Rising and placing the punch-bowl on the table._) Here is what will remind us it is Christmas. (_Fills three tumblers and custard-cup without a handle, and passes them to Mrs. C., Peter and Martha._) I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast. _Mrs. C._ The founder of the feast, indeed! I wish I had him here, I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it. _Bob._ My dear, the children! Christmas Day. _Mrs. C._ It should be Christmas Day, I am sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you, poor fellow. _Bob._ My dear. Christmas Day. _Mrs. C._ I'll drink his health for your sake and the day's, not for his. Long life to him. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt. _All._ A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. _Scro._ Spirit, take me away. I see the very mention of my name casts a gloom on what, were it not for me, would be a very happy party. _Spir._ Wait; they will soon put the memory of you aside, and will be ten times merrier than before, and Tiny Tim will sing. _Scro._ No, no; take me hence. (_As they retire toward the door, the spirit shakes his torch toward the party, which restores good humor._) _Little C._ Oh! we forgot the pudding! _All._ The pudding! the pudding! (_Laughter and confusion._) SCENE III.--_A street. Mansion with lighted window, showing shadow of a group. Sounds of music inside._ _Enter Spirit and Scrooge_ L. _A lamp-lighter with torch and ladder_ R; _as he passes them, the spirit waves his torch, and the lamp-lighter exits singing a carol. Enter two men, quarreling._ _First Man._ But, I know better, it is not so. _Second Man._ It is so, and I will not submit to contradiction. (_Spirit waves his torch over them._) _First Man._ Well, I declare, here we are, old friends, quarreling on Christmas Day. It is a shame to quarrel on Christmas Day. _Second Man._ So it is a shame to quarrel on this day. God love it, so it is; come, and if we are not merry for the rest of it, it shall not be my fault. [_Exeunt._] _Scro._ Spirit, is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch? _Spir._ There is. My own. _Scro._ I notice that you sprinkle it to restore good humor, and over dinners. Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day? _Spir._ To any kindly given. To a poor one most. _Scro._ Why to a poor one most? _Spir._ Because it needs it most. _Enter Ignorance and Want; approaching the Spirit, they kneel at his feet. Scrooge starts back appalled._ _Spir._ Look here! oh, man, look here! Look! look down here. Behold, where graceful youth should have filled their features out and touched them with its freshest tints; a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, has pinched and twisted them and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurk and glare out, menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. _Scro._ They are fine-looking children. Spirit, are they yours? _Spir._ They are man's. And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance, this girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree; but most of all, beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is _doom_, unless the writing be erased. Deny it, great city. Slander those who tell it ye. Admit it for your factious purposes, make it worse, and abide the end. _Scro._ Have they no refuge or resource? _Spir._ Are there no prisons? Are there no work-houses? _Scro._ My very words, again. _Spir._ Begone! hideous, wretched creatures, your habitation should not be in a Christian land. (_Ignorance and Want slouch off._) Let us proceed, time is passing, and my life is hastening to an end. _Scro._ Are spirit's lives so short? _Spir._ My life on this globe is very brief. It ends to-night. _Scro._ To-night? _Spir._ To-night, at midnight. (_Exeunt._) SCENE IV--_Drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Fred Merry, Miss Julia Kemper, Miss Sarah Kemper, Mr. Thomas Topper, Mr. Henry Snapper, discovered seated around the dessert table. Servant serving coffee._ _All._ (_Laughing_) Ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha! _Enter Spirit and Scrooge_, L. _Fred._ He said Christmas was a humbug, as I live. _All._ Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha! _Fred._ He believed it, too. _Mrs. M._ More shame for him, Fred! _Fred._ He's a comical old fellow, that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be; however, his offenses carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him. _Mrs. M._ I'm sure he's very rich, Fred. At least you always tell _me_ so. _Fred._ What of that, my dear. His wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it. _Mrs. M._ I have no patience with him. _Julia._ Neither have I for such a stingy old wretch! _Fred._ Oh, I have. I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner. _Mrs. M._ Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner. _Sarah._ A much better one than he could have served up in his old dingy chambers. _Fred._ Well, I'm very glad to hear it, because I haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. What do _you_ say, Topper? _Topper._ A bachelor like myself is a wretched outcast, and has no right to express an opinion on such an important subject. _Mrs. M._ Do go on, Fred. He never finishes what he begins to say. He is such a ridiculous fellow. _Fred._ I was only going to say, that the consequence of our uncle taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, _is_, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he finds in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it--I defy him--if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying, Uncle Scrooge, I wish you A Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year! If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, _that's_ something; and I think I shook him yesterday.--Come, let us have some music. Here, Thomas, clear away. [_All rise and go to the piano. Waiter clears table during the singing of a Christmas carol or any selected piece._] _Fred._ We must not devote the whole evening to music. Suppose we have a game? _All._ Agreed. _Spir._ Time flies; I have grown old. We must hasten on. _Scro._ No, no! One half hour, Spirit, only one. _Fred._ I have a new game to propose. _Sarah._ What is it? _Fred._ It is a game called Yes and No. I am to think of something and you are all to guess what it is. I am thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal that growls and grunts sometimes, and talks sometimes, and lives in London, and walks about the streets, and is not made a show of, and is not led by anybody and don't live in a menagerie, and is not a horse, a cow or a donkey or a bull. There, now guess? _Mrs. M._ Is it a pig? _Fred._ No. _Julia._ Is it a tiger? _Fred._ No. _Topper._ Is it a dog? _Fred._ No. _Sarah._ Is it a cat? _Snapper._ It's a monkey. _Fred._ No. _Mrs. M._ Is it a bear? _Fred._ No. _Julia._ I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is! _Fred._ What is it? _Julia._ It's your uncle Scro-o-o-oge! _Fred._ Yes. _All._ Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! _Mrs. M._ It is hardly fair, you ought to have said yes, when I said, it's a bear. _Fred._ He has given us plenty of merriment, I'm sure, and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is some mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and when you are ready I say uncle Scrooge! (_Servant brings wine forward._) _All._ Well! Uncle Scrooge! _Fred._ A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to the old man. He wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge! _All._ Uncle Scrooge, uncle Scrooge! (_Scrooge seems to make efforts to reply to the toast, while spirit drags him away._) CURTAIN. STAVE FOUR. SCENE I.--_Scrooge's chambers._ _Scrooge discovered upon his knees._ _Scro._ Can this be the Spirit of Christmas Future that I see approaching? shrouded in a black garment, which conceals its head, its form, its face, and leaves nothing visible save one outstretched hand. I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. It points onward with its hand. You are about to show me the shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. Is that so, Spirit? (_Rises and stands trembling._) Ghost of the Future, I fear you more than any spectre I have seen; but as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me? It will not speak. The hand points straight before us. Lead on! Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit. (_Scrooge crosses stage, as if following Spirit to tormentor entrance, and remains while the scene changes._) SCENE II.--_A Street._ _Scro._ Ah, here comes Stevens and there Jones. I have always made it a point to stand well in their esteem--that is in a business point of view. _Enter Mr. Stevens_ R. _and Mr. Jones_ L., _meeting_. _Stevens._ How are you? _Jones._ Pretty well. So Old Scratch has got his own, at last, hey? _Stev._ So I am told. Cold, isn't it? _Jones._ Seasonable for Christmas-time. You're not a skater, I suppose? _Stev._ No, no. Something else to think of. Good morning. [_Exeunt in opposite directions._] _Scro._ Ah, here are more of my old business friends; the Spirit directs me to hear what they say. _Enter Mr. Fatchin, Mr. Snuffer and Mr. Redface._ _Mr. F._ No; I don't know much about it, either way; I only know he's dead. _Mr. R._ When did he die? _Mr. F._ Last night, I believe. _Mr. S._ Why, what was the matter with him? (_Takes snuff out of a large snuff-box._) I thought he would never die. _Mr. F._ I did not take the trouble to inquire. _Mr. R._ What has he done with his money? _Mr. F._ I haven't heard (_yawning_); left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to _me_. That's all I know. (_All laugh._) It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for upon my life I don't know of any body to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer? _Mr. R._ I don't mind going if a lunch is provided. I must be fed if I make one. (_All laugh._) _Mr. F._ Well, I am the most disinterested, after all, for I never wear black gloves and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if any body else will. When I come to think of it, I am not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. _Mr. S._ I would volunteer, but that I have another little matter to attend to that will prevent me. However, I have no objections to joining you in a drink to his memory. _Mr. R._ I am with you. Let us adjourn to the punch bowl. [_Exeunt._] _Scro._ To whom can these allusions refer; Jacob Marley has been dead these seven years, and surely those whom I have considered my best friends would not speak of my death so unfeelingly. I suppose, however, that these conversations have some latent moral for my own improvement, and as I have now resolved upon a change of life, I shall treasure up all I see and hear. Lead on, Shadow, I follow! (_Crosses to the opposite entrance and remains._) SCENE III.--_Interior of a junk or pawn-shop._ _Enter Old Joe, ushering in Mrs. Mangle, Mrs. Dilber and Mr. Shroud, door in flat._ _Old Joe._ You couldn't have met in a better place; come in. You were made free here long ago, you know, and the other two ain't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! how it shrieks! There isn't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe, and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha, ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come, come! we are at home here. (_Trims smoky lamp at table._) _Mrs. M._ What odds, then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber? (_Throws her bundle on the floor and sits on a stool, resting her elbows on her knees._) Every person has a right to take care of themselves. _He_ always did. _Mrs. D._ That's true, indeed! No man cared for himself more than he did. _Mrs. M._ Why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose? _Mr. Shroud._ No, indeed! We should hope not. _Mrs. M._ Very well, then: that's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose. _Mr. S._ (_Laughing._) No, indeed. _Mrs. M._ If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked old Screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself. _Mrs. D._ It's the truest word ever was spoke. It's a judgment on him. _Mrs. M._ I wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, Old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid to let them see it. We knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe. _Mr. S._ Oh, no; we don't mind showing what we have. Here, Joe, value these. (_Mrs. D. and Mr. S. lay their packages on the table and Joe proceeds to examine them._) _Joe._ (_Chalking the figures on the wall as he names them._) A seal, eight shillings; pencil-case, three and six pence; pair of sleeve-buttons, five and four-pence; scarf-pin, ninepence. Nine and four, thirteen, and six, is nineteen--seven. One and five's six, and thirteen is nine, and eight makes seventeen. That's your account, and I wouldn't give another sixpence if I was to be boiled for it. Who's next? _Mrs. D._ I hope you'll be more liberal with me, Mr. Joe. I'm a poor, lone widow, and it's hard for me to make a living. _Joe._ I always give too much to the ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself. Under-clothing, sheets, towels, sugar-tongs; these tea-spoons are old-fashioned, and the boots won't bear mending. One pound six, that's your account. If you asked me another penny, and made it an open question I'd repent of being liberal, and knock off half a crown. _Mrs. M._ Now, undo _my_ bundle, Joe. _Joe._ (_Opening bundle._) What do you call this? Bed curtains? _Mrs. M._ Ah! (_Laughing._) Bed curtains. _Joe._ You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with Old Scrooge lying there? _Mrs. M._ Yes I do. Why not? _Joe._ You were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it. _Mrs. M._ I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as _he_ was, I promise you, Joe. Don't drop that oil upon the blanket, now. _Joe._ His blankets? _Mrs. M._ Whose else's do you think? He isn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say. Joe. I hope he didn't die of anything catching. Eh? (_Stopping his work and looking up._) _Mrs. M._ Don't you be afraid of that: I ain't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things if he did. Ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a thread-bare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one, too. They'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me. _Joe._ What do you call wasting of it? _Mrs. M._ (_laughing._) Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure. Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one. _Joe._ Well, well! I'll ruin myself again. I'll give you two guineas for the lot, and go to the bankrupt court. (_Takes bag of coin and counts out their amounts._) _Mrs. M._ Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead. _All._ Ha, ha, ha! [_Exeunt door in flat, old Joe lighting them out._] _Scro._ Spirit! I see, I see. This is my own case, if nothing happens to change it. My life tends this way. Spirit, in leaving this. I shall not leave its lesson; trust me. If there is any person in the city who feels the least emotion for the death here announced, show that person to me. [_Crosses to_ L., _while scene closes in_.] SCENE IV.--_Street. Exterior of Scrooge & Marley's Counting House._ _Scro._ Why, here is my place of business, and has been occupied by Scrooge & Marley for many years. I see the house, let me behold what I shall be in the days to come. Why, Spirit, the house is yonder. Why do you point away? (_Goes to the window and looks in._) It is the old office still; the same furniture; but no one occupies my chair. Ah! some one comes. _Enter James Badger from Counting House, going off right, meets Mrs. Badger at right entrance._ _Mrs. B._ Ah! James. I have waited for you so long. What news? Is it good or bad? _James._ Bad. _Mrs B._ We are quite ruined? _James._ No. There is hope yet, Caroline. _Mrs. B._ If _he_ relents, there is. Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened. _James._ He is past relenting. He is dead. _Mrs. B._ Dead! Thank Heaven; we are saved. (_Pause._) I pray forgiveness, I am sorry that I gave expression to the emotions of my heart. _James._ What the half drunken woman, whom I told you of last night, said to me when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, turns out to have been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying then. _Mrs. B._ To whom will our debt be transferred? _James._ I don't know, and I have been unable to ascertain. At all events, before that time we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline! _Mrs. B._ Yes; and our dear children will be brighter when they find the gloom dispelled from the minds of their parents. We cannot deny that this man's death has occasioned some happiness. _James._ Come, let us hurry home [_Exeunt_, R.] _Scro._ Spirit, it is evident that the only emotion you can show me, caused by the event foreshadowed, is one of pleasure. Let me see some tenderness connected with the death of another, or what has just been shown me will be forever present in my mind. SCENE V.--_Bob Cratchit's home. Mrs. Cratchit, Belinda, Little Cratchit and Peter Cratchit discovered at table, the two former sewing and the latter reading a book._ _Peter._ (_Reading._) And he took a child and set him in the midst of them. _Scro._ Where have I heard those words? I have not dreamed them. Why does he not go on? _Mrs C._ (_Betrays emotions; lays her work upon the table, and puts her hand to her face._) The color hurts my eyes. _Bel._ Yes, poor Tiny Tim! _Mrs. C._ They're better now. It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time. (_Resumes her work._) _Peter._ Past it, rather (_shutting up book_), but I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these last few evenings, mother. _Mrs. C._ (_In a faltering voice._) I have known him walk with--I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed. _Peter._ And so have I, often. _Bel._ And so have I. _Mrs. C._ But he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble; no trouble. And there is your father at the door. _Enter Bob Cratchit. Belinda and Little Cratchit meet him; Peter places a chair for him, and Mrs. C. averts her head to conceal her emotion. Bob kisses Belinda, and takes Little C. on his knees, who lays his little cheek against his face._ _Bob._ Hard at work, my dears; hard at work. Why, how industrious you are, and what progress you are making. You will be done long before Sunday. _Mrs. C._ Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert? _Bob._ Yes, my dear; I wish you could have gone, it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child! my little child! (_Rises and retires up stage to compose himself; returns and resumes his place at the table._) Oh, I must tell you of the extraordinary kindness of Mr Scrooge's nephew, whom I have scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting me in the street, and seeing that I looked a little--just a little--down, you know, inquired what had happened to distress me. On which, for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, I told him. I am heartily sorry for it, Mr. Cratchit, he said, and heartily sorry for your good wife. By-the-bye, how he ever knew _that_, I don't know. _Mrs. C._ Knew what, my dear? _Bob._ Why, that you were a good wife. _Peter._ Everybody knows that! _Bob._ Very well observed, my boy. I hope they do. Heartily sorry, he said, for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way, he said, giving me his card, that's where I live; pray come to me. Now, it wasn't for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Tim, and felt with us. _Mrs. C._ I'm sure he's a good soul. _Bob._ You would be sure of it, my dear, if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised--mark my words--if he got Peter a better situation. _Mrs. C._ Only hear that, Peter. _Bel._ And then Peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself. _Peter._ (_Grinning_.) Get along with you! _Bob._ It's just as likely as not, one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But, however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim, shall we? _All._ Never, father. _Bob._ And I know, I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was--although he was a little child--we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it. _All._ No, never, father. (_All rise._) _Bob._ I am very happy. I am very happy! (_Kisses Mrs C., Belinda, Young C. and shakes hands with Peter._) Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence is from above. CURTAIN. STAVE FIVE. SCENE I.--_Scrooge's chamber. Scrooge discovered on his knees at the easy chair._ _Scro._ Spirit! Hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been, but for this intercourse. Why have shown me all that you have, if I am past all hope? Good Spirit, your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change the shadows you have shown me, by an altered life. Your hand trembles. I will honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh! tell me I may sponge away the shadows of the future. (_Grasps the easy chair in his agony, as if struggling to detain it._) Do not go, I entreat you. It shrinks, it has collapsed, it has dwindled down into an easy chair. Yes! my own chair, my own room and best--and happiest of all--my own time before me to make amends in. Oh, Jacob Marley, Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees! (_Rises and goes and opens door_ R., 2d E.) They are not torn down--the bed curtains are not torn down, rings and all. They are there--I am here--the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be; I know they will! (_Commences to dress himself, putting everything on wrong, etc._) I don't know what to do! (_Laughing and crying._) I am as light as a feather; I am as happy as an angel; I am as merry as a school boy; I am as giddy as a drunken man. A Merry Christmas to every body! A Happy New year to all the world! Halloo here! Waoop! Halloo! (_Dancing and capering around the room._) There's the saucepan that the gruel was in; there's the door by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered; there's the corner (_pointing into adjoining room_) where the Ghost of Christmas Past sat. It's all right; it's all true; it all happened. Ha, ha, ha! (_Laughing heartily._) I don't know what day of the month it is. I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. I don't know any thing. I'm quite a baby. Never mind; I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Haloo! whoop! Halloo here! (_Bells or chimes commences to ring. Goes to window and opens it._) No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight, heavenly sky; sweet, fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! glorious! (_Looking out of window_) Hey! you boy in your Sunday clothes, what's to-day? _Voice outside._ Eh? _Scro._ What's to day my fine fellow? _Voice outside._ To-day! why. Christmas Day. _Scro._ It's Christmas Day; I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do any thing they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. (_Returns to window._) Halloo, my fine fellow! _Voice outside._ Halloo! _Scro._ Do you know the poulterers in the next street but one, at the corner? _Voice outside._ I should hope I did. _Scro._ An intelligent boy! a remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey; the big one? _Voice outside._ What the one as big as me? _Scro._ What a delightful boy. It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck. _Voice outside._ It's hanging there now. _Scro._ Is it? Go and buy it. _Voice outside._ What do you take me for? _Scro._ No, no. I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give them the directions where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll gave you half a crown. That boy's off like a shot. I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's. (_Rubbing his hands and chuckling._) He shan't know who sent it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be. I must write the directions for that turkey. (_Sits at table to write._) SCENE II--_A street. Exterior of Scrooge's Chambers._ _Enter Scrooge from the house._ _Scro._ (_Addressing the knocker on the door._) I shall love it as long as I live. (_Patting the knocker._) I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face. It's a wonderful knocker.--Here's the turkey. _Enter boy with large turkey._ _Scro._ Halloo! Whoop! How are you! Merry Christmas! There's a turkey for you! This bird never could have stood upon his legs, he would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. Here's your half-crown, boy. Now take the monster to Bob Cratchit, Camden-town; and tell him it's a present from his grandmother, who wishes him A Merry Christmas, and A Happy New Year. Hold, that, turkey is too large for you to carry; take a cab, here's the money to pay for it. _Enter Mr. and Mrs. Badger_, R. _Scro._ Why, here comes James Badger and wife, as sure as I live. Good morning! _James._ Good morning, sir! A Merry Christmas to you! _Scro._ The same to you both, and many of them. _Mrs. B._ He seems in a good humor, speak to him about it. _Scro._ Going to church, eh? _James._ We were going, sir, to hear the Christmas Carols, but mindful of the obligation resting upon us, which falls due to-morrow, and of our inability to meet the payment, we have called to beg your indulgence, and ask for a further extension of time. _Scro._ Why, James, how much do you owe me? _James._ Twenty pounds, sir. _Scro._ How long since you contracted the debt? _James._ Ten years to morrow, sir. _Scro._ Then you have already paid me over half the amount in interest, which interest has been compounded, and I have, in fact, received more than the principal. My dear fellow, you owe me nothing, just consider the debt cancelled. _James._ Surely, sir, you cannot mean it. _Scro._ But I do. _Mrs. B._ Oh, sir, how can we ever sufficiently manifest our gratitude for such unexpected generosity? _Scro._ By saying nothing about it. Remember, James and wife, this is Christmas day, and on this day, of all others, we should do unto others as we would have them do unto us. _James._ May Heaven reward you, sir. You have lightened our hearts of a heavy burden. _Scro._ There, there! go to church. _James._ We shall, sir, and remember our benefactor in our devotions. (_Shaking hands._) I can say heartily a Merry Christmas. _Mrs. B._ And A Happy New Year. [_Exeunt_ L.] _Scro._ I guess they are glad, now, that I am alive, and will be really sorry when I die. Halloo! Whoop! _Enter Mr. Barnes_, L., _passes across stage; Scrooge follows and stops him._ _Scro._ My dear sir (_taking both, his hands_), how do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A Merry Christmas to you, sir. _Mr. B._ Mr. Scrooge? _Scro._ Yes. That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness--(_Scrooge whispers in his ear._) _Mr. B._ Lord bless me--you take my breath away. My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you really serious? _Scro._ If you please. Not a farthing less. A great many back payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me the favor? _Mr. B._ My dear sir (_shaking hands with him_), I don't know what to say to such munifi-- _Scro._ Don't say any thing, please. Come and see me. Will you come and see me? _Mr. B._ I will--with great pleasure. [_Exit_, R.] _Scro._ Thank'er. I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you! _Enter Bob Cratchit_, R., _with Tiny Tim on his shoulder_. _Scro._ Halloo, Bob Cratchit! What do you mean by coming here? _Bob._ I am very sorry, sir; I was not coming, I was only passing, sir, on my way to hear the Christmas carols. _Scro._ What right have you to be passing here to remind me that it is Christmas? _Bob._ It's only once a year, sir; it shall not be repeated. _Scro._ Now, I'll tell you what, my friend. I am not going to stand this any longer: and therefore I give you permission to pass my house fifty times a day, if you want to. I give you a week's vacation, without any deduction for lost time. I am about to raise your salary. (_Giving him a dig in the waistcoat; Bob staggers back, and Scrooge follows him up._) A Merry Christmas, Bob! (_Slapping him on the back._) A Merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have ever given you for many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and I'll be Tiny Tim's Godfather. Come along, my good fellow, we'll go to church together, and discuss your affairs on the way. Tiny Tim, what do you say to that? _Tiny Tim._ I say God bless us, every one. _Bob._ I would like to say something, sir, but you have deprived me of the power of speech. _Scro._ Come on, then, we'll talk it over as we go. Come Tiny Tim, and go with your Godfather. (_Takes Tim on his shoulder. Exeunt_, L.) SCENE III.--_Drawing Room in Fred Merry's house. Fred, Mrs. Fred and Mrs. Kemper discovered seated at table, conversing._ _Fred._ Is it possible! You surprise me. I never had the least idea that you had ever met Uncle Scrooge, much less that he was an old admirer of yours. _Mrs. M._ Oh! do tell us all about it, dear mother; I'm dying to hear it. _Mrs. K._ Well, you must know, my dear children, that Fanny Scrooge--our mother, Fred--was my earliest friend and schoolmate, and through her I became acquainted with her brother--your uncle; at that time a noble spirited boy, fresh from his studies. Our friendship soon ripened into love, and a betrothal. I cannot describe to you how happy and light hearted I was, and how true and devoted your uncle continued. Our marriage was deferred until such time as he should be in a position to provide us a suitable home. After he left Mr. Fezziwig's, where he had served his time, he entered the service of Jacob Marley, and subsequently became his partner. It was at this time I observed a change in him; he was not less ardent than before, but I soon discovered that avarice had become the guiding passion of his nature, and that our love was subservient to its influence. Foreseeing that only misery could ensue from our union, I released him from the engagement. And now after the lapse of many years, with the exception of the day, five years ago, when he attended your father's funeral, we have not met or exchanged a word with each other. _Mrs M._ But, mother, did you really love him? _Mrs. K._ I did, my dear--previous to the discovery of the change in him. _Mrs. M._ And did you not sacrifice your love in releasing him? _Mrs. K._ I merely sacrificed my desires to common sense. Love, to be lasting, must be mutual, and if it is not paramount to all other passions, it ends in misery or hate. Hence, being guided by judgment, I soon found by experience that true love can again exist if worthily bestowed. _Fred._ Well, dear mother, I agree with your estimate of Uncle Scrooge. This is the sixth Christmas Day of our married life, and each Christmas Eve I have invited him to come and dine with us, but he has never yet honored us with his presence, and I suppose he never will. _Scro._ (_Gently opening the door and putting in his head._) Fred! may I come in? (_All start and rise, and Fred rushes toward the door with both hands extended._) _Fred._ Why, bless my soul! who's that? _Scro._ It's I, your Uncle Scrooge. I have accepted your invitation. Will you let me in? _Fred._ Let you in! (_Shaking him heartily by both hands._) Dear heart alive! Why not! Welcome! welcome! My wife, your niece--Yes, you may. (_Scrooge kisses her._) Our mother. _Scro._ Belle! Heavens! What shall I do? (_Aside._) _Mrs. K._ I fear that our meeting will be painful. I beg your permission, my son, to retire. _Fred._ No, no, no. This is Christmas Day. Everybody can be happy on this day that desires to be, and I know that your meeting can be made a pleasant and agreeable one if you both so will it. "Peace on earth and good will to man," is the day's golden maxim. _Scro._ Although somewhat embarrassed, I concur most heartily in the wise and good-natured counsel of my dear nephew. Never before have I experienced the joys common to this day, and never hereafter, while I am permitted to live, shall I miss them. In the past twenty-four hours I have undergone a complete revolution of ideas and desires, and have awakened unto a new life. Instead of a sordid, avaricious old man, I trust you will find a cheerful, liberal Christian, ever ready to extend to his fellow creatures a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. _Fred._ Why! uncle, I wonder _you_ don't go into Parliament. I could dance for joy. (_Embracing him._) You dear old man! You shall ever find a hearty welcome here. _Mrs. M._ I join with my husband in his earnest congratulations. _Mrs. K._ I confess, Mr. Scrooge, that I am rejoiced to find your nephew's assertions so quickly verified, and that an opportunity is offered to renew an acquaintance which I hope will end in uninterrupted friendship. (_They shake hands._) _Fred._ Ah, here comes Topper and the girls. _Enter Topper and Julia Kemper, Snapper and Sarah Kemper._ _Fred._ Come, girls, hug and kiss your Uncle Scrooge, he has come to make merry with us. (_Takes the girls to Scrooge, and endeavors to make them hug, doing most of the hugging himself._) Hug him hard! This is Topper, and this is Snapper, they are both sweet on the girls. (_All laugh._) _Julia and Sarah._ Oh, you bad man. _Fred._ Come, let us lose no time. What do you say to a game? Shall it be blind man's buff? _All._ Agreed. _Fred._ Come, Uncle Scrooge, the oldest, first. _Scro._ Do with me as you please; it is Christmas Day. (_They play a lively game, falling over chairs, etc. Scrooge catches each lady, and guesses wrong, until he gets Mrs. Merry, who, in turn, catches Topper, who pulls the bandage down and goes for Julia, and pretends that he tells who she is by the way the hair is fixed, etc. Scrooge and Mrs. Kemper retire up stage, and converse._) _Julia._ Ah, that's not fair, you peeped. I won't play any more. (_Goes up stage with Topper._) _Fred._ Well, I could have guessed that catch, and it's nothing more than fair that he should peep before making it. It seems, my dear, that our company have divided into couples. Ought we not demand an explanation? _Mrs. M._ As master of the house, it is your duty. _Fred._ Mr. Thomas Topper and others, we have long suspected you of some horrible design against the peace and happiness of this family. What say you to the charge? _Julia._ On behalf our clients, we plead guilty. _Sarah._ And urge extenuating circumstances. _Fred._ Then nothing more remains, but for the Court to pronounce sentence, which is, that you be placed under the bonds of matrimony, at such time and place as may suit your convenience. But, Madam Belle Kemper and Ebenezer Scrooge, what have you to say in your defense. _Mrs. K._ Only this, that Christmas works wonders. _Scro._ In other words, Mrs. Kemper finds that Christmas has restored me to a primitive condition, and leaves it to time to test the merits of the happy change. (_To audience._) We all have cause to bless Christmas, and it shall always be my delight to wish you A Merry Christmas, and A Happy New Year, with Tiny Tim's addition of "God bless us every one." _CURTAIN._ * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Corrections were made in the text where part of a phrase or name was only partially italic. For example, on page 34, the "F." of _Mr. F._ on one part of dialogue had been printed as "_Mr._ F." These things were repaired. Page iii, "peice" changed to "piece" (piece can be performed) Page vi, "past" changed to "Past" (hearth for the Spirit of Christmas Past) Page vii, "Suit" changed to "Suite" (Fireplace L. Suite of) Page vii, "dressar" changed to "dresser" (oranges on dresser) Page viii, "Windew" changed to "Window" (G. Window L. C.) Page viii, "Cratchet's" changed to "Cratchit's" (SCENE V.--Bob Cratchit's) Page 10, "calender" changed to "calendar" (the long calendar of) Page 12, "Sch." changed to "Scro." (_Scro._. Oh! I was afraid) Page 15, "make" changed to "made" (I made it link) Page 16, "invisable" changed to "invisible" (sat invisible beside) Page 19, "use" changed to "used" (than he used to be) Page 19, "Gho." changed to "Scro." (_Scro._ Know it!) Page 20, "to" changed to "too" (the world too much) Page 21, "chosing" changed to "choosing" (or choosing her) Page 23, "mistleto" changed to "mistletoe" (also holly, mistletoe) Page 25, "Hurrrh" changed to "Hurrah" (Hurrah! Hurrah! Here's) Page 26, "ahd" changed to "and" (than before, and Tiny) Page 28, "Scro." changed to "Spir." (_Spir._ Begone! hideous) Page 28, "desert" changed to "dessert" (around the dessert table) Page 29, "househeepers" changed to "housekeepers" (these young housekeepers) Page 29, "vain" changed to "vein" (puts him in the vein) Page 31, "prepered" changed to "prepared" (I am prepared to) Page 31, "be ore" changed to "before" (before us. Lead) Page 32, "That" changed to "That's" (That's all I know) Page 33, "skrieks" changed to "shrieks" (how it shrieks!) Page 34, "mysel" changed to "myself" (I ruin myself) Page 45, "Suapper" changed to "Snapper" (and this is Snapper) 
51180	----	_No Plays Exchanged_ Baker's Edition of Plays Santa Claus Gets His Wish Price, 25 Cents [Illustration] WALTER H. BAKER COMPANY BOSTON Plays for Colleges and High Schools _Males Females Time Price Royalty_ The Air Spy 12 4 1-1/2 hrs. 35c $10.00 Bachelor Hall 8 4 2 " 35c $5.00 The College Chap 11 7 2-1/2 " 35c Free The Colonel's Maid 6 3 2 " 35c " Daddy 4 4 1-1/2 " 35c " The Deacon's Second Wife 6 6 2-1/2 " 35c " The District Attorney 10 6 2 " 35c " The Dutch Detective 5 5 2 " 35c " At the Sign of the Shooting Star 10 10 2 " 35c " The Elopement of Ellen 4 3 2 " 35c " Engaged by Wednesday 5 11 1-1/2 " 35c " The Chuzzlewitts, or Tom Pinch 15 6 2-1/4 " 35c " For One Night Only 5 4 2 " 25c " Hamilton 11 5 2 " 60c $25.00 Constantine Pueblo Jones 10 4 2-1/4 " 35c Free Excuse Me 4 6 1-1/4 " 35c " The Hoodoo 6 12 2 " 35c " The Hurdy Gurdy Girl 9 9 2 " 35c " Katy Did 4 8 1-1/2 " 35c " Let's Get Married 3 5 2 " 60c $10.00 London Assurance 10 3 2 " 25c Free Lost a Chaperon 6 9 2 " 35c " A Foul Tip 7 3 2 " 35c " The Man Who Went 7 3 2-1/2 " 35c $10.00 The Man Without a Country 6 5 1-1/2 " 25c Free Master Pierre Patelin 4 1 1-1/2 " 60c " How Jim Made Good 7 3 2 " 25c " Just Plain Mary 7 13 2 " 35c " Line Busy 5 19 1-1/2 " 35c " Mr. Bob 3 4 1-1/2 " 25c " Mrs. Briggs of the Poultry Yard 4 7 2 " 35c " Nathan Hale 15 4 2-1/2 " 60c $10.00 Patty Makes Things Hum 4 6 2 " 35c Free Professor Pepp 8 8 2-1/2 " 35c " A Regiment of Two 6 4 2 " 35c " The Private Tutor 5 3 2 " 35c " The Rivals 9 5 2-1/2 " 25c " Silas Marner 19 4 1-1/2 " 25c " When a Feller Needs a Friend 5 5 2-1/4 " 35c $10.00 Sally Lunn 3 4 1-1/2 " 25c Free The School for Scandal 12 4 2-1/2 " 25c " She Stoops to Conquer 15 4 2-1/2 " 25c " Step Lively 4 10 2 " 35c " The Submarine Shell 7 4 2 " 35c $10.00 The Thirteenth Star -- 9 1-1/2 " 35c Free The Time of His Life 6 3 2-1/2 " 35c " Tommy's Wife 3 5 1-1/2 " 35c " The Twig of Thorn 6 7 1-1/2 " 75c " The Amazons 7 5 2-1/2 " 60c $10.00 The Conjurer 8 4 2-1/4 " 35c $10.00 BAKER, Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass. Santa Claus Gets His Wish A Christmas Play in One Act For Young Children By BLANCHE PROCTOR FISHER _Author of "Finding the Mayflowers"_ [Illustration] BOSTON WALTER H. BAKER COMPANY 1921 Santa Claus Gets His Wish A Play for Children CHARACTERS FIRST IMP. SECOND IMP. SANTA CLAUS. SAND-MAN. WISH-BONE. LOLLIPOP. ICE-CREAM CONE. LITTLE GIRL. [Illustration] COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY WALTER H. BAKER COMPANY SUGGESTIONS FOR CHARACTERS IMPS. In red sweaters and red masks covering the head, with a little peak over each ear. SAND-MAN. In gray tunic and gray pointed cap. WISH-BONE. Is a slender boy holding his arms close to his body and walking stiffly with legs spread far apart. LOLLIPOP. A very slender boy with his head wrapped loosely in red tissue-paper. ICE-CREAM CONE. A little boy encased in a cornucopia of heavy wrapping-paper with some soft white material showing at the top about his face. Santa Claus Gets His Wish SCENE.--_The interior of_ SANTA CLAUS'S _home on Christmas Eve. There is a door on each side of the stage, and a fireplace at the back._ SANTA CLAUS'S _big easy-chair is near the front of the stage at the left, and near the front at the right is a table_. (_As the curtain rises the two_ IMPS _are seated on the floor, each with a section of harness, the bells of which they are industriously polishing_.) FIRST IMP. You must hurry. It's almost seven o'clock, and soon it will be time to harness the reindeer. SECOND IMP. I am hurrying as fast as I can. I shall get through now before you do, and my bells will be just as bright as yours. It seems to me that the more I shine them the sweeter their tone is. FIRST IMP. I am polishing mine so bright that when Santa Claus drives through the sky all the people will look up and think they see stars twinkling overhead. SECOND IMP. And I make my bells so bright that when they chime the children will hear them in their sleep and dream they are listening to birds singing in the springtime. FIRST IMP (_scornfully_). What nonsense! How many children to-night do you suppose are dreaming of birds and springtime? SECOND IMP. Why shouldn't they? FIRST IMP. Why should they,--when there are so many other things to dream of at Christmas time? If you don't believe me, we'll leave it to Santa Claus. Here he comes now. Hooray! (_As_ SANTA CLAUS _enters from_ L. _of stage the_ IMPS _run to meet him, and holding an end of the harness in each hand form a ring and dance around him in time to the jingling of the bells_.) SANTA CLAUS. Hold on! Hold on there! When a fellow gets to be my age his head isn't steady enough to stand any such merry-go-'round as this. Come on now, let's see if you've done your work properly and polished the bells as I told you. (_He sits down in his big armchair and the_ IMPS _climb upon his lap_.) FIRST IMP. I said I would make my bells so bright that people would think they were twinkling stars. SECOND IMP. And _I_ said---- FIRST IMP (_interrupting_). Never mind what _you_ said. There wasn't any sense to that. Santa Claus, tell us, what do children dream about at Christmas time? SANTA CLAUS. What do children dream about? Why, they dream about me, of course. BOTH IMPS (_each shaking a finger at him_). O-ho! SANTA CLAUS. There! I suppose you think I'm a conceited old chap, but if you don't believe me we'll ask the Sand-Man. (_The_ SAND-MAN _enters_, L. _door, carrying a big bag over his shoulder, and a small bag in his hand_.) Just starting off on your rounds, I see. Have you a heavy load to-night? SAND-MAN. The sand-bag is heavy, but the dream-bag is light. There isn't much to a dream, you know;--just a whiff of fairy powder wrapped up in a bit of mist. But they do the trick all the same,--and how the children love them. SANTA CLAUS. And what are these dreams which the children love? Are any of them about me? SAND-MAN. Why, no, Santa. Of course they _used_ to be, but times have changed, you see. Children nowadays have so many interests. SANTA CLAUS. But I thought perhaps just at Christmas time---- SAND-MAN. Yes, I know, I know. Yet, after all, dreams are really a matter of habit. It's the things which the children enjoy all through the year that stay in their minds after they fall asleep. SANTA CLAUS. Well, what are these things which the children enjoy all the year and dream about every night? SAND-MAN. Ah! That would be telling. Mustn't give away the secrets of the trade, you know. Well, I'm off. See you later. [_Exit_, R. _door_. SANTA CLAUS (_to the_ IMPS). Run out with him, boys, and help him down the steps with his bags. (_Exeunt_ IMPS.) H'm! I didn't find out what I wanted to, did I? I wish I could, though (_Yawning._), I wish I could; but what's the old saying: "If wishes were horses, beggars might ride"? Holloa! Who's this coming? (_The_ WISH-BONE _enters_, R. _door_.) How strangely he walks,--must be kind o' stiff in his joints, or else he hasn't any joints at all. Good-evening, friend, who might you be? WISH-BONE (_in a melancholy tone_). My name is Wish-Bone. I am all that's left of the Thanksgiving turkey. SANTA CLAUS (_sympathetically_). I say, now, that's rather a lonely fate for you; but cheer up, it might be worse. WISH-BONE (_in the same melancholy tone_). It will be worse. I expect to be laid up with a broken leg most any day now. SANTA CLAUS. Broken leg? Why, bless my stars, man, what makes you expect anything like that to happen? WISH-BONE. It always happens to us wish-bones; runs in the family. Sometimes it's both legs that are broken, and the head flies off; and that's the greatest pity of all, for then there isn't any one gets their wish. SANTA CLAUS. Is your business something like mine, then; giving people whatever they wish? WISH-BONE. N-no,-not exactly _giving_ it,--just promising it. But it all amounts to the same thing. Once make people believe they'll get what they wish for, and somehow it always comes in the end. SANTA CLAUS. Then perhaps you can help me out. My great wish just at present is to know what the children are dreaming about to-night. WISH-BONE. Sorry to refuse you, but I'm not ready for business yet. Don't feel quite equal to it. Wait until I get a little more snap in me, and then I'll call around again. Good-night. [_Exit_ WISH-BONE, R. _door_. SANTA CLAUS. He's about the gloomiest creature I ever saw; and yet he struck sort of a hopeful note when he said people would get what they wished for if they only believed it. I wonder how that would work out in my case. (_The_ SAND-MAN _enters_, R. _door_.) Ah! here comes the Sand-Man back again. Well, how did things go with you to-night? Is your sand-bag empty? SAND-MAN. Almost. It takes a powerful lot of sand to make the children sleepy the night before Christmas. SANTA CLAUS. And are the dreams all gone too? SAND-MAN. Not quite. There was one little girl who refused to go to bed at all, because she is so anxious to see Santa Claus when he comes. I had two nice dreams picked out for her but I couldn't use them. Well, my evening's work is over. (_Dropping his bags on the table._) I suppose you'll be starting soon now. SANTA CLAUS. Pretty soon. But what you told me about that little girl has put me on my guard. It would never do to let her see me while I am filling her stocking. So I think I'll sit down by the fire and wait for a few minutes. She won't be able to keep awake very long. If you see my Imps around anywhere, send them along in here. Lazy little scamps! It's time they were helping me to pack up the toys. (_As the_ SAND-MAN _goes out_, L. _door_, SANTA CLAUS _draws his chair up to the fireplace, where he sits musing with his eyes half-closed; yawning_.) I--wish--I--could--know--what the children are dreaming about to-night. (_The two_ IMPS _enter_, L. _door, and tiptoe forward cautiously_.) FIRST IMP (_whispers_). Is Santa Claus asleep? SECOND IMP. No, he's only thinking. But we could make him go to sleep if we wanted to. Here's the Sand-Man's bag, and it isn't quite empty. Wouldn't it be fun to drop some sand in Santa's eyes! FIRST IMP. Hush! He'll hear you. (_They creep up behind_ SANTA CLAUS _and toss the sand in his face. He yawns again._) SECOND IMP. I think he's almost asleep now. Here are two dreams in the dream-bag. Let's open them. FIRST IMP. Look out there, clumsy, you're spilling them! SECOND IMP. They were so light I couldn't help it. The fairy powder is flying all around the room. It's filling the air so that I can't see. Are you afraid? FIRST IMP. Of course not. There's nothing to be afraid of. Listen! Some one is coming. (_As the light grows dim, soft, slow music is heard, and the_ LOLLIPOP _appears at the_ R. _of the stage and moves slowly across to the_ L., _in time to the music._) SECOND IMP (_whispering_). That looks like one of those red-headed lollipops that Santa Claus made to put in the children's stockings. Do you s'pose that one has escaped from the box? FIRST IMP. I don't think it's a real lollipop. Maybe it's only a dream. See! It's vanishing away. (_The_ LOLLIPOP _disappears._ SANTA CLAUS _stirs in his sleep, while the music, slightly louder, changes to a livelier tune. The_ ICE-CREAM CONE _enters through the_ R. _door and crosses the stage dancing a jig._) SECOND IMP. Oh, how funny! What is it? FIRST IMP. That is an ice-cream cone. All children love to eat them. SECOND IMP. Why, I could make one of those. If I took a tin trumpet from Santa Claus's toy-shop and piled it full of snow 'twould be just the same thing, wouldn't it? FIRST IMP. No--for even if you were to eat the snow all up, the tin trumpet would still be left in your hand. But there's never anything left of an ice-cream cone. Didn't you notice how quickly this one went, almost as soon as it came? SECOND IMP. But that is because it was only a dream. FIRST IMP. That hasn't anything to do with it. A real ice-cream cone wouldn't have lasted much longer. Sh! Who's coming now? (_As the_ ICE-CREAM CONE _disappears the music stops, and the light grows bright again. The_ LITTLE GIRL _enters at the_ R. _She is wrapped in a muffler and carries a lighted lantern. Coming toward the front of the stage she stops in terror on seeing the_ IMPS.) Don't be frightened, little girl. We're only Santa Claus's imps. We won't hurt you. LITTLE GIRL. Then this really is where Santa Claus lives, and I didn't make a mistake in the place? Please tell me, is Santa Claus at home? Oh, there he is asleep by the fire. (_She puts her lantern on the floor and goes up to_ SANTA CLAUS.) Santa Claus! Dear Santa Claus! Please wake up. It's getting very late. SANTA CLAUS (_rubbing his eyes_). Why, bless my soul! I must have been napping. And who are you, my dear? LITTLE GIRL. I'm the little girl who wouldn't go to bed to-night, for I wanted to sit up to see Santa Claus. But I waited and waited, and you didn't come. Oh, Santa Claus, don't say that you're not coming at all. The children would be _so_ disappointed. SANTA CLAUS. The children are happy. They are having sweet dreams. Ah! I know now what they're dreaming about. Lollipops and ice-cream cones. They're not thinking much about poor old Santa Claus. LITTLE GIRL. Oh, but Santa Claus, we do think about you very often. We love you much more than we do the lollipops and the ice-cream cones, for they just melt away and don't last at all. SANTA CLAUS. And what makes you think that I would last any longer? LITTLE GIRL. Well, you know, Santa, you've already lasted a great many years. SANTA CLAUS. Kind of a slam on my age, that is. But it's true, every word of it. I have lasted a great many years, and the best part of it is, I'm good for as many years more. So if the children are expecting me, we'd better hurry and be off. (_To the_ IMPS.) Bring along your harness there, boys; it's time to hitch up the reindeer. Wrap your muffler around you tight, little girl. We're going to have a cold ride. Here, isn't this your lantern? LITTLE GIRL. I shan't need the light of the lantern now, for the bells on your harness are so bright they shine like stars. FIRST IMP. That's exactly what I said when I was cleaning them. SECOND IMP. And I said that their tones were so clear that the children would believe they were the birds singing in the springtime. I was right too, wasn't I? LITTLE GIRL. No, you foolish Imp. When the children hear Santa Claus's sleigh-bells ringing they will smile in their sleep and think that they are listening to the music of the Christmas carols. (_As the curtain falls the_ IMPS _jingle the bells, while behind the scenes voices sing "Carol, brothers, carol," or some other appropriate Christmas song._) CURTAIN THE CONJURER A Dramatic Mystery in Three Acts _By Mansfield Scott_ _Author of "The Submarine Shell," "The Air-Spy," etc._ Eight male, four female characters. Costumes, modern; scenery, two easy interiors. Plays a full evening. Royalty for amateur performance, $10.00 for the first and $5.00 each for subsequent performances by the same company. Free for school performance. George Clifford, incapacitated for service at the front, employs his great talents as a conjurer to raise money for the soldiers. He is utilized by Inspector Steele, of the U. S. Secret Service, in a plan to discover certain foreign spies. The plan goes wrong and involves seven persons in suspicion of a serious crime. Clifford's clever unravelling of this tangled skein constitutes the thrilling plot of this play, the interest of which is curiously like that of the popular "Thirteenth Chair." This is not a "war-play" save in a very remote and indirect way, but a clever detective story of absorbing interest. Strongly recommended. _Price, 35 cents_ CHARACTERS INSPECTOR MALCOME STEELE. GEORGE CLIFFORD. CAPTAIN FRANK DRUMMOND GLEASON. LIEUTENANT HAMILTON WARWICK. COLONEL WILLARD ANDERSON. DRISCOLL WELLS. DOCTOR GORDON PEAK. DETECTIVE WHITE. MARION ANDERSON. EDITH ANDERSON. ELLEN GLEASON. DOROTHY ELMSTROM. SYNOPSIS ACT I.--The home of Colonel Anderson (Friday evening). ACT II.--The office of Inspector Steele (Saturday afternoon). ACT III.--The same as Act II (Saturday evening). THE OTHER VOICE A Play in One Act _By S._ vK. _Fairbanks_ Three voices, preferably male, are employed in this little novelty which is intended to be presented upon a dark stage upon which nothing is actually visible save starlight. It was originally produced at Workshop 47, Cambridge, where its effective distillation of the essential oil of tragedy was curiously successful. An admirable item for any programme seeking variety of material and effect. Naturally no costumes nor scenery are required, save a drop carrying stars and possibly a city sky-line. Plays ten minutes only; royalty, $5.00. _Price, 25 cents_ A COUPLE OF MILLION An American Comedy in Four Acts _By Walter Ben Hare_ Author of "Professor Pepp," "Much Ado About Betty," "The Hoodoo," "The Dutch Detective," etc. Six males, five females. Costumes, modern; scenery, two interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. Royalty, ten dollars ($10.00) for each performance. A more ambitious play by this popular author in the same successful vein as his previous offerings. Bemis Bennington is left two million dollars by his uncle on condition that he shall live for one year in a town of less than five thousand inhabitants and during that period marry and earn without other assistance than his own industry and ability the sum of five thousand dollars. Failing to accomplish this the money goes to one Professor Noah Jabb. This is done despite the energetic opposition of Jabb, who puts up a very interesting fight. A capital play that can be strongly recommended. Plenty of good comedy and a great variety of good parts, full of opportunity. _Price, 35 cents_ CHARACTERS BEMIS BENNINGTON. HON. JEREMY WISE. JAMES PATRICK BURNS, "_Stubby_." PROFESSOR NOAH JABB. BEVERLY LOMAN. SQUIRE PIPER. FAY FAIRBANKS. MRS. CLARICE COURTENAY. GENEVIEVE MCGULLY. SAMMIE BELL PORTER. PINK. _Several Hill-Billies._ SYNOPSIS ACT I.--The law office of Hon. Jeremy Wise, New York City. A morning in July. ACT II.--The exterior of the court-house, Opaloopa, Alabama. An afternoon in October. ACT III.--Same as Act II. The next afternoon. ACT IV.--Mrs. Courtenay's sitting-room, Opaloopa, Alabama. A night in April. ISOSCELES A Play in One Act _By Walter Ben Hare_ Two male, one female characters. Costumes, modern; scene, an interior. Plays twenty minutes. Royalty $2.50 for each performance. An admirable little travesty of the conventional emotional recipe calling for husband, wife and lover. Played in the proper spirit of burlesque it is howlingly funny. Strongly recommended for the semi-professional uses of schools of acting. A capital bit for a benefit or exhibition programme, offering a decided novelty. _Price, 25 cents_ NO TRESPASSING A Play in Three Acts _By Evelyn Gray Whiting_ Six males, five females. Costumes, modern; scenery, a single easy interior. Plays two hours. Free of royalty. Lisle Irving, a lively "city girl," goes down into the country on a vacation and to get rid of a husband of her father's choice whom she has never seen, and runs into the very man living there under another name. He meets her by accident and takes her to be one of a pair of twins who have been living at the farmhouse. She discovers his mistake and in the character of both twins in alternation gives him the time of his life, incidentally falling in love with him. An unusual abundance of good comedy characters, including one--Bill Meader--of great originality and humor, sure to make a big hit. Strongly recommended. _Price, 35 cents_ CHARACTERS BILL MEADER, "_on the town_." JIM MEADER, _son of Bill, a boy of sixteen to eighteen_. MR. PALMER, _a New England farmer_. CLEVELAND TOWER, _a young city fellow, guest of Raynor_. HERBERT EDMAND RAYNOR, _a young Englishman_. MR. IRVING, _father of Lisle_. LISLE IRVING, _a girl of seventeen_. PEGGY PALMER, _a girl of eighteen or twenty_. MRS. PALMER, _Peggy's mother_. BARBARA PALMER, _a girl of ten or twelve years_. ALMEDA MEADER, _a girl about Barbara's age_. THE GIRL UP-STAIRS A Comedy in Two Acts _By Gladys Ruth Bridgham_ Seven females. Costumes, modern; scenery, an interior. Plays an hour. Daisy Jordan, crazy to get "on the stage," comes to New York and starves there in a lodging house waiting for her chance. She schemes to get an interview with Cicely Denver, a popular actress, to act before her, but the result is not at all what she intended. A capital play with strong and ingenious opportunities for good acting. Recommended. _Price, 25 cents_ TICKETS, PLEASE! A Comedy in One Act _By Irving Dale_ Four females. Costumes, modern and fashionable; scenery, an interior, not important. Plays twenty minutes. Mignon asks Charlotte to get the theatre tickets, Charlotte asks Maude to get them, Maude hands over three to Linda, who leaves two at Mignon's house after she has left home. But they get to the theatre somehow. Bright, funny and characteristic. Strongly recommended. _Price, 25 cents_ HITTY'S SERVICE FLAG A Comedy in Two Acts _By Gladys Ruth Bridgham_ Eleven female characters. Costumes, modern; scenery, an interior. Plays an hour and a quarter. Hitty, a patriotic spinster, quite alone in the world, nevertheless hangs up a service flag in her window without any right to do so, and opens a Tea Room for the benefit of the Red Cross. She gives shelter to Stella Hassy under circumstances that close other doors against her, and offers refuge to Marjorie Winslow and her little daughter, whose father in France finally gives her the right to the flag. A strong dramatic presentation of a lovable character and an ideal patriotism. Strongly recommended, especially for women's clubs. _Price, 25 cents_ CHARACTERS MEHITABLE JUDSON, _aged 70_. LUELLA PERKINS, _aged 40_. STASIA BROWN, _aged 40_. MILDRED EMERSON, _aged 16_. MARJORIE WINSLOW, _aged 25_. BARBARA WINSLOW, _her daughter, aged 6_. STELLA HASSY, _aged 25, but claims to be younger_. MRS. IRVING WINSLOW, _aged 45_. MARION WINSLOW, _her daughter, aged 20_. MRS. ESTERBROOK, _aged 45_. MRS. COBB, _anywhere from 40 to 60_. THE KNITTING CLUB MEETS A Comedy in One Act _By Helen Sherman Griffith_ Nine female characters. Costumes, modern; scenery, an interior. Plays half an hour. Eleanor will not forego luxuries nor in other ways "do her bit," putting herself before her country; but when her old enemy, Jane Rivers, comes to the Knitting Club straight from France to tell the story of her experiences, she is moved to forget her quarrel and leads them all in her sacrifices to the cause. An admirably stimulating piece, ending with a "melting pot" to which the audience may also be asked to contribute. Urged as a decided novelty in patriotic plays. _Price, 25 cents_ GETTING THE RANGE A Comedy in One Act _By Helen Sherman Griffith_ Eight female characters. Costumes, modern; scenery, an exterior. Well suited for out of door performances. Plays an hour and a quarter. Information of value to the enemy somehow leaks out from a frontier town and the leak cannot be found or stopped. But Captain Brooke, of the Secret Service, finally locates the offender amid a maze of false clues, in the person of a washerwoman who hangs out her clothes day after day in ways and places to give the desired information. A capital play, well recommended. _Price, 25 cents_ Plays for Junior High Schools _Males Females Time Price_ Sally Lunn 3 4 1-1/2 hrs. 25c Mr. Bob 3 4 1-1/2 " 25c The Man from Brandon 3 4 1/2 " 25c A Box of Monkeys 2 3 1-1/4 " 25c A Rice Pudding 2 3 1-1/4 " 25c Class Day 4 3 3/4 " 25c Chums 3 2 3/4 " 25c An Easy Mark 5 2 1/2 " 25c Pa's New Housekeeper 3 2 1 " 25c Not On the Program 3 3 3/4 " 25c The Cool Collegians 3 4 1-1/2 " 25c The Elopement of Ellen 4 3 2 " 35c Tommy's Wife 3 5 1-1/2 " 35c Johnny's New Suit 2 5 3/4 " 25c Thirty Minutes for Refreshment 4 3 1/2 " 25c West of Omaha 4 3 3/4 " 25c The Flying Wedge 3 5 3/4 " 25c My Brother's Keeper 5 3 1-1/2 " 25c The Private Tutor 5 3 2 " 35c Me an' Otis 5 4 2 " 25c Up to Freddie 3 6 1-1/4 " 25c My Cousin Timmy 2 8 1 " 25c Aunt Abigail and the Boys 9 2 1 " 25c Caught Out 9 2 1-1/2 " 25c Constantine Pueblo Jones 10 4 2 " 35c The Cricket On the Hearth 6 7 1-1/2 " 25c The Deacon's Second Wife 6 6 2 " 35c Five Feet of Love 5 6 1-1/2 " 25c The Hurdy Gurdy Girl 9 9 2 " 35c Camp Fidelity Girls 1 11 2 " 35c Carroty Nell -- 15 1 " 25c A Case for Sherlock Holmes -- 10 1-1/2 " 35c The Clancey Kids -- 14 1 " 25c The Happy Day -- 7 1/2 " 25c I Grant You Three Wishes -- 14 1/2 " 25c Just a Little Mistake 1 5 3/4 " 25c The Land of Night -- 18 1-1/4 " 25c Local and Long Distance 1 6 1/2 " 25c The Original Two Bits -- 7 1/2 " 25c An Outsider -- 7 1/2 " 25c Oysters -- 6 1/2 " 25c A Pan of Fudge -- 6 1/2 " 25c A Peck of Trouble -- 5 1/2 " 25c A Precious Pickle -- 7 1/2 " 25C The First National Boot 7 2 1 " 25c His Father's Son 14 -- 1-3/4 " 35c The Turn In the Road 9 -- 1-1/2 " 25c A Half Back's Interference 10 -- 3/4 " 25c The Revolving Wedge 5 3 1 " 25c Mose 11 10 1-1/2 " 25c BAKER, Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass. Plays and Novelties That Have Been "Winners" _Males Females Time Price Royalty_ Camp Fidelity Girls -- 11 2-1/2 hrs. 35c None Anita's Trial -- 11 2 " 35c " The Farmerette -- 7 2 " 35c " Behind the Scenes -- 12 1-1/2 " 35c " The Camp Fire Girls -- 15 2 " 35c " A Case for Sherlock Holmes -- 10 1-1/2 " 35c " The House In Laurel Lane -- 6 1-1/2 " 25c " Her First Assignment -- 10 1 " 25c " I Grant You Three Wishes -- 14 1/2 " 25c " Joint Owners in Spain -- 4 1/2 " 35c $5.00 Marrying Money -- 4 1/2 " 25c None The Original Two Bits -- 7 1/2 " 25c " The Over-Alls Club -- 10 1/2 " 25c " Leave it to Polly -- 11 1-1/2 " 35c " The Rev. Peter Brice, Bachelor -- 7 1/2 " 25c " Miss Fearless & Co. -- 10 2 " 35c " A Modern Cinderella -- 16 1-1/2 " 35c " Theodore, Jr. -- 7 1/2 " 25c " Rebecca's Triumph -- 16 2 " 35c " Aboard a Slow Train In Mizzoury 8 14 2-1/2 " 35c " Twelve Old Maids -- 15 1 " 25c " An Awkward Squad 8 -- 1/4 " 25c " The Blow-Up of Algernon Blow 8 -- 1/2 " 25c " The Boy Scouts 20 -- 2 " 35c " A Close Shave 6 -- 1/2 " 25c " The First National Boot 7 2 1 " 25c " A Half-Back's Interference 10 -- 3/4 " 25c " His Father's Son 14 -- 1-3/4 " 35c " The Man With the Nose 8 -- 3/4 " 25c " On the Quiet 12 -- 1-1/2 " 35c " The People's Money 11 -- 1-3/4 " 25c " A Regular Rah! Rah! Boy 14 -- 1-3/4 " 35c " A Regular Scream 11 -- 1-3/4 " 35c " Schmerecase in School 9 -- 1 " 25c " The Scoutmaster 10 -- 2 " 35c " The Tramps' Convention 17 -- 1-1/2 " 25c " The Turn in the Road 9 -- 1-1/2 " 25c " Wanted--a Pitcher 11 -- 1/2 " 25c " What They Did for Jenkins 14 -- 2 " 25c " Aunt Jerusha's Quilting Party 4 12 1-1/4 " 25c " The District School at Blueberry Corners 12 17 1 " 25c " The Emigrants' Party 24 10 1 " 25c " Miss Prim's Kindergarten 10 11 1-1/2 " 25c " A Pageant of History Any number 2 " 35c " The Revel of the Year " " 3/4 " 25c " Scenes in the Union Depot " " 1 " 25c " Taking the Census in Bingville 14 8 1-1/2 " 25c " The Village Post-Office 22 20 2 " 35c " O'Keefe's Circuit 12 8 1-1/2 " 35c " BAKER, Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass. Transcriber's Notes: Words surrounded by _ are italicized. Small capitals are presented as all capitals in this e-text. Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept including inconsistent use of hyphen (e.g. "Air-Spy" and "Air Spy"). 
20425	----	THE PEACE EGG AND OTHER TALES. BY JULIANA HORATIA EWING. LONDON: SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C. BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET. NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO. [Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.] * * * * * CONTENTS. THE PEACE EGG A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY HINTS FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS, I., II., III. SNAP-DRAGONS OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS * * * * * THE PEACE EGG. THE PEACE EGG. A CHRISTMAS TALE. Every one ought to be happy at Christmas. But there are many things which ought to be, and yet are not; and people are sometimes sad even in the Christmas holidays. The Captain and his wife were sad, though it was Christmas Eve. Sad, though they were in the prime of life, blessed with good health, devoted to each other and to their children, with competent means, a comfortable house on a little freehold property of their own, and, one might say, everything that heart could desire. Sad, though they were good people, whose peace of mind had a firmer foundation than their earthly goods alone; contented people, too, with plenty of occupation for mind and body. Sad--and in the nursery this was held to be past all reason--though the children were performing that ancient and most entertaining Play or Christmas Mystery of Good St. George of England, known as _The Peace Egg_, for their benefit and behoof alone. The play was none the worse that most of the actors were too young to learn parts, so that there was very little of the rather tedious dialogue, only plenty of dress and ribbons, and of fighting with the wooden swords. But though St. George looked bonny enough to warm any father's heart, as he marched up and down with an air learned by watching many a parade in barrack-square and drill-ground, and though the Valiant Slasher did not cry in spite of falling hard and the Doctor treading accidentally on his little finger in picking him up, still the Captain and his wife sighed nearly as often as they smiled, and the mother dropped tears as well as pennies into the cap which the King of Egypt brought round after the performance. THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE. Many many years back the Captain's wife had been a child herself, and had laughed to see the village mummers act the Peace Egg, and had been quite happy on Christmas Eve. Happy, though she had no mother. Happy, though her father was a stern man, very fond of his only child, but with an obstinate will that not even she dared thwart. She had lived to thwart it, and he had never forgiven her. It was when she married the Captain. The old man had a prejudice against soldiers, which was quite reason enough, in his opinion, for his daughter to sacrifice the happiness of her future life by giving up the soldier she loved. At last he gave her her choice between the Captain and his own favour and money. She chose the Captain, and was disowned and disinherited. The Captain bore a high character, and was a good and clever officer, but that went for nothing against the old man's whim. He made a very good husband too; but even this did not move his father-in-law, who had never held any intercourse with him or his wife since the day of their marriage, and who had never seen his own grandchildren. Though not so bitterly prejudiced as the old father, the Captain's wife's friends had their doubts about the marriage. The place was not a military station, and they were quiet country folk who knew very little about soldiers, whilst what they imagined was not altogether favourable to "red-coats" as they called them. Soldiers are well-looking generally, it is true (and the Captain was more than well-looking--he was handsome); brave, of course it is their business (and the Captain had V.C. after his name and several bits of ribbon on his patrol jacket). But then, thought the good people, they are here to-day and gone to-morrow, you "never know where you have them"; they are probably in debt, possibly married to several women in several foreign countries, and, though they are very courteous in society, who knows how they treat their wives when they drag them off from their natural friends and protectors to distant lands where no one can call them to account? "Ah, poor thing!" said Mrs. John Bull, junior, as she took off her husband's coat on his return from business, a week after the Captain's wedding, "I wonder how she feels? There's no doubt the old man behaved disgracefully; but it's a great risk marrying a soldier. It stands to reason, military men aren't domestic; and I wish--Lucy Jane, fetch your papa's slippers, quick!--she'd had the sense to settle down comfortably amongst her friends with a man who would have taken care of her." "Officers are a wild set, I expect," said Mr. Bull, complacently, as he stretched his limbs in his own particular arm-chair, into which no member of his family ever intruded. "But the red-coats carry the day with plenty of girls who ought to know better. You women are always caught by a bit of finery. However, there's no use our bothering _our_ heads about it. As she has brewed she must bake." The Captain's wife's baking was lighter and more palatable than her friends believed. The Captain (who took off his own coat when he came home, and never wore slippers but in his dressing-room) was domestic enough. A selfish companion must, doubtless, be a great trial amid the hardships of military life, but when a soldier is kind-hearted, he is often a much more helpful and thoughtful and handy husband than any equally well-meaning civilian. Amid the ups and downs of their wanderings, the discomforts of shipboard and of stations in the colonies, bad servants, and unwonted sicknesses, the Captain's tenderness never failed. If the life was rough the Captain was ready. He had been, by turns, in one strait or another, sick-nurse, doctor, carpenter, nursemaid, and cook to his family, and had, moreover, an idea that nobody filled these offices quite so well as himself. Withal, his very profession kept him neat, well-dressed, and active. In the roughest of their ever-changing quarters he was a smarter man, more like the lover of his wife's young days, than Mr. Bull amid his stationary comforts. Then if the Captain's wife was--as her friends said--"never settled," she was also for ever entertained by new scenes; and domestic mischances do not weigh very heavily on people whose possessions are few and their intellectual interests many. It is true that there were ladies in the Captain's regiment who passed by sea and land from one quarter of the globe to another, amid strange climates and customs, strange trees and flowers, beasts and birds, from the glittering snows of North America to the orchids of the Cape, from beautiful Pera to the lily-covered hills of Japan, and who in no place rose above the fret of domestic worries, and had little to tell on their return but of the universal misconduct of servants, from Irish "helps" in the colonies, to _compradors_ and China-boys at Shanghai. But it was not so with the Captain's wife. Moreover, one becomes accustomed to one's fate, and she moved her whole establishment from the Curragh to Corfu with less anxiety than that felt by Mrs. Bull over a port-wine stain on the best table-cloth. And yet, as years went and children came, the Captain and his wife grew tired of travelling. New scenes were small comfort when they heard of the death of old friends. One foot of murky English sky was dearer, after all, than miles of the unclouded heavens of the South. The grey hills and overgrown lanes of her old home haunted the Captain's wife by night and day, and home-sickness (that weariest of all sicknesses) began to take the light out of her eyes before their time. It preyed upon the Captain too. Now and then he would say, fretfully, "I _should_ like an English resting-place, however small, before _every-_body is dead! But the children's prospects have to be considered." The continued estrangement from the old man was an abiding sorrow also, and they had hopes that, if only they could get to England, he might be persuaded to peace and charity this time. At last they were sent home. But the hard old father still would not relent. He returned their letters unopened. This bitter disappointment made the Captain's wife so ill that she almost died, and in one month the Captain's hair became iron-grey. He reproached himself for having ever taken the daughter from her father, "to kill her at last," as he said. And (thinking of his own children) he even reproached himself for having robbed the old widower of his only child. After two years at home his regiment was ordered to India. He failed to effect an exchange, and they prepared to move once more--from Chatham to Calcutta. Never before had the packing, to which she was so well accustomed, been so bitter a task to the Captain's wife. It was at the darkest hour of this gloomy time that the Captain came in, waving above his head a letter which changed all their plans. Now close by the old home of the Captain's wife there had lived a man, much older than herself, who yet had loved her with a devotion as great as that of the young Captain. She never knew it, for when he saw that she had given her heart to his younger rival, he kept silence, and he never asked for what he knew he might have had--the old man's authority in his favour. So generous was the affection which he could never conquer, that he constantly tried to reconcile the father to his children whilst he lived, and, when he died, he bequeathed his house and small estate to the woman he had loved. "It will be a legacy of peace," he thought, on his death-bed. "The old man cannot hold out when she and her children are constantly in sight. And it may please GOD that I shall know of the reunion I have not been permitted to see with my eyes." And thus it came about that the Captain's regiment went to India without him, and that the Captain's wife and her father lived on opposite sides of the same road. MASTER ROBERT. The eldest of the Captain's children was a boy. He was named Robert, after his grandfather, and seemed to have inherited a good deal of the old gentleman's character, mixed with gentler traits. He was a fair, fine boy, tall and stout for his age, with the Captain's regular features, and (he flattered himself) the Captain's firm step and martial bearing. He was apt--like his grandfather--to hold his own will to be other people's law, and (happily for the peace of the nursery) this opinion was devoutly shared by his brother Nicholas. Though the Captain had sold his commission, Robin continued to command an irregular force of volunteers in the nursery, and never was colonel more despotic. His brothers and sister were by turn infantry, cavalry, engineers, and artillery, according to his whim, and when his affections finally settled upon the Highlanders of "The Black Watch," no female power could compel him to keep his stockings above his knees, or his knickerbockers below them. The Captain alone was a match for his strong-willed son. "If you please, sir," said Sarah, one morning, flouncing in upon the Captain, just as he was about to start for the neighbouring town,--"if you please, sir, I wish you'd speak to Master Robert. He's past my powers." "I've no doubt of it," thought the Captain, but he only said, "Well, what's the matter?" "Night after night do I put him to bed," said Sarah, "and night after night does he get up as soon as I'm out of the room, and says he's orderly officer for the evening, and goes about in his night-shirt, and his feet as bare as boards." The Captain fingered his heavy moustache to hide a smile, but he listened patiently to Sarah's complaints. "It ain't so much _him_ I should mind, sir," she continued, "but he goes round the beds and wakes up the other young gentlemen and Miss Dora, one after another, and when I speak to him, he gives me all the sauce he can lay his tongue to, and says he's going round the guards. The other night I tried to put him back in his bed, but he got away and ran all over the house, me hunting him everywhere, and not a sign of him, till he jumps out on me from the garret-stairs and nearly knocks me down. 'I've visited the outposts, Sarah,' says he; 'all's well,' And off he goes to bed as bold as brass." "Have you spoken to your mistress?" asked the Captain. "Yes, sir," said Sarah. "And missis spoke to him, and he promised not to go round the guards again." "Has he broken his promise?" asked the Captain, with a look of anger, and also of surprise. "When I opened the door last night, sir," continued Sarah, in her shrill treble, "what should I see in the dark but Master Robert a-walking up and down with the carpet-brush stuck in his arm. 'Who goes there?' says he. 'You owdacious boy!' says I. 'Didn't you promise your ma you'd leave off them tricks?' 'I'm not going round the guards,' says he; 'I promised not. But I'm for sentry-duty to-night.' And say what I would to him, all he had for me was, 'You mustn't speak to a sentry on duty.' So I says, 'As sure as I live till morning, I'll go to your pa,' for he pays no more attention to his ma than to me, nor to any one else." "Please to see that the chair-bed in my dressing-room is moved into your mistress's bedroom," said the Captain. "I will attend to Master Robert." With this Sarah had to content herself, and she went back to the nursery. Robert was nowhere to be seen, and made no reply to her summons. On this the unwary nursemaid flounced into the bedroom to look for him, when Robert, who was hidden beneath a table, darted forth, and promptly locked her in. "You're under arrest," he shouted, through the keyhole. "Let me out!" shrieked Sarah. "I'll send a file of the guard to fetch you to the orderly room, by and by," said Robert, "for 'preferring frivolous complaints.'" And he departed to the farmyard to look at the ducks. That night, when Robert went up to bed, the Captain quietly locked him into his dressing-room, from which the bed had been removed. "You're for sentry-duty to-night," said the Captain. "The carpet-brush is in the corner. Good-evening." As his father anticipated, Robert was soon tired of the sentry game in these new circumstances, and long before the night had half worn away he wished himself safely undressed and in his own comfortable bed. At half-past twelve o'clock he felt as if he could bear it no longer, and knocked at the Captain's door. "Who goes there?" said the Captain. "Mayn't I go to bed, please?" whined poor Robert. "Certainly not," said the Captain. "You're on duty." And on duty poor Robert had to remain, for the Captain had a will as well as his son. So he rolled himself up in his father's railway-rug, and slept on the floor. The next night he was very glad to go quietly to bed, and remain there. IN THE NURSERY. The Captain's children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery. It was the room where the old bachelor had died, and now _her_ children made it merry. This was just what he would have wished. They all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time. There were five of them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them. Sarah (a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could be found) was waiting on them, and by the table sat Darkie, the black retriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of holding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on each and all of the breakfast bowls. He was as silent and sagacious as Sarah was talkative and empty-headed. The expression of his face was that of King Charles I. as painted by Vandyke. Though large, he was unassuming. Pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first joint of Darkie's leg, stood defiantly on his dignity (and his short stumps). He always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a point of hustling him in doorways and of going first down-stairs. He strutted like a beadle, and carried his tail more tightly curled than a bishop's crook. He looked as one may imagine the frog in the fable would have looked, had he been able to swell himself rather nearer to the size of the ox. This was partly due to his very prominent eyes, and partly to an obesity favoured by habits of lying inside the fender, and of eating meals proportioned more to his consequence than to his hunger. They were both favourites of two years' standing, and had very nearly been given away, when the good news came of an English home for the family, dogs and all. Robert's tongue was seldom idle, even at meals. "Are you a Yorkshirewoman, Sarah?" he asked, pausing, with his spoon full in his hand. "No, Master Robert," said Sarah. "But you understand Yorkshire, don't you? I can't, very often; but Mamma can, and can speak it, too. Papa says Mamma always talks Yorkshire to servants and poor people. She used to talk Yorkshire to Themistocles, Papa said, and he said it was no good; for though Themistocles knew a lot of languages, he didn't know that. And Mamma laughed, and said she didn't know she did."--"Themistocles was our man-servant in Corfu," Robin added, in explanation. "He stole lots of things, Themistocles did; but Papa found him out." Robin now made a rapid attack on his bread-and-milk, after which he broke out again. "Sarah, who is that tall old gentleman at church, in the seat near the pulpit? He wears a cloak like what the Blues wear, only all blue, and is tall enough for a Lifeguardsman. He stood when we were kneeling down, and said _Almighty and most merciful Father_ louder than anybody." Sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as yet. But she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all. "Never you mind, Master Robin," she said, nodding sagaciously. "Little boys aren't to know everything." "Ah, then, I know you don't know," replied Robert; "if you did, you'd tell. Nicholas, give some of your bread to Darkie and Pax. I've done mine. _For what we have received, the Lord make us truly thankful._ Say your grace and put your chair away, and come along. I want to hold a court-martial!" And seizing his own chair by the seat, Robin carried it swiftly to its corner. As he passed Sarah, he observed tauntingly, "You pretend to know, but you don't." "I do," said Sarah. "You don't," said Robin. "Your ma's forbid you to contradict, Master Robin," said Sarah; "and if you do I shall tell her. I know well enough who the old gentleman is, and perhaps I might tell you, only you'd go straight off and tell again." "No, no, I wouldn't!" shouted Robin. "I can keep a secret, indeed I can! Pinch my little finger, and try. Do, do tell me, Sarah, there's a dear Sarah, and then I shall know you know." And he danced round her, catching at her skirts. To keep a secret was beyond Sarah's powers. "Do let my dress be, Master Robin," she said, "you're ripping out all the gathers, and listen while I whisper. As sure as you're a living boy, that gentleman's your own grandpapa." Robin lost his hold on Sarah's dress; his arms fell by his side, and he stood with his brows knit for some minutes, thinking. Then he said, emphatically, "What lies you do tell, Sarah!" "Oh, Robin!" cried Nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls standing stark with curiosity, "Mamma said 'lies' wasn't a proper word, and you promised not to say it again." "I forgot," said Robin. "I didn't mean to break my promise. But she does tell--ahem! _you know what_." "You wicked boy!" cried the enraged Sarah; "how dare you to say such a thing! and everybody in the place knows he's your ma's own pa." "I'll go and ask her," said Robin, and he was at the door in a moment; but Sarah, alarmed by the thought of getting into a scrape herself, caught him by the arm. "Don't you go, love; it'll only make your ma angry. There; it was all my nonsense." "Then it's not true?" said Robin, indignantly. "What did you tell me so for?" "It was all my jokes and nonsense," said the unscrupulous Sarah. "But your ma wouldn't like to know I've said such a thing. And Master Robert wouldn't be so mean as to tell tales, would he, love?" "I'm not mean," said Robin, stoutly; "and I don't tell tales; but you do, and you tell _you know what_, besides. However, I won't go this time; but I'll tell you what--if you tell tales of me to Papa any more, I'll tell him what you said about the old gentleman in the blue cloak." With which parting threat Robin strode, off to join his brothers and sister. Sarah's tale had put the court-martial out of his head, and he leaned against the tall fender, gazing at his little sister, who was tenderly nursing a well-worn doll. Robin sighed. "What a long time that doll takes to wear out, Dora!" said he. "When will it be done?" "Oh, not yet, not yet!" cried Dora, clasping the doll to her, and turning away. "She's quite good, yet." "How miserly you are," said her brother; "and selfish, too; for you know I can't have a military funeral till you'll let me bury that old thing." Dora began to cry. "There you go, crying!" said Robin, impatiently. "Look here: I won't take it till you get the new one on your birthday. You can't be so mean as not to let me have it then!" But Dora's tears still fell. "I love this one so much," she sobbed. "I love her better than the new one." "You want both; that's it," said Robin, angrily. "Dora, you're the meanest girl I ever knew!" At which unjust and painful accusation Dora threw herself and the doll upon their faces, and wept bitterly. The eyes of the soft-hearted Nicholas began to fill with tears, and he squatted down before her, looking most dismal. He had a fellow-feeling for her attachment to an old toy, and yet Robin's will was law to him. "Couldn't we make a coffin, and pretend the body was inside?" he suggested. "No, we couldn't," said Robin. "I wouldn't play the Dead March after an empty candle-box. It's a great shame--and I promised she should be chaplain in one of my night-gowns, too." "Perhaps you'll get just as fond of the new one," said Nicholas, turning to Dora. But Dora only cried, "No, no! He shall have the new one to bury, and I'll keep my poor, dear, darling Betsy." And she clasped Betsy tighter than before. "That's the meanest thing you've said yet," retorted Robin; "for you know Mamma wouldn't let me bury the new one." And, with an air of great disgust, he quitted the nursery. "A MUMMING WE WILL GO." Nicholas had sore work to console his little sister, and Betsy's prospects were in a very unfavourable state, when a diversion was caused in her favour by a new whim which put the military funeral out of Robin's head. After he left the nursery he strolled out of doors, and, peeping through the gate at the end of the drive, he saw a party of boys going through what looked like a military exercise with sticks and a good deal of stamping; but, instead of mere words of command, they all spoke by turns, as in a play. In spite of their strong Yorkshire accent, Robin overheard a good deal, and it sounded very fine. Not being at all shy, he joined them, and asked so many questions that he soon got to know all about it. They were practising a Christmas mumming-play, called "The Peace Egg." Why it was called thus they could not tell, as there was nothing whatever about eggs in it, and so far from being a play of peace, it was made up of a series of battles between certain valiant knights and princes, of whom St. George of England was the chief and conqueror. The rehearsal being over, Robin went with the boys to the sexton's house (he was father to the "King of Egypt"), where they showed him the dresses they were to wear. These were made of gay-coloured materials, and covered with ribbons, except that of the "Black Prince of Paradine," which was black, as became his title. The boys also showed him the book from which they learned their parts, and which was to be bought for one penny at the post-office shop. "Then are you the mummers who come round at Christmas, and act in people's kitchens, and people give them money, that Mamma used to tell us about?" said Robin. St. George of England looked at his companions as if for counsel as to how far they might commit themselves, and then replied, with Yorkshire caution, "Well, I suppose we are." "And do you go out in the snow from one house to another at night? and oh, don't you enjoy it?" cried Robin. "We like it well enough," St. George admitted. Robin bought a copy of "The Peace Egg." He was resolved to have a nursery performance, and to act the part of St. George himself. The others were willing for what he wished, but there were difficulties. In the first place, there are eight characters in the play, and there were only five children. They decided among themselves to leave out the "Fool," and Mamma said that another character was not to be acted by any of them, or indeed mentioned; "the little one who comes in at the end," Robin explained. Mamma had her reasons, and these were always good. She had not been altogether pleased that Robin had bought the play. It was a very old thing, she said, and very queer; not adapted for a child's play. If Mamma thought the parts not quite fit for the children to learn, they found them much too long; so in the end she picked out some bits for each, which they learned easily, and which, with a good deal of fighting, made quite as good a story of it as if they had done the whole. What may have been wanting otherwise was made up for by the dresses, which were charming. Robin was St. George, Nicholas the Valiant Slasher, Dora the Doctor, and the other two Hector and the King of Egypt. "And now we've no Black Prince!" cried Robin in dismay. "Let Darkie be the Black Prince," said Nicholas. "When you wave your stick he'll jump for it, and then you can pretend to fight with him." "It's not a stick, it's a sword," said Robin. "However, Darkie may be the Black Prince." "And what's Pax to be?" asked Dora; "for you know he will come if Darkie does, and he'll run in before everybody else too." "Then he must be the Fool," said Robin, "and it will do very well, for the Fool comes in before the rest, and Pax can have his red coat on, and the collar with the little bells." CHRISTMAS EVE. Robin thought that Christmas would never come. To the Captain and his wife it seemed to come too fast. They had hoped it might bring reconciliation with the old man, but it seemed they had hoped in vain. There were times now when the Captain almost regretted the old bachelor's bequest. The familiar scenes of her old home sharpened his wife's grief. To see her father every Sunday in church, with marks of age and infirmity upon him, but with not a look of tenderness for his only child, this tried her sorely. "She felt it less abroad," thought the Captain. "An English home in which she frets herself to death is, after all, no great boon." Christmas Eve came. "I'm sure it's quite Christmas enough now," said Robin. "We'll have 'The Peace Egg' to-night." So as the Captain and his wife sat sadly over their fire, the door opened, and Pax ran in shaking his bells, and followed by the nursery mummers. The performance was most successful. It was by no means pathetic, and yet, as has been said, the Captain's wife shed tears. "What is the matter, Mamma?" said St. George, abruptly dropping his sword and running up to her. "Don't tease Mamma with questions," said the Captain; "she is not very well, and rather sad. We must all be very kind and good to poor dear Mamma;" and the Captain raised his wife's hand to his lips as he spoke. Robin seized the other hand and kissed it tenderly. He was very fond of his mother. At this moment Pax took a little run, and jumped on to Mamma's lap, where, sitting facing the company, he opened his black mouth and yawned, with a ludicrous inappropriateness worthy of any clown. It made everybody laugh. "And now we'll go and act in the kitchen," said Nicholas. "Supper at nine o'clock, remember," shouted the Captain. "And we are going to have real frumenty and Yule cakes, such as Mamma used to tell us of when we were abroad." "Hurray!" shouted the mummers, and they ran off, Pax leaping from his seat just in time to hustle the Black Prince in the doorway. When the dining-room door was shut, St. George raised his hand, and said "Hush!" The mummers pricked their ears, but there was only a distant harsh and scraping sound, as of stones rubbed together. "They're cleaning the passages," St. George went on, "and Sarah told me they meant to finish the mistletoe, and have everything cleaned up by supper-time. They don't want us, I know. Look here, we'll go _real mumming_ instead. That _will_ be fun!" The Valiant Slasher grinned with delight. "But will mamma let us?" he inquired. "Oh, it will be all right if we're back by supper-time," said St. George, hastily. "Only of course we must take care not to catch cold. Come and help me to get some wraps." The old oak chest in which spare shawls, rugs, and coats were kept was soon ransacked, and the mummers' gay dresses hidden by motley wrappers. But no sooner did Darkie and Pax behold the coats, &c., than they at once began to leap and bark, as it was their custom to do when they saw any one dressing to go out. Robin was sorely afraid that this would betray them; but though the Captain and his wife heard the barking they did not guess the cause. So the front door being very gently opened and closed, the nursery mummers stole away. THE NURSERY MUMMERS AND THE OLD MAN. It was a very fine night. The snow was well trodden on the drive, so that it did not wet their feet, but on the trees and shrubs it hung soft and white. "It's much jollier being out at night than in the daytime," said Robin. "Much," responded Nicholas, with intense feeling. "We'll go a wassailing next week," said Robin. "I know all about it, and perhaps we shall get a good lot of money, and then we'll buy tin swords with scabbards for next year. I don't like these sticks. Oh, dear, I wish it wasn't so long between one Christmas and another." "Where shall we go first?" asked Nicholas, as they turned into the high-road. But before Robin could reply, Dora clung to Nicholas, crying, "Oh, look at those men!" The boys looked up the road, down which three men were coming in a very unsteady fashion, and shouting as they rolled from side to side. "They're drunk," said Nicholas; "and they're shouting at us." "Oh, run, run!" cried Dora; and down the road they ran, the men shouting and following them. They had not run far, when Hector caught his foot in the Captain's great-coat, which he was wearing, and came down headlong in the road. They were close by a gate, and when Nicholas had set Hector upon his legs, St. George hastily opened it. "This is the first house," he said. "We'll act here;" and all, even the Valiant Slasher, pressed in as quickly as possible. Once safe within the grounds, they shouldered their sticks, and resumed their composure. "You're going to the front door," said Nicholas, "Mummers ought to go to the back." "We don't know where it is," said Robin, and he rang the front-door bell. There was a pause. Then lights shone, steps were heard, and at last a sound of much unbarring, unbolting, and unlocking. It might have been a prison. Then the door was opened by an elderly, timid-looking woman, who held a tallow candle above her head. "Who's there," she said, "at this time of night?" "We're Christmas mummers," said Robin, stoutly; "we don't know the way to the back door, but--" "And don't you know better than to come here?" said the woman. "Be off with you, as fast as you can." "You're only the servant," said Robin. "Go and ask your master and mistress if they wouldn't like to see us act. We do it very well." "You impudent boy, be off with you!" repeated the woman. "Master'd no more let you nor any other such rubbish set foot in this house--" "Woman!" shouted a voice close behind her, which made her start as if she had been shot, "who authorizes you to say what your master will or will not do, before you've asked him? The boy is right. You _are_ the servant, and it is not your business to choose for me whom I shall or shall not see." "I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure," said the housekeeper; "but I thought you'd never--" "My good woman," said her master, "if I had wanted somebody to think for me, you're the last person I should have employed. I hire you to obey orders, not to think." "I'm sure, sir," said the housekeeper, whose only form of argument was reiteration, "I never thought you would have seen them--" "Then you were wrong," shouted her master. "I will see them. Bring them in." He was a tall, gaunt old man, and Robin stared at him for some minutes, wondering where he could have seen somebody very like him. At last he remembered. It was the old gentleman of the blue cloak. The children threw off their wraps, the housekeeper helping them, and chattering ceaselessly, from sheer nervousness. "Well, to be sure," said she, "their dresses are pretty too. And they seem quite a better sort of children, they talk quite genteel. I might ha' knowed they weren't like common mummers, but I was so flusterated hearing the bell go so late, and--" "Are they ready?" said the old man, who had stood like a ghost in the dim light of the flaring tallow candle, grimly watching the proceedings. "Yes, sir. Shall I take them to the kitchen, sir?" "--for you and the other idle hussies to gape and grin at? No. Bring them to the library," he snapped, and then stalked off, leading the way. The housekeeper accordingly led them to the library, and then withdrew, nearly falling on her face as she left the room by stumbling over Darkie, who slipped in last like a black shadow. The old man was seated in a carved oak chair by the fire. "I never said the dogs were to come in," he said. "But we can't do without them, please," said Robin, boldly. "You see there are eight people in 'The Peace Egg,' and there are only five of us; and so Darkie has to be the Black Prince, and Pax has to be the Fool, and so we have to have them." "Five and two make seven," said the old man, with a grim smile; "what do you do for the eighth?" "Oh, that's the little one at the end," said Robin, confidentially. "Mamma said we weren't to mention him, but I think that's because we're children.--You're grown up, you know, so I'll show you the book, and you can see for yourself," he went on, drawing "The Peace Egg" from his pocket: "there, that's the picture of him, on the last page; black, with horns and a tail." The old man's stern face relaxed into a broad smile as he examined the grotesque woodcut; but when he turned to the first page the smile vanished in a deep frown, and his eyes shone like hot coals with anger. He had seen Robin's name. "Who sent you here?" he asked, in a hoarse voice. "Speak, and speak the truth! Did your mother send you here?" Robin thought the old man was angry with them for playing truant. He said, slowly, "N--no. She didn't exactly send us; but I don't think she'll mind our having come if we get back in time for supper. Mamma never _forbid_ our going mumming, you know." "I don't suppose she ever thought of it," Nicholas said, candidly, wagging his curly head from side to side. "She knows we're mummers," said Robin, "for she helped us. When we were abroad, you know, she used to tell us about the mummers acting at Christmas, when she was a little girl; and so we thought we'd be mummers, and so we acted to Papa and Mamma, and so we thought we'd act to the maids, but they were cleaning the passages, and so we thought we'd really go mumming; and we've got several other houses to go to before supper-time; we'd better begin, I think," said Robin; and without more ado he began to march round and round, raising his sword and shouting-- "I am St. George, who from Old England sprung, My famous name throughout the world hath rung." And the performance went off quite as creditably as before. As the children acted the old man's anger wore off. He watched them with an interest he could not repress. When Nicholas took some hard thwacks from St. George without flinching, the old man clapped his hands; and, after the encounter between St. George and the Black Prince, he said he would not have had the dogs excluded on any consideration. It was just at the end, when they were all marching round and round, holding on by each other's swords "over the shoulder," and singing "A mumming we will go," &c., that Nicholas suddenly brought the circle to a standstill by stopping dead short, and staring up at the wall before him. "What _are_ you stopping for?" said St. George, turning indignantly round. "Look there!" cried Nicholas, pointing to a little painting which hung above the old man's head. Robin looked, and said, abruptly, "It's Dora." "Which is Dora?" asked the old man, in a strange, sharp tone. "Here she is," said Robin and Nicholas in one breath, as they dragged her forward. "She's the Doctor," said Robin; "and you can't see her face for her things. Dor, take off your cap and pull back that hood. There! Oh, it _is_ like her!" It was a portrait of her mother as a child; but of this the nursery mummers knew nothing. The old man looked as the peaked cap and hood fell away from Dora's face and fair curls, and then he uttered a sharp cry, and buried his head upon his hands. The boys stood stupefied, but Dora ran up to him, and putting her little hands on his arms, said, in childish pitying tones, "Oh, I am so sorry! Have you got a headache? May Robin put the shovel in the fire for you? Mamma has hot shovels for her headaches." And, though the old man did not speak or move, she went on coaxing him, and stroking his head, on which the hair was white. At this moment Pax took one of his unexpected runs, and jumped on to the old man's knee, in his own particular fashion, and then yawned at the company. The old man was startled, and lifted his face suddenly. It was wet with tears. "Why, you're crying!" exclaimed the children, with one breath. "It's very odd," said Robin, fretfully. "I can't think what's the matter to-night. Mamma was crying too when we were acting, and Papa said we weren't to tease her with questions, and he kissed her hand, and I kissed her hand too. And Papa said we must all be very good and kind to poor dear Mamma, and so I mean to be, she's so good. And I think we'd better go home, or perhaps she'll be frightened," Robin added. "She's so good, is she?" asked the old man. He had put Pax off his knee, and taken Dora on to it. "Oh, isn't she!" said Nicholas, swaying his curly head from side to side as usual. "She's always good," said Robin, emphatically; "and so's Papa. But I'm always doing something I oughtn't to," he added, slowly. "But then, you know, I don't pretend to obey Sarah. I don't care a fig for Sarah; and I won't obey any woman but Mamma." "Who's Sarah?" asked the grandfather. "She's our nurse," said Robin, "and she tells--I mustn't say what she tells--but it's not the truth. She told one about _you_ the other day," he added. "About me?" said the old man. "She said you were our grandpapa. So then I knew she was telling _you know what_." "How did you know it wasn't true?" the old man asked. "Why, of course," said Robin, "if you were our Mamma's father, you'd know her, and be very fond of her, and come and see her. And then you'd be our grandfather, too, and you'd have us to see you, and perhaps give us Christmas-boxes. I wish you were," Robin added with a sigh. "It would be very nice." "Would _you_ like it?" asked the old man of Dora. And Dora, who was half asleep and very comfortable, put her little arms about his neck as she was wont to put them round the Captain's, and said, "Very much." He put her down at last, very tenderly, almost unwillingly, and left the children alone. By and by he returned, dressed in the blue cloak, and took Dora up again. "I will see you home," he said. The children had not been missed. The clock had only just struck nine when there came a knock on the door of the dining-room, where the Captain and his wife still sat by the Yule log. She said "Come in," wearily, thinking it was the frumenty and the Christmas cakes. But it was her father, with her child in his arms! PEACE AND GOODWILL. Lucy Jane Bull and her sisters were quite old enough to understand a good deal of grown-up conversation when they overheard it. Thus, when a friend of Mrs. Bull's observed during an afternoon call that she believed that "officers' wives were very dressy," the young ladies were at once resolved to keep a sharp look-out for the Captain's wife's bonnet in church on Christmas Day. The Bulls had just taken their seats when the Captain's wife came in. They really would have hid their faces, and looked at the bonnet afterwards, but for the startling sight that met the gaze of the congregation. The old grandfather walked into church abreast of the Captain. "They've met in the porch," whispered Mr. Bull, under the shelter of his hat. "They can't quarrel publicly in a place of worship," said Mrs. Bull, turning pale. "She's gone into his seat," cried Lucy Jane in a shrill whisper. "And the children after her," added the other sister, incautiously aloud. There was now no doubt about the matter. The old man in his blue cloak stood for a few moments politely disputing the question of precedence with his handsome son-in-law. Then the Captain bowed and passed in, and the old man followed him. By the time that the service was ended everybody knew of the happy peacemaking, and was glad. One old friend after another came up with blessings and good wishes. This was a proper Christmas, indeed, they said. There was a general rejoicing. But only the grandfather and his children knew that it was hatched from "The Peace Egg." A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY. A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY. INTRODUCTION. Since a little story of mine called "The Peace Egg" appeared in _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, I have again and again been asked where the Mumming Play could be found which gave its name to my tale, and if real children could act it, as did the fancy children of my story. As it stands, this old Christmas Mumming Play (which seems to have borrowed the name of an Easter Entertainment or Pasque Egg) is not fit for domestic performance; and though probably there are few nurseries in those parts of England where "mumming" and the sword-dance still linger, in which the children do not play some version of St. George's exploits, a little of the dialogue goes a long way, and the mummery (which must almost be seen to be imitated) is the chief matter. In fact, the mummery _is_ the chief matter--which is what makes the play so attractive to children, and, it may be added, so suitable for their performance. In its rudeness, its simplicity, its fancy dressing, the rapid action of the plot, and last, but not least, its _bludginess_--that quality which made the history of Goliath so dear to the youngest of Helen's Babies!--it is adapted for nursery amusement, as the Drama of Punch and Judy is, and for similar reasons. For some little time past I have purposed to try and blend the various versions of "Peace Egg" into one Mummery for the nursery, with as little change of the old rhymes as might be. I have been again urged to do so this Christmas, and though I have not been able to give so much time or research to it as I should have liked, I have thought it better to do it without further delay, even if somewhat imperfectly. To shuffle the characters and vary the text is nothing new in the history of these "Mock Plays," as they were sometimes called. They are probably of very ancient origin--"Pagan, I regret to say," as Mr. Pecksniff observed in reference to the sirens--and go back to "the heathen custom of going about on the Kalends of January in disguises, as wild beasts and cattle, the sexes changing apparel," (There is a relic of this last unseemly custom still in "The Old Tup" and "The Old Horse"; when these are performed by both girls and boys, the latter wear skirts and bonnets, the former hats and great-coats; this is also the case in Scotland where the boys and girls go round at Hogmanay.) In the 12th century the clergy introduced miracle plays and Scripture histories to rival the performances of the strolling players, which had become very gross. They became as popular as beneficial, and London was famous for them. Different places, and even trade-guilds and schools, had their differing "mysteries." Secular plays continued, and the two seem occasionally to have got mixed. Into one of the oldest of old plays, "St. George and the Dragon," the Crusaders and Pilgrims introduced the Eastern characters who still remain there. This is the foundation of "The Peace Egg." About the middle of the 15th century, plays, which, not quite religious, still witnessed to the effect of the religious plays in raising the standard of public taste, appeared under the name of "Morals," or "Moralities." Christmas plays, masques, pageants, and the like were largely patronized by the Tudor sovereigns, and the fashion set by the Court was followed in the country. Queen Elizabeth was not only devoted to the drama, and herself performed, but she was very critical and exacting; and the high demand which she did so much to stimulate, was followed by such supply as was given by the surpassing dramatic genius of the Elizabethan age of literature. Later, Ben Jonson and Inigo Jones combined to produce the Court masks, one of which,--the well-known "Mask of Christmas," had for chief characters, Christmas and his children, Misrule, Carol, Mince Pie, Gambol, Post and Pair, New Year's Gift, Mumming, Wassel, Offering, and Baby's Cake. In the 17th century the Christmas Mummeries of the Inns of Court were conducted with great magnificence and at large cost. All such entertainments were severely suppressed during the Commonwealth, at which time the words "Welcome, or not welcome, I am come," were introduced into Father Christmas's part. At one time the Jester of the piece (he is sometimes called the Jester, and sometimes the Fool, or the Old Fool) used to wear a calf's hide. Robin Goodfellow says, "I'll go put on my devilish robes--I mean my Christmas calf's-skin suit--and then walk to the woods." "I'll put me on my great carnation nose, and wrap me in a rousing calf-skin suit, and come like some hobgoblin." And a character of the 18th century "clears the way" with-- "My name is Captain Calftail, Calftail-- And on my back it is plain to be seen, Although I am simple and wear a fool's cap, I am dearly beloved of a queen--" which looks as if Titania had found her way into that mummery! "The Hobby Horse's" costume was a horse's hide, real or imitated. I have no copy of a Christmas Play in which the Hobby Horse appears. In the north of England, "The Old Horse" and "The Old Tup" are the respective heroes of their own peculiar mummeries, generally performed by a younger, or perhaps a rougher, set of lads than those who play the more elegant mysteries of St. George. The boy who acts "Old Tup" has a ram's head impaled upon a short pole, which he grasps and uses as a sort of wooden leg in front of him. He needs some extra support, his back being bent as If for leap-frog, and covered with an old rug (in days when "meat" was cheaper it was probably a hide). The hollow sound of his peg-leg upon the "flags" of the stone passages and kitchen floor, and the yearly test of courage supplied by the rude familiarities of his gruesome head as he charged and dispersed maids and children, amid shrieks and laughter, are probably familiar memories of all Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Derbyshire childhoods. I do not know if the Old Horse and the Old Tup belong to other parts of the British Isles. It is a rude and somewhat vulgar performance, especially if undertaken by older revellers, when the men wear skirts and bonnets, and the women don great-coats and hats--the Fool, the Doctor, and a darker character with a besom, are often of the party, but the Knights of Christendom and the Eastern Potentates take no share in these proceedings, which are oftenest and most inoffensively performed by little boys not yet promoted to be "mummers." It is, however, essential that one of them should have a good voice, true and tuneful enough to sing a long ballad, and lead the chorus. In the scale of contributions to the numerous itinerant Christmas Boxes of Christmas week--such as the Ringers, the Waits, the Brass Band, the Hand-bells, the Mummers (Peace Egg), the Superior Mummers, who do more intricate sword-play (and in the North Riding are called Morris Dancers), &c. &c., the Old Tup stands low down on the list. I never heard the Rhymes of the Old Horse; they cannot be the same. These diversions are very strictly localized and handed on by word of mouth. Of the best version of "Peace Egg" which I have seen performed, I have as yet quite vainly endeavoured to get any part transcribed. It is oral tradition. It is practised for some weeks beforehand, and the costumes, including wonderful head-dresses about the size of the plumed bonnet of a Highlander in full-dress, are carefully preserved from year to year. These paste-board erections are covered with flowers, feathers, bugles, and coloured streamers. The dresses are of coloured calico, with ribbons everywhere; "points" to the breeches and hose, shoulder-knots and sashes. But, as a rough rule, it is one of the conveniences of mumming play, that the finery may be according to the taste and the resources of the company. The swords are of steel, and those I have seen are short. In some places I believe rapiers are used. I am very sorry to be unable to give proper directions for the sword-play, which is so pretty. I have only one version in which such directions are given. I have copied the "Grand Sword Dance" in its proper place for the benefit of those who can interpret it. It is not easy to explain in writing even so much of it as I know. Each combat consists of the same number of cuts, to the best of my remembrance, and the "shoulder cuts" (which look very like two persons sharpening two knives as close as possible to each other's nose!) are in double time, twice as quick as the others. The stage directions are as follows:-- A. and B. fight Cut I ... ... Crossing each other. (They change places, striking as they pass.) Cut 2 ... ... " " back. Cut 3 ... ... " " other. Cut 4 ... ... " " back. Four shoulder cuts. A. loses his sword and falls. But I do not think the version from which this is an extract is at all an elaborate one. There ought to be a "Triumph," with an archway of swords, in the style of Sir Roger de Coverley. After the passing and repassing strokes, there is usually much more hand-to-hand fighting, then four shoulder cuts, and some are aimed high and some down among their ankles, in a way which would probably be quite clear to any one trained in broadsword exercise. The following Christmas Mumming Play is compiled from five versions--the "Peace Egg," the "Wassail Cup," "Alexander the Great," "A Mock Play," and the "Silverton Mummer's Play" (Devon), which has been lent to me in manuscript. The Mumming Chorus, "And a mumming we will go," &c., is not in any one of these versions, but I never saw mumming without it. The Silverton version is an extreme example of the continuous development of these unwritten dramas. Generation after generation, the most incongruous characters have been added. In some cases this is a very striking testimony to the strength of rural sympathy with the great deeds and heroes of the time, as well as to native talent for dramatic composition. Wellington and Wolfe almost eclipsed St. George in some parts of England, and the sea Heroes are naturally popular in Devonshire. The death of Nelson in the Silverton play has fine dramatic touches. Though he "has but one arm and a good one too," he essays to fight--whether Tippo Saib or St. George is not made clear. He falls, and St. George calls for the Doctor in the usual words. The Doctor ends his peculiar harangue with: "Britons! our Nelson is dead." To which a voice, which seems to play the part of Greek chorus, responds--"But he is not with the dead, but in the arms of the Living God!" Then, enter Collingwood-- "_Collingwood_--Here comes I, bold Collingwood, Who fought the French and boldly stood; And now the life of that bold Briton's gone, I'll put the crown of victory on"-- with which--"he takes the crown off Nelson's head and puts it on his own." I have, however, confined myself in "The Peace Egg" to those characters which have the warrant of considerable antiquity, and their number is not small. They can easily be reduced by cutting out one or two; or some of the minor characters could play more than one part, by making real exits and changing the dress, instead of the conventional exit into the background of the group. Some of these minor characters are not the least charming. The fair Sabra (who is often a mute) should be the youngest and prettiest little maid that can toddle through her part, and no old family brocade can be too gorgeous for her. The Pretty Page is another part for a "very little one," and his velvets and laces should become him. They contrast delightfully with Dame Dolly and Little Man Jack, and might, if needful, be played by the same performers. I have cut out everything that could possibly offend, except the line--"Take him and give him to the flies." It betrays an experience of Asiatic battlefields so terribly real, that I was unwilling to abolish this unconscious witness to the influence of Pilgrims and Crusaders on the Peace Egg. It is easily omitted. I have dismissed the Lord of Flies, Beelzebub, and (with some reluctance) "Little Devil Doubt" and his besom. I had a mind to have retained him as "The Demon of Doubt," for he plays in far higher dramas. His besom also seems to come from the East, where a figure "sweeping everything out" with a broom is the first vision produced in the crystal or liquid in the palm of a medium by the magicians of Egypt. Those who wish to do so can admit him at the very end, after the sword dance, very black, and with a besom, a money-box, and the following doggrel: In come I, the Demon of Doubt, If you don't give me money I'll sweep you all out; Money I want and money I crave, Money I want and money I'll have. He is not a taking character--unless to the antiquary! I have substituted the last line for the less decorous original, "If you don't give me money, I'll sweep you all to the grave." It is perhaps only the antiquary who will detect the connection between the Milk Pail and the Wassail Cup in the Fool's Song. But it seems at one time to have been made of milk. In a play of the 16th century it is described as-- "Wassayle, wassayle, out of the mylke payle; Wassayle, wassayle, as white as my nayle," and Selden calls it "a slabby stuff," which sounds as if it had got mixed up with frumenty. Since the above went to press, I have received some extracts from the unwritten version of "Peace Egg" in the West Riding of Yorkshire to which I have alluded. They recall to me that the piece properly opens with a "mumming round," different to the one I have given, _that_ one belonging to the end. The first Mumming Song rehearses each character and his exploits. The hero of the verse which describes him singing (autobiographically!) his own doughty deeds in the third person. Thus St. George begins; I give it in the vernacular. "The first to coom in is the Champion bould, The Champion bould is he, He never fought battle i' all his loife toim, But he made his bould enemy flee, flee, flee, He made his bould enemy flee." The beauty of this song is the precision with which each character enters and joins the slowly increasing circle. But that is its only merit. It is wretched doggrel, and would make the play far too tedious. I was, however, interested by this verse:-- The next to come in is the Cat and Calftail, The Cat and Calftail is he; He'll beg and he'll borrow, and he'll steal all he can, But he'll never pay back one penny, penny, He'll never pay back one penny. Whether "Cat and Calftail" is a corruption of Captain Calftail or (more likely) Captain Calftail was evolved from a Fool in Calf's hide and Cat's skins, it is hard to say. They are evidently one and the same shabby personage! The song which I have placed at the head of the Peace Egg Play has other verses which also recite "the argument" of the piece, but not one is worth recording. A third song does not, I feel sure, belong to the classic versions, but to another "rude and vulgar" one, which I have not seen for some years, and which was played in a dialect dark, even to those who flattered themselves that they were to the manner born. In it St. George and the Old Fool wrangle, the O.F. accusing the Patron Saint of England of stealing clothes hung out to dry on the hedges. St. George, who has previously boasted-- I've travelled this world all round, And hope to do it again, I was once put out of my way By a hundred and forty men-- --indignantly denies the theft, and adds that, on the contrary, he has always sent home money to his old mother. To which the Old Fool contemptuously responds-- All the relations thou had were few, Thou had an Old Granny I knew, She went a red-cabbage selling, As a many old people do. In either this, or another, rough version, the hero (presumably St. George) takes counsel with Man Jack on his love affairs. Man Jack is played by a small boy in a very tall beaver hat, and with his face blacked. "My Man Jack, what can the matter be? That I should luv this lady, and she will not luv me." ST. GEORGE and MAN JACK. No, nor nayther will she walk {with me {with thee. No, nor nayther will she talk {with me {with thee. But the true "Peace Egg," if _bludgy_, is essentially a heroic play, and I think the readers of _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ will be content that I have omitted accretions which are not the less vulgar because they are old. In refining and welding the piece together, I have introduced thirty lines of my own, in various places. The rest is genuine. J. H. E. THE PEACE EGG. A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY. _Written expressly for all Mummers, to commemorate the Holy Wars, and the happy Festival of Christmas._ DRAMATIS PERSON�. ST. GEORGE OF ENGLAND (_he must wear a rose_). ST. ANDREW OF SCOTLAND(_he must wear a thistle_). ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND(_he must wear the shamrock_). ST. DAVID OF WALES(_he must wear a leek_). SALADIN, A PAGAN GIANT OF PALESTINE(_a very tall grown-up actor would be effective_). THE KING OF EGYPT(_in a turban and crown_). THE PRINCE OF PARADINE, HIS SON(_face blacked, and it is_ "tradition" _to play this part in weeds, as if he were Hamlet_). THE TURKISH KNIGHT(_Eastern costume_). HECTOR. THE VALIANT SLASHER (_old yeomanry coat, &c., is effective_). THE DRAGON(_a paste-board head, with horrid jaws, if possible. A tail, and paws with claws_). THE FOOL(_Motley: with a bauble long enough to put over his shoulder and be held by the one behind in the mumming circle_). OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS(_white beard, &c., and a staff_). THE DOCTOR(_wig, spectacles, hat and cane_). THE LITTLE PAGE(_pretty little boy in velvet, &c_.). LITTLE MAN JACK(_big mask head, if convenient, short cloak and club_). PRINCESS SABRA(_pretty little girl, gorgeously dressed, a crown_). DAME DOLLY(_a large mask head, if possible, and a very amazing cap. Dame Dolly should bob curtseys and dance about_). No scenery is required. The actors, as a rule, all come in together. To "enter" means to stand forth, and "exit" that the actor retires into the background. But the following method will be found most effective. Let Fool enter alone, and the rest come in one by one when the Fool begins to sing. They must march in to the music, and join the circle with regularity. Each actor as he "brags," and gives his challenge, does so marching up and down, his drawn sword over his shoulder. All the characters take part in the "Mumming Round." The next to Fair Sabra might hold up her train, and if Dame Dolly had a Gamp umbrella to put over _her_ shoulder, it would not detract from her comic charms. The Trumpet Calls for the four Patron Knights should be appropriate to each. If a Trumpet is quite impossible, some one should play a national air as each champion enters. _Enter_ FOOL. FOOL. Good morrow, friends and neighbours dear, We are right glad to meet you here, Christmas comes but once a year, But when it comes it brings good cheer, And when it's gone it's no longer near. May luck attend the milking-pail, Yule logs and cakes in plenty be, May each blow of the thrashing-flail Produce good frumenty. And let the Wassail Cup abound, Whene'er the mummers' time comes round. _Air, "Le Petit Tambour._" _Sings._ Now all ye jolly mummers Who mum in Christmas time, Come join with me in chorus, Come join with me in rhyme. [_He has laid his bauble, over his shoulder, and it is taken by_ ST. GEORGE, _who is followed by all the other actors, each laying his sword over his right shoulder and his left hand on the sword-point in front of him, and all marking time with their feet till the circle is complete, when they march round singing the chorus over and over again._] _Chorus._ And a mumming we will go, will go, And a mumming we will go, With a bright cockade in all our hats, we'll go with a gallant show. [_Disperse, and stand aside._] [_Enter_ FATHER CHRISTMAS.] FATHER CHRISTMAS Here comes I, old Father Christmas; Welcome, or welcome not, I hope poor old Father Christmas Will never be forgot! My head is white, my back is bent, My knees are weak, my strength is spent. Eighteen hundred and eighty-three Is a very great age for me. And if I'd been growing all these years What a monster I should be! Now I have but a short time to stay, And if you don't believe what I say-- Come in, Dame Dolly, and clear the way. [_Enter_ DAME DOLLY.] DAME DOLLY. Here comes I, little Dame Dolly, Wearing smart caps in all my folly. If any gentleman takes my whim, I'll set my holiday cap at him. To laugh at my cap would be very rude; I wish you well, and I won't intrude. Gentlemen now at the door do stand, They will walk in with drawn swords in hand, And if you don't believe what I say-- Let one Fool and four knights from the British Isles come in and clear the way! [_Enter_ FOOL_ and four Christian knights._] FOOL[_shaking his bells at intervals_]. Room, room, brave gallants, give us room to sport, For to this room we wish now to resort: Resort, and to repeat to you our merry rhyme, For remember, good sirs, that this is Christmas time. The time to make mince-pies doth now appear, So we are come to act our merriment in here. At the sounding of the trumpet, and beating of the drum, Make room, brave gentlemen, and let our actors come. We are the merry actors that traverse the street, We are the merry actors that fight for our meat, We are the merry actors that show pleasant play. Stand forth, St. George, thou champion, and clear the way. [_Trumpet sounds for_ ST. GEORGE.] [ST. GEORGE _stands forth and walks up and down with sword on shoulder._] ST. GEORGE. I am St. George, from good Old England sprung, My famous name throughout the world hath rung, Many bloody deeds and wonders have I shown, And made false tyrants tremble on their throne. I followed a fair lady to a giant's gate, Confined in dungeon deep to meet her fate. Then I resolved with true knight-errantry To burst the door, and set the captive free. Far have I roamed, oft have I fought, and little do I rest; All my delight is to defend the right, and succour the opprest. And now I'll slay the Dragon bold, my wonders to begin; A fell and fiery Dragon he, but I will clip his wing. I'll clip his wings, he shall not fly, I'll rid the land of him, or else I'll die. [_Enter_ THE DRAGON, _with a sword over his shoulder._] DRAGON. Who is it seeks the Dragon's blood, And calls so angry and so loud? That English dog who looks so proud-- If I could catch him in my claw-- With my long teeth and horrid jaw, Of such I'd break up half a score, To stay my appetite for more. Marrow from his bones I'd squeeze, And suck his blood up by degrees. [ST. GEORGE _and_ THE DRAGON _fight_. THE DRAGON_ is killed_. _Exit_ DRAGON.] ST. GEORGE. I am St. George, that worthy champion bold, And with my sword and spear I won three crowns of gold. I fought the fiery Dragon and brought him to the slaughter, By which behaviour I won the favour of the King of Egypt's daughter. Thus I have gained fair Sabra's hand, who long had won her heart. Stand forth, Egyptian Princess, and boldly act thy part! [_Enter_ THE PRINCESS SABRA.] SABRA. I am the Princess Sabra, and it is my delight, My chiefest pride, to be the bride of this gallant Christian knight. [ST. GEORGE _kneels and kisses her hand_. FOOL _advances and holds up his hands over them._] FOOL. Why here's a sight will do any honest man's heart good, To see the Dragon-slayer thus subdued! [ST. GEORGE _rises_. _Exit_ SABRA.] ST. GEORGE. Keep thy jests in thy pocket if thou would'st keep thy head on thy shoulders. I love a woman, and a woman loves me, And when I want a fool I'll send for thee. If there is any man but me Who noxious beasts can tame, Let him stand forth in this gracious company, And boldly tell his name. [ST. GEORGE _stands aside_. _Trumpet sounds for_ ST. PATRICK.] [ST. PATRICK _stands forth._] ST. PATRICK. I am St. Patrick from the bogs, This truth I fain would learn ye, I banished serpents, toads, and frogs, From beautiful Hibernia. I flourished my shillelah And the reptiles all ran races, And they took their way into the sea, And they've never since shown their faces. [_Enter_ THE PRINCE OF PARADINE.] PRINCE. I am black Prince of Paradine, born of high renown, Soon will I fetch thy lofty courage down. Cry grace, thou Irish conqueror of toads and frogs, Give me thy sword, or else I'll give thy carcase to the dogs. ST. PATRICK. Now, Prince of Paradine, where have you been? And what fine sights pray have you seen? Dost think that no man of thy age Dares such a black as thee engage? Stand off, thou black Morocco dog, or by my sword thou'lt die, I'll pierce thy body full of holes, and make thy buttons fly. [_They fight._ THE PRINCE OF PARADINE _is slain._] ST. PATRICK. Now Prince of Paradine is dead, And all his joys entirely fled, Take him and give him to the flies. That he may never more come near my eyes. [_Enter_ KING OF EGYPT.] KING. I am the King of Egypt, as plainly doth appear; I am come to seek my son, my only son and heir. ST. PATRICK. He's slain! That's the worst of it. KING. Who did him slay, who did him kill, And on the ground his precious blood did spill? ST. PATRICK. I did him slay, I did him kill, And on the ground his precious blood did spill. Please you, my liege, my honour to maintain, As I have done, so would I do again. KING. Cursed Christian! What is this thou hast done? Thou hast ruined me, slaying my only son. ST. PATRICK. He gave me the challenge. Why should I him deny? How low he lies who held himself so high! KING. Oh! Hector! Hector! help me with speed, For in my life I ne'er stood more in need. [_Enter_ HECTOR.] KING. Stand not there, Hector, with sword in hand, But fight and kill at my command. HECTOR. Yes, yes, my liege, I will obey, And by my sword I hope to win the day. If that be he who doth stand there That slew my master's son and heir, Though he be sprung from royal blood I'll make it run like ocean flood. [_They fight._ HECTOR _is wounded._] I am a valiant hero, and Hector is my name, Many bloody battles have I fought, and always won the same, But from St. Patrick I received this deadly wound. [_Trumpet sounds for_ ST. ANDREW.] Hark, hark, I hear the silver trumpet sound, It summons me from off this bloody ground. Down yonder is the way (_pointing_); Farewell, farewell, I can no longer stay. [_Exit_ HECTOR.] [_Enter_ ST. ANDREW.] KING. Is there never a doctor to be found Can cure my son of his deep and deadly wound? [_Enter_ DOCTOR.] DOCTOR. Yes, yes, there is a doctor to be found Can cure your son of his deep and deadly wound. KING. What's your fee? DOCTOR. Five pounds and a yule cake to thee. I have a little bottle of Elacampane, It goes by the name of virtue and fame, That will make this worthy champion to rise and fight again. [_To_ PRINCE.] Here, sir, take a little of my flip-flop, Pour it on thy tip-top. [_To audience, bowing._] Ladies and Gentlemen can have my advice gratis. [_Exeunt_ KING OF EGYPT, PRINCE OF PARADINE, _and_ DOCTOR.] [ST. ANDREW _stands forth._] ST. ANDREW. I am St. Andrew from the North, Men from that part are men of worth; To travel south we're nothing loth, And treat you fairly, by my troth. Here comes a man looks ready for a fray. Come in, come in, bold soldier, and bravely clear the way. [_Enter_ SLASHER.] SLASHER. I am a valiant soldier, and Slasher is my name, With sword and buckler by my side, I hope to win more fame; And for to fight with me I see thou art not able, So with my trusty broadsword I soon will thee disable. ST. ANDREW. Disable, disable? It lies not in thy power, For with a broader sword than thine I soon will thee devour. Stand off, Slasher, let no more be said, For if I draw my broadsword, I'm sure to break thy head. SLASHER. How canst thou break my head? Since my head is made of iron; My body made of steel; My hands and feet of knuckle-bone. I challenge thee to feel. [_They fight, and_ SLASHER _is wounded._] [FOOL _advances to_ SLASHER.] FOOL. Alas, alas, my chiefest son is slain! What must I do to raise him up again? Here he lies before you all, I'll presently for a doctor call. A doctor! A doctor! I'll go and fetch a doctor. DOCTOR. Here am I. FOOL. Are you the doctor? DOCTOR. That thou may plainly see, by my art and activity. FOOL. What's your fee to cure this poor man? DOCTOR. Five pounds is my fee; but, Jack, as thou art a fool, I'll only take ten from thee. FOOL. You'll be a clever doctor if you get any. [_Aside._] Well, how far have you travelled in doctorship? DOCTOR. From the front door to the cupboard, Cupboard to fireplace, fireplace up-stairs and into bed. FOOL. So far, and no farther? DOCTOR. Yes, yes, much farther. FOOL. How far? DOCTOR. Through England, Ireland, Scotland, Flanders, France, and Spain, And now am returned to cure the diseases of Old England again. FOOL. What can you cure? DOCTOR. All complaints within and without, From a cold in your head to a touch of the gout. If any lady's figure is awry I'll make her very fitting to pass by. I'll give a coward a heart if he be willing, Will make him stand without fear of killing. Ribs, legs, or arms, whate'er you break, be sure Of one or all I'll make a perfect cure. Nay, more than this by far, I will maintain, If you should lose your head or heart, I'll give it you again. Then here's a doctor rare, who travels much at home, So take my pills, I'll cure all ills, past, present, or to come. I in my time many thousands have directed, And likewise have as many more dissected, And I never met a gravedigger who to me objected. If a man gets nineteen bees in his bonnet, I'll cast twenty of 'em out. I've got in my pocket crutches for lame ducks, spectacles for blind bumble-bees, pack-saddles and panniers for grasshoppers, and many other needful things. Surely I can cure this poor man. Here, Slasher, take a little out of my bottle, and let it run down thy throttle; and if thou beest not quite slain, rise, man, and fight again. [SLASHER _rises._] SLASHER. Oh, my back! FOOL. What's amiss with thy back? SLASHER. My back is wounded, And my heart is confounded; To be struck out of seven senses into fourscore, The like was never seen in Old England before. [_Trumpet sounds for_ ST. DAVID.] Oh, hark! I hear the silver trumpet sound! It summons me from off this bloody ground. Down yonder is the way (_points_); Farewell, farewell, I can no longer stay. [_Exit_ SLASHER.] FOOL. Yes, Slasher, thou hadst better go, Else the next time he'll pierce thee through. [ST. DAVID _stands forth._] ST. DAVID. Of Taffy's Land I'm Patron Saint. Oh yes, indeed, I'll you acquaint, Of Ancient Britons I've a race Dare meet a foeman face to face. For Welshmen (hear it once again;) Were born before all other men. I'll fear no man in fight or freaks, Whilst Wales produces cheese and leeks. [_Enter_ TURKISH KNIGHT.] TURKISH KNIGHT. Here comes I, the Turkish Knight, Come from the Turkish land to fight. I'll take St. David for my foe, And make him yield before I go; He brags to such a high degree, He thinks there was never a Knight but he. So draw thy sword, St. David, thou man of courage bold, If thy Welsh blood is hot, soon will I fetch it cold. ST. DAVID. Where is the Turk that will before me stand? I'll cut him down with my courageous hand. TURKISH KNIGHT. Draw out thy sword and slay, Pull out thy purse and pay, For satisfaction I will have, before I go away. [_They fight_. THE TURKISH KNIGHT _is wounded, and falls on one knee._] Quarter! quarter! good Christian, grace of thee I crave, Oh, pardon me this night, and I will be thy slave. ST. DAVID. I keep no slaves, thou Turkish Knight. So rise thee up again, and try thy might. [_They fight again_. THE TURKISH KNIGHT _is slain._] [_Exit_ TURKISH KNIGHT.] [_Enter_ ST. GEORGE.] ST. GEORGE. I am the chief of all these valiant knights, We'll spill our heart's blood for Old England's rights. Old England's honour we will still maintain, We'll fight for Old England once and again. [_Flourishes his sword above his head and then lays it over his right shoulder._] I challenge all my country's foes. ST. PATRICK [_dealing with his sword in like manner, and then taking the point of_ ST. GEORGE'S _sword with his left hand_]. And I'll assist with mighty blows. ST. ANDREW [_acting like the other_]. And you shall find me ready too. ST. DAVID [_the same_]. And who but I so well as you. FOOL [_imitates the Knights, and they close the circle and go round_]. While we are joined in heart and hand, A gallant and courageous band, If e'er a foe dares look awry, We'll one and all poke out his eye. [_Enter_ SALADIN.] SALADIN. Don't vaunt thus, my courageous knights, For I, as you, have seen some sights In Palestine, in days of yore. 'Gainst prowess strong I bravely bore The sway, when all the world in arms Shook Holy Land with war's alarms. I for the crescent, you the cross, Each mighty host oft won and lost. I many a thousand men did slay, And ate two hundred twice a day, And now I come, a giant great, Just waiting for another meat. ST. GEORGE. Oh! Saladin! Art thou come with sword in hand, Against St. George and Christendom so rashly to withstand? SALADIN. Yes, yes, St. George, with thee I mean to fight, And with one blow, I'll let thee know I am not the Turkish Knight. ST. GEORGE. Ah, Saladin, St. George is in this very room, Thou'rt come this unlucky hour to seek thy fatal doom. [_Enter_ LITTLE PAGE.] LITTLE PAGE. Hold, hold, St. George, I pray thee stand by, I'll conquer him, or else I'll die; Long with that Pagan champion will I engage, Although I am but the Little Page. ST. GEORGE. Fight on, my little page, and conquer! And don't thee be perplext, For if thou discourage in the field, Fight him will I next. [_They fight._ THE LITTLE PAGE _falls._] SALADIN. Though but a little man, they were great words he said. ST. GEORGE. Ah! cruel monster. What havoc hast thou made? See where the lovely stripling all on the floor is laid. A doctor! A doctor! Ten pounds for a doctor! [DAME DOLLY _dances forward, bobbing as before._] DAME DOLLY. Here comes I, little Dame Dorothy, Flap front, and good-morrow to ye; My head is big, my body is small, I'm the prettiest little jade of you all. Call not the Doctor for to make him worse, But give the boy into my hand to nurse. [_To_ LITTLE PAGE.] Rise up, my pretty page, and come with me, And by kindness and kitchen physic, I'll cure thee without fee. [PAGE _rises. Exeunt_ PAGE _and_ DAME DOLLY.] [ST. GEORGE _and_ SALADIN _fight_. Saladin _is slain._] [_Enter_ FATHER CHRISTMAS.] ST. GEORGE. Carry away the dead, Father. FATHER CHRISTMAS. Let's see whether he's dead or no, first, Georgy. Yes; I think he's dead enough, Georgy. ST. GEORGE. Carry him away then, Father. FATHER CHRISTMAS [_vainly tries to move the_ GIANT'S _body_]. Thou killed him; thou carry him away. ST. GEORGE. If you can't carry him, call for help. FATHER CHRISTMAS [_to audience_]. Three or four of you great logger-headed fellows, Come and carry him away. [DOCTOR _and_ FOOL _raise the_ GIANT _by his arms. Exit_ GIANT.] [_Enter_ LITTLE MAN JACK.] LITTLE MAN JACK. Here comes I, Little Man Jack, The Master of Giants; If I could but conquer thee, St. George, I'd bid the world defiance. ST. GEORGE. And if thou beest Little Man Jack, the Master of all Giants, I'll take thee up on my back, and carry thee without violence. [_Lifts him over his shoulder._] FOOL. Now brave St. George, he rules the roast; Britons triumphant be the toast; Let cheerful song and dance abound, Whene'er the Mummers' time comes round. [_All sing._] Rule, Britannia; Britannia rules the waves, Britons never, never, never will be slaves. GRAND SWORD DANCE. Cut 1 and cross. Cut 2 and cross partner (which is R. and L.). Same back again. The two Knights at opposite corners R. H. Cut 1 and cross, and Cut 2 with opposite Knights. Same back (which is Ladies' Chain). Four sword-points up in the centre. All go round--all Cut 6--and come to bridle-arm protect, and round to places. Repeat the first figure. [_All go round, and then out, singing._] [Illustration: Musical Score] _Allegro_, And a mumming we will go, will go, and a mumming we will go, With a bright cock-ade in all our hats, We'll go with a gal-lant show. [_Exeunt omnes._] GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. HINTS FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS. HINTS FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS.--I. IN A LETTER FROM BURNT CORK TO ROUGE POT. MY DEAR ROUGE POT,--You say that you all want to have "theatricals" these holidays, and beg me to give you some useful rules and hints to study before the Christmas Play comes out in the December Number of _Aunt Judy_. I will do my best. But--to begin with--_do_ you "all" want them? At least, do you all want them enough to keep in the same mind for ten days or a fortnight, to take a good deal of trouble, whether it is pleasant or not, and to give up some time and some of your own way, in order that the theatricals may be successful? If you say Yes, we will proceed at once to the first--and perhaps the most important--point, on which you will have to display two of an actor's greatest virtues--self-denial and good temper:-- THE STAGE-MANAGER. If your numbers are limited, you may have to choose the one who knows most about theatricals, and he or she may have to act a leading part as well. But by rights _the stage-manager ought not to act_; especially as in juvenile theatricals he will probably be prompter, property-man, and scene-shifter into the bargain. If your "company" consists of very young performers, an elder sister is probably the best stage-manager you could have. But _when once your stage-manager is chosen, all the actors must make up their minds to obey him implicitly_. They must take the parts he gives them, and about any point in dispute the stage-manager's decision must be final. It is quite likely that now and then he may be wrong. The leading gentleman may be more in the right, the leading lady may have another plan quite as good, or better; but as there would be "no end to it" if everybody's ideas had to be listened to and discussed, it is absolutely necessary that there should be one head, and one plan loyally supported by the rest. Truism as it is, my dear Rouge Pot, I am bound to beg you never to forget that _everybody can't have everything_ in this world, and that _everybody can't be everything_ on the stage. What you (and I, and every other actor!) would really like, would be to choose the play, to act the best part, to wear the nicest dress, to pick the people you want to act with, to have the rehearsal on those days, and that part of the day, when you do not happen to want to go out, or do something else, to have the power of making all the others do as you tell them, without the bother of hearing any grumbles, and to be well clapped and complimented at the conclusion of the performance. But as this very leading part could only be played by one person at the expense of all the rest, private theatricals--like so many other affairs of this life--must for everybody concerned be a compromise of pains and pleasures, of making strict rules and large allowances, of giving and taking, bearing and forbearing, learning to find one's own happiness in seeing other people happy, aiming at perfection with all one's might, and making the best of imperfection in the end. At this point, I foresee that you will very naturally exclaim that you asked me for stage-directions, and that I am sending you a sermon. I am very sorry; but the truth really is, that as the best of plays and the cleverest of actors will not ensure success, if the actors quarrel about the parts, and are unwilling to suppress themselves for the common good, one is obliged to set out with a good stock of philosophy as well as of "properties." Now, in case it should strike you as "unfair" that any one of your party should have so much of his own way as I have given to the stage-manager, you must let me say that no one has more need of philosophy than that all-powerful person. _The stage-manager will have his own way, but he will have nothing else._ He will certainly have "no peace" from the first cry of "Let us have some private theatricals" till the day when the performance ceases to be discussed. If there are ten actors, it is quite possible that ten different plays will be warmly recommended to him, and that, whichever he selects, he will choose it against the gloomy forebodings of nine members of his company. Nine actors will feel a natural disappointment at not having the best part, and as it is obviously impossible to fix rehearsals so as to be equally convenient for everybody, the stage-manager, whose duty it is to fix them, will be very fortunate if he suits the convenience of the majority. You will easily believe that it is his painful duty to insist upon regular attendance, and even to enforce it by fines or by expulsion from the part, if such stringent laws have been agreed to by the company beforehand. But at the end he will have to bear in mind that private theatricals are an amusement, not a business; that it is said to be a pity to "make a toil of a pleasure"; that "boys will be boys"; that "Christmas comes but once a year," and holidays not much oftener--and in a general way to console himself for the absence of defaulters, with the proverbial philosophy of everyday life, and the more reliable panacea of resolute good temper. He must (without a thought of self) do his best to give the right parts to the right people, and he must try to combine a proper "cast" with pleasing everybody--so far as that impossible task is possible! He must not only be ready to meet his own difficulties with each separate actor, but he must be prepared to be confidant, if not umpire, in all the squabbles which the actors and actresses may have among themselves. If the performance is a great success, the actors will have the credit of it, and will probably be receiving compliments amongst the audience whilst the stage-manager is blowing out the guttering footlights, or showing the youngest performer how to get the paint off his cheeks, without taking the skin off into the bargain. And if the performance is a failure, nine of the performers will have nine separate sets of proofs that it was due to the stage-manager's unfortunate selection of the piece, or mistaken judgment as to the characters. He will, however, have the satisfaction (and when one has a head to plan and a heart in one's work, it _is_ a satisfaction) of carrying through the thing in his own way, and sooner or later, and here and there, he will find some people who know the difficulties of his position, and will give him ample credit and _kudos_ if he keeps his company in good humour, and carries out his plans without a breakdown. By this time, my dear Rouge Pot, you will see that the stage-manager, like all rulers, pays dearly for his power; but it is to be hoped that the difficulties inseparable from his office will not be wilfully increased by THE ACTORS. They are a touchy race at any time. Amateur actors are said to have--one and all--a belief that each and every one can play any part of any kind. Shakespeare found that some of them thought they could play _every_ part also! But besides this general error, each actor has his own peculiarities, which the stage-manager ought to acquaint himself with as soon as possible. It is a painful fact that there are some people who "come forward" readily, do not seem at all nervous, are willing to play anything, and are either well provided with anecdotes of previous successes, or quite amazingly ready for leading parts, though they "never tried acting," and are only "quite sure they shall like it"--but who, when the time comes, fail completely. I fear that there is absolutely nothing to be done with such actors, but to avoid them for the future. On the other hand, there are many people who are nervous and awkward at first, and even more or less so through every rehearsal, but who _do not fail at the pinch_. Once fairly in their clothes, and pledged to their parts, they forget themselves in the sense of what they have undertaken, and their courage is stimulated by the crisis. Their knees may shake, but their minds see no alternative but to do their best, and the best, with characters of this conscientious type, is seldom bad. It is quite true, also, that some actors are never at their best till they are dressed, and that some others can put off learning their parts till the last moment, and then "study" them at a push, and acquit themselves creditably in the play. _But these peculiarities are no excuse for neglecting rehearsals, or for not learning parts, or for rehearsing in a slovenly manner._ _Actors should never forget that rehearsals are not only for the benefit of each actor individually, but also of all the characters of the piece as a whole._ A. and B. may be able to learn their parts in a day, and to act fairly under the inspiration of the moment, but if they neglect rehearsals on this account, they deal very selfishly by C. and D., who have not the same facility, and who rehearse at great disadvantage if the other parts are not properly represented too. And now a word or two to the actors of the small parts. It _is_ a disappointment to find yourself "cast" for a footman, with no more to do than to announce and usher in the principal personages of the piece, when you feel a strong (and perhaps well-grounded) conviction that you would have "made a hit" as the Prince in blank verse and blue velvet. Well! one must fall back on one's principles. Be loyal to the stage-manager. Help the piece through, whether it is or is not a pleasure and a triumph for you yourself. Set an example of willingness and good-humour. If to these first principles you add the amiable quality of finding pleasure in the happiness of others, you will be partly consoled for not playing the Prince yourself by sympathizing with Jack's unfeigned pride in his part and his finery, and if Jack has a heart under his velvet doublet, he will not forget your generosity. It may also be laid down as an axiom that _a good actor will take a pride in making the most of a small part_. There are many plays in which small parts have been raised to the rank of principal ones by the spirit put into them by a good actor, who "made" his part instead of grumbling at it. And the credit gained by a triumph of this kind is very often even beyond the actor's deserts. _From those who play the principal parts much is expected, and it is difficult to satisfy ones audience, but if any secondary character is made pathetic or amusing, the audience (having expected nothing) are willing to believe that if the actor can surprise them with a small part, he would take the house by storm with a big one._ I will conclude my letter with a few general rules for young actors. _Say nothing whatever on the stage but your part._ This is a rule for rehearsals, and if it could be attended to, every rehearsal would have more than double its usual effect. People chatter from nervousness, explain or apologize for their mistakes, and waste quite three-fourths of the time in words which are not in the piece. _Speak very slowly and very clearly._ All young actors speak too fast, and do not allow the audience time to digest each sentence. _Speak louder than usual, but clearness of enunciation is even more important. Do not be slovenly with the muscles of the lips, or talk from behind shut teeth._ _Keep your face to the audience as a rule._ If two people talking together have to cross each other so as to change their places on the stage, _the one who has just spoken should cross before the one who is going to speak_. _Learn to stand still._ As a rule, _do not speak when you are crossing the stage_, but cross first and then speak. _Let the last speaker get his sentence well out before you begin yours._ If you are a comic actor, _don't run away with the piece by over-doing your fun. Never spoil another actor's points by trying to make the audience laugh whilst he is speaking._ It is inexcusably bad stage-manners. If the audience applauds, _wait till the noise of the clapping is over to finish your speech_. _Rehearse without your book in the last rehearsals_, so as to get into the way of hearing the prompter, and catching the word from him when your memory fails you. _Practise your part before a looking-glass, and say it out aloud._ A part may be pat in your head, and very stiff on your tongue. The Green-room is generally a scene of great confusion in private theatricals. Besides getting everything belonging to your dress together _yourself_ and in _good time_, I advise you to have _a little hand-basket_, such as you may have used at the seaside or in the garden, and into this to put _pins_, _hair-pins_, _a burnt cork_, _needles and thread_, _a pair of scissors_, _a pencil_, _your part_, _and any small things you may require_. It is easy to drop them into the basket again. Small things get mislaid under bigger ones when one is dressing in a hurry; and a hero who is flustered by his moustache having fallen under the washstand well out of sight is apt to forget his part when he has found the moustache. Remember that _Right and Left in stage directions mean the right and left hand of the actor as he faces the audience_. I will not burden you with any further advice for yourself, and I will reserve a few hints as to rough and ready scenery, properties, &c., for another letter. Meanwhile--whatever else you omit--get your parts well by rote; and if you cannot find or spare a stage-manager, you must find good-humour and common agreement in proportion; prompt by turns, and each look strictly after his own "properties." Yours, &c., BURNT CORK. HINTS FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS.--II. MY DEAR ROUGE POT,--I promised to say a few words about _rough and ready properties_. The most indispensable of all is _the curtain_, which can be made (at small expense) to roll up and come down in orthodox fashion. Even better are two curtains, with the rings and strings so arranged that the curtains can be pulled apart or together by some one in the wings. Any upholsterer will do this. A double drawing-room with folding doors is of course "made for theatricals." The difficulty of having only one exit from the stage--the door of the room--may be met by having a screen on the other side. But then _the actors who go out behind the screen, must be those who will not have to come in again till the curtain has been drawn_. If, however, the room, or part of a room, devoted to the stage is large enough for an amateur proscenium, with "wings" at the sides, and space behind the "scenes" to conceal the actors, and enable them to go round, of course there can be as many exits as are needed. A proscenium is quite a possibility. _The framework in which the curtain falls need not be an expensive or complicated concern._ Two wooden uprights, firmly fastened to the floor by bolt and socket, each upright being four or five feet from the wall on either side; a cross-bar resting on the top, but the whole width of the room, to which (if it draws up) the curtain is to be nailed; a curtain, with a wooden pole in the hem at the bottom to steady it (like a window-blind); long, narrow, fixed curtains to fall from the cross-bar at each end where it projects beyond the uprights, so as to fill the space between each upright and the wall of the room, and hide the wings; some bright wall-paper border to fasten on to the uprights and cross-bar, as decoration;--these are not expensive matters, and the little carpentry needed could be done in a very short time by a village carpenter. And here, my dear Rouge Pot, I feel inclined to say a word to "Parents and Guardians." _I wish that a small annual outlay on little pleasures were oftener reckoned among legitimate expenses in middle-class British families._ But little pleasures and alms are apt to be left till they are asked for, and then grudged. Though, if the annual expenses under these two heads were summed up at the end of the year, we should perhaps be more inclined to blush than to bewail our extravagances. As to little pleasures, I am not speaking of toys and books and presents, of which children have commonly six times as many now-a-days as they can learn to love; nor do I mean such pleasures as the month at the seaside, which I should be sorry to describe as a light matter for papa's purse. But I mean little pleasures of the children's own devising, for which some trifling help from the elders will make all the difference between failure and success. In short, my dear Rouge Pot, at the present moment I mean the children's theatricals; and papa himself will confess that, whereas two or three pounds, "up or down," in the seaside move, would hardly be considered, and fifteen shillings "more or less" in the price of a new dining-room fender would upset nobody's nerves in the household--if "the children" asked for a day's work of the village carpenter, and seven and sixpence worth of wood, to carry out a project of their own, it would be considered a great waste of money. However, it is only fair to add that the young people themselves will do wisely to establish a "theatrical fund" box, which will not open, and to put in a fixed percentage of everybody's pocket-money to accumulate for some genuine properties when the theatrical season begins. The question of _scenery_ of course must depend on the resources of the company. But _acting may be very successful without any at all_. It must never be forgotten that _those who look and listen can also imagine_, and unless tolerably good scenes can be had, it is almost better to content oneself with what served in the days of Shakespeare--a written placard of what the scene is supposed to be. _Shakespeare scenery_, as we may call it, will amuse people of itself, and a good piece and good actors will not suffer from its use. Thus, if _The Barmecide_ is being played, Alnaschan and Ina will be "discovered" standing in an empty room, at the back of which a placard will bear this inscription in large letters--A STREET IN BAGDAD. It is possible, however, that your company may include some water-colour artist, who will try his or her hand at scene-painting in the barn. Well: he will want canvas or unbleached calico, which must be covered completely with a "first wash" of whitening and size, mixed to a freely working consistency, and laid on with a white-wash brush. When dry, he must outline his scene on this in charcoal. The painting is then to be done in distemper--all the effects are put in by the first wash; lights and shadows in their full tone, &c. He will use powder paints, mix them with size (which must be kept warm on a fire), and add white for body-colour when he wants to lay one colour over another. I will add four hints. _For a small stage avoid scenes with extreme perspective. Keep the general colouring rather sober, so as to harmonize with the actors' dresses. Only broad effects will show. Keep stepping back to judge your work from a distance._ In a wood, for instance, the distance may be largely blue and grey, and the foreground trees a good deal in warm browns and dull olive. _Paint by candle-light when convenient._ _All the lights in your theatre must be protected by glasses. The footlights should have reflectors behind them_, or a board about eighteen inches high with block-tin nailed on it. Failing this, a plain polished fender, in which candles or lamps can be placed, will serve. _There must also be sidelights_, or the footlights will cast shadows. _Long strips of coloured glass, in frames, can lie flat in front of the stage when not in use, and be raised up when wanted, between the footlights and the stage--blue for moonlight, yellow for sunshine, rose-colour for sunset scenes and fairy effects._ A shade may be quickly thrown up between the footlights and the stage, _on the same principle, if darkness is required. For thunder, shake a thin sheet of iron behind the scenes. Powdered resin or lycopodium thrown on to the flame of a candle from a quill_ is said to be effective as _lightning_. But any tricks with naked lights, in the confusion of private theatricals, are objectionable, and should never be used except by some grown-up person not among the actors. _For rain, shake parched peas in a box with irregular partitions. For a full moon, cut a round hole in your scene, cover it with some translucent material, and hold a lamp behind it_; the blue-glass shade must be up before the footlights. A similar hole, or, if low on the horizon, a half-moon-shaped one, with a crimson transparency, will do for a setting sun--then the rose-coloured glass will be required before the footlights. I have no further space just now, my dear Rouge Pot; but you may expect another letter from me on Scenery Screens, Properties and Costumes. Yours, &c., BURNT CORK. HINTS FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS.--III. MY DEAR ROUGE POT,--I promised to say something about _scenery screens_. If the house happens to boast a modern pseudo-Japanese screen of a large size (say six feet high), it will make a very pretty background for a drawing-room scene, and admit of entrances as I suggested. But _screens with light grounds are also very valuable as reflectors_, carrying the light into the back of the stage. There is generally a want of light on the amateur stage, and all means to remedy this defect and brighten up matters are worth considering. _Folding screens_ may be covered on both sides _with strips of lining wall-paper of delicate tints, pinned on with drawing-pins_. The paper can be left plain, or it may serve as the background on which to affix "Shakespeare Scenery." Or again, your amateur painter will find an easier and more effective reward for such labour as he will not grudge to bestow in the holidays, if, instead of attempting the ambitious task of scene-painting on canvas, he adorns these scenery screens with Japanese designs in water-colours. Bold and not too crowded combinations of butterflies and flamingoes, tortoises, dragons, water-reeds, flowers and ferns. He need not hesitate to employ Bessemer's gold and silver paints, with discretion, and the two sides of the screen can be done in different ways. The Japanesque side would make a good drawing-room background, and some other scene (such as a wood) might be indicated on the other with a nearer approach to real scene-painting. _These screens light up beautifully, and are well adapted for drawing-room theatricals._ In the common event of your requiring a bit of a cottage with a practicable door to be visible, it will be seen that two folds of a screen, painted with bricks and windows, may be made to do duty in no ill fashion as the two sides of a house, and with a movable porch (a valuable stage property) the entrance can be contrived just out of sight. _The stage will be brightened up by laying down a "crumb cloth," or covering it with holland._ A drawing-room scene is made very pretty _by hanging up pairs of the summer white muslin curtains, looped with gay ribbons, as if there were windows in the sides of the stage_. If a fireplace is wanted and will do at the side, a mantelpiece is easily represented, and a banner screen will help to conceal the absence of a grate. A showy specimen of that dreadful thing, a paper grate-ornament, flowing well down into the fender, may sometimes hide deficiencies. The appearance of _hot coals in a practicable grate_ is given by _irregularly-shaped pieces of red glass, through which light is thrown from a candle behind_. A very important part of your preparations will be _the dresses_. Now of dresses it may be said--as we have said of scenery--that if the actors are clever, very slight (if suggestive) accessories in the way of costume will suffice. At the same time, whilst the scenery can never be good enough in amateur theatricals to cover deficiencies in the performance, good costumes may be a most material help to the success of a piece. Very little wit is demanded from the young gentleman who plays the part of a monkey, if his felt coat is well made, and his monkey-mask comical, and if he has acquired some dexterity in the management of his tail. I think, my dear Rouge Pot, that you were taken to see that splendid exhibition of stage properties, _Babil and Bijou_? Do you remember the delightful effect of the tribe of oysters? The little boys who played the oysters had nothing to do but to hop and run, and keep their shells nicely in front of them, and yet how we laughed at them! Now, in a large family, such parts as these afford an opportunity for allowing "the little ones" to "act," and so to become accustomed to the stage, before they can be trusted to learn written parts. Nor are _comical costumes_ beyond the powers of home manufacturers. You know those men--sandwich-men as they are often called!--who go about the London streets with one board in front and one behind. These boards are of simple shape and only reach from the shoulder, to a little below the knee; they are only wanted to paste advertisements on. But if you think about it, you will see that to have the boards high enough to hide the head, and low enough to hide the legs, rounded at the top like a scallop shell, with the ribs of the shell nicely painted, eyeholes to peep through, and the hinge of the shell arranged to conceal the feet, would be no very great effort of skill. _Sandwich costumes for the little ones_ might be of many effective shapes. Thick paste-board would probably be strong enough for very little people, and in many cases a covered framework would be better still, and if you have a kite-maker in your troupe, you had better commit these costumes to his skill and ingenuity. A very simple device would be that of flower-pots painted red. They need come no higher than the chin, if a good thick bush is firmly held by the little hands behind, so as to conceal the face. But no doubt, my dear Rouge Pot, you will say, "if we have no plays with such characters in, we cannot have them, however desirable it may be to bring in the little ones." But I think you will find some of the elders ingenious enough to "tack them on" to your pieces if required, especially to those founded on fairy tales. _Glazed calico_ is the amateur costume-maker's best friend. It is cheap, it is shiny, and it can be had in all the most effective colours. I have never seen a very good green; but the turquoise blue, the pink, and the yellow, are of those pretty Dresden china shades which Mr. Marcus Ward and other Christmas-card makers use to such good purpose against gold backgrounds. Many of these Christmas cards, by the bye, with children dressed in ancient costumes painted by good artists, will give you and your sisters help in a tasteful combination of colours; and besides the gold and silver powder paints, which answer admirably, gold and silver paper can be had to cut stars and trimmings of various sorts from, to stitch or gum on to fairies' dresses, &c. Tarlatan can now be had in hues that almost rival the colours of flowers, but I fear that only the white can be had "fire-proof." Gauze wings, flowing hair, and tarlatan skirts, combined with the "flurry" of the performances, the confined space behind the scenes, and lights everywhere, form a dangerous combination which it makes one shudder to think of. The truth is, my dear Rouge Pot, it cannot be too often or too emphatically repeated that _naked lights on the stage or behind the scenes in amateur theatricals are as wrong as in a coal-mine_. Glass shades for the bedroom candles--with which boy-brothers, seeing imperfectly through masks, will rush past little sisters whose newly-crimped hair and tarlatan skirts are sticking out, they can't feel how far behind them--cost a few shillings, _and the mental effort of resolving to have and use them_. Depend upon it, Rouge Pot, the latter is the greater difficulty! And yet our petty economies in matters which affect our health, our daily comfort, or our lives, are wonderful, when the dangers or discomforts we have to avert may, _by chance_, be averted by good luck at no cost at all. So perhaps the few shillings have something to do with it. I hope they will always be expended on safety glasses for all lights in use on or about your stage. Well, glazed calico and tarlatan are very effective, and so is cotton velvet or velveteen; but in every family there will probably be found a few articles of finery originally made of expensive materials, but which are now yielded to the juvenile property-box, and from experience I can assure you that these are valuable treasures. I have a tender remembrance of a few which were our _pièces de résistance_ when we "dressed up" either for charades or one of Miss Corner's plays--"in my young days." A black satin dress--ancient, but of such lustre and softness as satins are not made now; a real camel's-hair burnous, dyed crimson; a green satin driving cloak, lined with fur--these things did not crush and tumble during their long periods of repose in the property-box, as tarlatan skirts and calico doublets were apt to do. Most valuable of all, a grey wig, worn right side foremost by our elderly gentlemen, and wrong side foremost (so as to bring the pig-tail curls over the forehead) by our elderly ladies. Fur gloves, which, with a black rabbit-skin mask over her rosy cheeks, gave ferocity in the part of "the Beast" to our jolliest little actress. A pair of claret-coloured stockings, silk throughout, and a pair of yellow leather slippers, embroidered with gold, doubtless bought long years back in some Eastern bazaar, &c., &c. There came a date in our theatrical history when only one pair of feet could get right into these much-desired shoes, heels and all; and as the individual who owned them was also supposed to display the claret-coloured stockings to the best advantage, both these important properties, with the part of Prince to which our custom assigned them, fell to an actor who could lay no other claim to pre-eminence. Surely your home will provide one or two of these "stand-bys" of the green-room, and you will not fail to value them, I assure you. I hope you will not fight for them! _Wigs are very important. Unbleached calico is a very fair imitation of the skin of one's head._ A skull-cap made of it will do for a bald pate, or, with a black pig-tail and judicious face-painting, will turn any smooth-faced actor into a very passable Chinaman. Flowing locks of tow, stitched on round the lower part, will convert it into a patriarchal wig. _Nigger wigs are made of curly black horsehair fastened on to a black skull-cap._ Moustaches and whiskers can be bought at small expense, but if well painted the effect is nearly as good. As to _face-painting_. Rouge is indispensable, but care must be taken not to overdo it. The eyebrows must be darkened with sepia or Indian ink, and a camel's-hair brush--especially for fair people. With the same materials you must deepen all the lines of the face, if you want to make a young person look like an old one. The cheek lines on each side of the nose, furrows across the forehead, and crow's-foot marks by the eyes, are required for an old face; but if the audience are to be very close to the stage, you must be careful not to overdo your painting. Violet powder is the simplest and least irritating white for the skin. Rouge should be laid on with a hare's foot. If your "old man" is wearing a bald wig, be careful to colour his forehead to match as well as possible with his bald pate. All these applications are more or less irritating to one's skin. It is said to be a mistake to _wash_ them off. Cold cream should be rubbed over the face, and then wiped off with a soft towel. As a parting hint, my dear Rouge Pot, when you have passed the stage of child-plays in rhyme--but do not be in a _hurry_ to discard such universal favourites as _Dick Whittington_, _Beauty and the Beast_, and _Cinderella_--don't be too ambitious in your selection from "grown-up" plays. As a matter of experience, when _we_ got beyond Miss Corner we took to farces, and found them very successful. There are many which play well in young hands, and only require the omission of a few coarse expressions, which, being intended to raise a laugh among "roughs" in the gallery of a public theatre, need hardly be hurled at the ears of one's private friends. I am bound to say that competent critics have told me that farces were about the most difficult things we could have attempted. I can only say that we found them answer. Partly, perhaps, because it requires a less high skill to raise a laugh than to move by passion or pathos. Partly, too, because farces are short, and amateurs can make no greater mistake than to weary their audience. If you prefer "dress pieces" and dramas to farces or burlesque, let some competent person curtail the one you choose to a suitable length. The manager of juvenile theatricals should never forget the wisdom embodied in Sam Weller's definition of the art of letter-writing, that the writer should stop short at such a point as that the reader should "wish there wos more of it." Yours, &c., BURNT CORK. SNAP-DRAGONS. SNAP-DRAGONS. A TALE OF CHRISTMAS EVE. MR. AND MRS. SKRATDJ. Once upon a time there lived a certain family of the name of Skratdj. (It has a Russian or Polish look, and yet they most certainly lived in England.) They were remarkable for the following peculiarity. They seldom seriously quarrelled, but they never agreed about anything. It is hard to say whether it were more painful for their friends to hear them constantly contradicting each other, or gratifying to discover that it "meant nothing," and was "only their way." It began with the father and mother. They were a worthy couple, and really attached to each other. But they had a habit of contradicting each other's statements, and opposing each other's opinions, which, though mutually understood and allowed for in private, was most trying to the bystanders in public. If one related an anecdote, the other would break in with half-a-dozen corrections of trivial details of no interest or importance to any one, the speakers included. For instance: Suppose the two dining in a strange house, and Mrs. Skratdj seated by the host, and contributing to the small-talk of the dinner-table. Thus:-- "Oh yes. Very changeable weather indeed. It looked quite promising yesterday morning in the town, but it began to rain at noon." "A quarter-past eleven, my dear," Mr. Skratdj's voice would be heard to say from several chairs down, in the corrective tones of a husband and a father; "and really, my dear, so far from being a promising morning, I must say it looked about as threatening as it well could. Your memory is not always accurate in small matters, my love." But Mrs. Skratdj had not been a wife and a mother for fifteen years, to be snuffed out at one snap of the marital snuffers. As Mr. Skratdj leaned forward in his chair, she leaned forward in hers, and defended herself across the intervening couples. "Why, my dear Mr. Skratdj, you said yourself the weather had not been so promising for a week." "What I said, my dear, pardon me, was that the barometer was higher than it had been for a week. But, as you might have observed if these details were in your line, my love, which they are not, the rise was extraordinarily rapid, and there is no surer sign of unsettled weather.--But Mrs. Skratdj is apt to forget these unimportant trifles," he added, with a comprehensive smile round the dinner-table; "her thoughts are very properly absorbed by the more important domestic questions of the nursery." "Now I think that's rather unfair on Mr. Skratdj's part," Mrs. Skratdj would chirp, with a smile quite as affable and as general as her husband's. "I'm sure he's _quite_ as forgetful and inaccurate as _I_ am. And I don't think _my_ memory is at _all_ a bad one." "You forgot the dinner hour when we were going out to dine last week, nevertheless," said Mr. Skratdj. "And you couldn't help me when I asked you," was the sprightly retort. "And I'm sure it's not like you to forget anything about _dinner_, my dear." "The letter was addressed to you," said Mr. Skratdj. "I sent it to you by Jemima," said Mrs. Skratdj. "I didn't read it," said Mr. Skratdj. "Well, you burnt it," said Mrs. Skratdj; "and, as I always say, there's nothing more foolish than burning a letter of invitation before the day, for one is certain to forget." "I've no doubt you always do say it," Mr. Skratdj remarked, with a smile, "but I certainly never remember to have heard the observation from your lips, my love." "Whose memory's in fault there?" asked Mrs. Skratdj triumphantly; and as at this point the ladies rose, Mrs. Skratdj had the last word. Indeed, as may be gathered from this conversation, Mrs. Skratdj was quite able to defend herself. When she was yet a bride, and young and timid, she used to collapse when Mr. Skratdj contradicted her statements and set her stories straight in public. Then she hardly ever opened her lips without disappearing under the domestic extinguisher. But in the course of fifteen years she had learned that Mr. Skratdj's bark was a great deal worse than his bite. (If, indeed, he had a bite at all.) Thus snubs that made other people's ears tingle, had no effect whatever on the lady to whom they were addressed, for she knew exactly what they were worth, and had by this time become fairly adept at snapping in return. In the days when she succumbed she was occasionally unhappy, but now she and her husband understood each other, and having agreed to differ, they unfortunately agreed also to differ in public. Indeed, it was the bystanders who had the worst of it on these occasions. To the worthy couple themselves the habit had become second nature, and in no way affected the friendly tenour of their domestic relations. They would interfere with each other's conversation, contradicting assertions, and disputing conclusions for a whole evening; and then, when all the world and his wife thought that these ceaseless sparks of bickering must blaze up into a flaming quarrel as soon as they were alone, they would bowl amicably home in a cab, criticizing the friends who were commenting upon them, and as little agreed about the events of the evening as about the details of any other events whatever. Yes, the bystanders certainly had the worst of it. Those who were near wished themselves anywhere else, especially when appealed to. Those who were at a distance did not mind so much. A domestic squabble at a certain distance is interesting, like an engagement viewed from a point beyond the range of guns. In such a position one may some day be placed oneself! Moreover, it gives a touch of excitement to a dull evening to be able to say _sotto voce_ to one's neighbour, "Do listen! The Skratdjs are at it again!" Their unmarried friends thought a terrible abyss of tyranny and aggravation must lie beneath it all, and blessed their stars that they were still single, and able to tell a tale their own way. The married ones had more idea of how it really was, and wished in the name of common sense and good taste that Skratdj and his wife would not make fools of themselves. So it went on, however; and so, I suppose, it goes on still, for not many bad habits are cured in middle age. On certain questions of comparative speaking their views were never identical. Such as the temperature being hot or cold, things being light or dark, the apple-tarts being sweet or sour. So one day Mr. Skratdj came into the room, rubbing his hands, and planting himself at the fire with "Bitterly cold it is to-day, to be sure." "Why, my dear William," said Mrs. Skratdj, "I'm sure you must have got a cold; I feel a fire quite oppressive myself." "You were wishing you'd a seal-skin jacket yesterday, when it wasn't half as cold as it is to-day," said Mr. Skratdj. "My dear William! Why, the children were shivering the whole day, and the wind was in the north." "Due east, Mrs. Skratdj." "I know by the smoke," said Mrs. Skratdj, softly but decidedly. "I fancy I can tell an east wind when I feel it," said Mr. Skratdj, jocosely, to the company. "I told Jemima to look at the weathercock," murmured Mrs. Skratdj. "I don't care a fig for Jemima," said her husband. On another occasion Mrs. Skratdj and a lady friend were conversing. ... "We met him at the Smiths'--a gentleman-like agreeable man, about forty," said Mrs. Skratdj, in reference to some matter interesting to both ladies. "Not a day over thirty-five," said Mr. Skratdj, from behind his newspaper. "Why, my dear William, his hair's grey," said Mrs. Skratdj. "Plenty of men are grey at thirty," said Mr. Skratdj. "I knew a man who was grey at twenty-five." "Well, forty or thirty-five, it doesn't much matter," said Mrs. Skratdj, about to resume her narration. "Five years matter a good deal to most people at thirty-five," said Mr. Skratdj, as he walked towards the door. "They would make a remarkable difference to me, I know;" and with a jocular air Mr. Skratdj departed, and Mrs. Skratdj had the rest of the anecdote her own way. THE LITTLE SKRATDJS. The Spirit of Contradiction finds a place in most nurseries, though to a varying degree in different ones. Children snap and snarl by nature, like young puppies; and most of us can remember taking part in some such spirited dialogues as the following:-- {"I will." {"You daren't." {"You can't." {"I dare." {"You shall." {"I'll tell Mamma." {"I won't." {"I don't care if you do." It is the part of wise parents to repress these squibs and crackers of juvenile contention, and to enforce that slowly-learned lesson, that in this world one must often "pass over" and "put up with" things in other people, being oneself by no means perfect. Also that it is a kindness, and almost a duty, to let people think and say and do things in their own way occasionally. But even if Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj had ever thought of teaching all this to their children, it must be confessed that the lesson would not have come with a good grace from either of them, since they snapped and snarled between themselves as much or more than their children in the nursery. The two eldest were the leaders in the nursery squabbles. Between these, a boy and a girl, a ceaseless war of words was waged from morning to night. And as neither of them lacked ready wit, and both were in constant practice, the art of snapping was cultivated by them to the highest pitch. It began at breakfast, if not sooner. "You've taken my chair." "It's not your chair." "You know it's the one I like, and it was in my place." "How do you know it was in your place?" "Never mind. I do know." "No, you don't." "Yes, I do." "Suppose I say it was in my place." "You can't, for it wasn't." "I can, if I like." "Well, was it?" "I sha'n't tell you." "Ah! that shows it wasn't." "No, it doesn't." "Yes, it does." Etc., etc., etc. The direction of their daily walks was a fruitful subject of difference of opinion. "Let's go on the Common to-day, Nurse." "Oh, don't let's go there; we're always going on the Common." "I'm sure we're not. We've not been there for ever so long." "Oh, what a story! We were there on Wednesday. Let's go down Gipsey Lane. We never go down Gipsey Lane." "Why, we're always going down Gipsey Lane. And there's nothing to see there." "I don't care, I won't go on the Common, and I shall go and get Papa to say we're to go down Gipsey Lane. I can run faster than you." "That's very sneaking; but I don't care." "Papa! Papa! Polly's called me a sneak." "No, I didn't, Papa." "You did." "No, I didn't. I only said it was sneaking of you to say you'd run faster than me, and get Papa to say we were to go down Gipsey Lane." "Then you did call him sneaking," said Mr. Skratdj. "And you're a very naughty ill-mannered little girl. You're getting very troublesome, Polly, and I shall have to send you to school, where you'll be kept in order. Go where your brother wishes at once." For Polly and her brother had reached an age when it was convenient, if possible, to throw the blame of all nursery differences on Polly. In families where domestic discipline is rather fractious than firm, there comes a stage when the girls almost invariably go to the wall, because they will stand snubbing, and the boys will not. Domestic authority, like some other powers, is apt to be magnified on the weaker class. But Mr. Skratdj would not always listen even to Harry. "If you don't give it me back directly, I'll tell about your eating the two magnum-bonums in the kitchen garden on Sunday," said Master Harry on one occasion. "Tell-tale tit! Your tongue shall be slit, And every dog in the town shall have a little bit," quoted his sister. "Ah! You've called me a tell-tale. Now I'll go and tell Papa. You got into a fine scrape for calling me names the other day." "Go, then! I don't care." "You wouldn't like me to go, I know." "You daren't. That's what it is." "I dare." "Then why don't you?" "Oh, I am going; but you'll see what will be the end of it." Polly, however, had her own reasons for remaining stolid, and Harry started. But when he reached the landing he paused. Mr. Skratdj had especially announced that morning that he did not wish to be disturbed, and though he was a favourite, Harry had no desire to invade the dining-room at this crisis. So he returned to the nursery, and said with a magnanimous air, "I don't want to get you into a scrape, Polly. If you'll beg my pardon I won't go." "I'm sure I sha'n't," said Polly, who was equally well informed as to the position of affairs at head-quarters. "Go, if you dare." "I won't if you want me not," said Harry, discreetly waiving the question of apologies. "But I'd rather you went," said the obdurate Polly. "You're always telling tales. Go and tell now, if you're not afraid." So Harry went. But at the bottom of the stairs he lingered again, and was meditating how to return with most credit to his dignity, when Polly's face appeared through the banisters, and Polly's sharp tongue goaded him on. "Ah! I see you. You're stopping. You daren't go." "I dare," said Harry; and at last he went. As he turned the handle of the door, Mr. Skratdj turned round. "Please, Papa--" Harry began. "Get away with you!" cried Mr. Skratdj, "Didn't I tell you I was not to be disturbed this morning? What an extraor----" But Harry had shut the door, and withdrawn precipitately. Once outside, he returned to the nursery with dignified steps, and an air of apparent satisfaction, saying, "You're to give me the bricks, please." "Who says so?" "Why, who should say so? Where have I been, pray?" "I don't know, and I don't care." "I've been to Papa. There!" "Did he say I was to give up the bricks?" "I've told you." "No, you've not." "I sha'n't tell you any more." "Then I'll go to Papa and ask." "Go by all means." "I won't if you'll tell me truly." "I sha'n't tell you anything. Go and ask, if you dare," said Harry, only too glad to have the tables turned. Polly's expedition met with the same fate, and she attempted to cover her retreat in a similar manner. "Ah! you didn't tell." "I don't believe you asked Papa." "Don't you? Very well!" "Well, did you?" "Never mind." Etc., etc., etc. Meanwhile Mr. Skratdj scolded Mrs. Skratdj for not keeping the children in better order. And Mrs. Skratdj said it was quite impossible to do so, when Mr. Skratdj spoilt Harry as he did, and weakened her (Mrs. Skratdj's) authority by constant interference. Difference of sex gave point to many of these nursery squabbles, as it so often does to domestic broils. "Boys never will do what they're asked," Polly would complain. "Girls ask such unreasonable things," was Harry's retort. "Not half so unreasonable as the things you ask." "Ah! that's a different thing! Women have got to do what men tell them, whether it's reasonable or not." "No, they've not!" said Polly. "At least, that's only husbands and wives." "All women are inferior animals," said Harry. "Try ordering Mamma to do what you want, and see!" said Polly. "Men have got to give orders, and women have to obey," said Harry, falling back on the general principle. "And when I get a wife, I'll take care I make her do what I tell her. But you'll have to obey your husband when you get one." "I won't have a husband, and then I can do as I like." "Oh, won't you? You'll try to get one, I know. Girls always want to be married." "I'm sure I don't know why," said Polly; "they must have had enough of men if they have brothers." And so they went on, _ad infinitum_, with ceaseless arguments that proved nothing and convinced nobody, and a continual stream of contradiction that just fell short of downright quarrelling. Indeed, there was a kind of snapping even less near to a dispute than in the cases just mentioned. The little Skratdjs, like some other children, were under the unfortunate delusion that it sounds clever to hear little boys and girls snap each other up with smart sayings, and old and rather vulgar play upon words, such as: "I'll give you a Christmas-box. Which ear will you have it on?" "I won't stand it." "Pray take a chair." "You shall have it to-morrow." "To-morrow never comes." And so if a visitor kindly began to talk to one of the children, another was sure to draw near and "take up" all the first child's answers, with smart comments, and catches that sounded as silly as they were tiresome and impertinent. And ill-mannered as this was, Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj never put a stop to it. Indeed, it was only a caricature of what they did themselves. But they often said, "We can't think how it is the children are always squabbling!" THE SKRATDJS' DOG AND THE HOT-TEMPERED GENTLEMAN. It is wonderful how the state of mind of a whole household is influenced by the heads of it. Mr. Skratdj was a very kind master, and Mrs. Skratdj was a very kind mistress, and yet their servants lived in a perpetual fever of irritability that just fell short of discontent. They jostled each other on the back stairs, said sharp things in the pantry, and kept up a perennial warfare on the subject of the duty of the sexes with the general man-servant. They gave warning on the slightest provocation. The very dog was infected by the snapping mania. He was not a brave dog, he was not a vicious dog, and no high-breeding sanctioned his pretensions to arrogance. But like his owners, he had contracted a bad habit, a trick, which made him the pest of all timid visitors, and indeed of all visitors whatsoever. The moment any one approached the house, on certain occasions when he was spoken to, and often in no traceable connection with any cause at all, Snap the mongrel would rush out, and bark in his little sharp voice--"Yap! yap! yap!" If the visitor made a stand, he would bound away sideways on his four little legs; but the moment the visitor went on his way again, Snap was at his heels--"Yap! yap! yap!" He barked at the milkman, the butcher's boy, and the baker, though he saw them every day. He never got used to the washerwoman, and she never got used to him. She said he "put her in mind of that there black dog in the _Pilgrim's Progress_." He sat at the gate in summer, and yapped at every vehicle and every pedestrian who ventured to pass on the high-road. He never but once had the chance of barking at burglars; and then, though he barked long and loud, nobody got up, for they said, "It's only Snap's way." The Skratdjs lost a silver teapot, a Stilton cheese, and two electro christening mugs, on this occasion; and Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj dispute who it was who discouraged reliance on Snap's warning to the present day. One Christmas time, a certain hot-tempered gentleman came to visit the Skratdjs. A tall, sandy, energetic young man, who carried his own bag from the railway. The bag had been crammed rather than packed, after the wont of bachelors; and you could see where the heel of a boot distended the leather, and where the bottle of shaving-cream lay. As he came up to the house, out came Snap as usual--"Yap! yap! yap!" Now the gentleman was very fond of dogs, and had borne this greeting some dozen of times from Snap, who for his part knew the visitor quite as well as the washerwoman, and rather better than the butcher's boy. The gentleman had good, sensible, well-behaved dogs of his own, and was greatly disgusted with Snap's conduct. Nevertheless he spoke friendly to him; and Snap, who had had many a bit from his plate, could not help stopping for a minute to lick his hand. But no sooner did the gentleman proceed on his way, than Snap flew at his heels in the usual fashion-- "Yap! Yap! Yap!" On which the gentleman--being hot-tempered, and one of those people with whom it is (as they say) a word and a blow, and the blow first--made a dash at Snap, and Snap taking to his heels, the gentleman flung his carpet-bag after him. The bottle of shaving-cream hit upon a stone and was smashed. The heel of the boot caught Snap on the back, and sent him squealing to the kitchen. And he never barked at that gentleman again. If the gentleman disapproved of Snap's conduct, he still less liked the continual snapping of the Skratdj family themselves. He was an old friend of Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj, however, and knew that they were really happy together, and that it was only a bad habit which made them constantly contradict each other. It was in allusion to their real affection for each other, and their perpetual disputing, that he called them the "Snapping Turtles." When the war of words waxed hottest at the dinner-table between his host and hostess, he would drive his hands through his shock of sandy hair, and say, with a comical glance out of his umber eyes, "Don't flirt, my friends. It makes a bachelor feel awkward." And neither Mr. nor Mrs. Skratdj could help laughing. With the little Skratdjs his measures were more vigorous. He was very fond of children, and a good friend to them. He grudged no time or trouble to help them in their games and projects, but he would not tolerate their snapping up each other's words in his presence. He was much more truly kind than many visitors, who think it polite to smile at the sauciness and forwardness which ignorant vanity leads children so often to "show off" before strangers. These civil acquaintances only abuse both children and parents behind their backs, for the very bad habits which they help to encourage. The hot-tempered gentleman's treatment of his young friends was very different. One day he was talking to Polly, and making some kind inquiries about her lessons, to which she was replying in a quiet and sensible fashion, when up came Master Harry, and began to display his wit by comments on the conversation, and by snapping at and contradicting his sister's remarks, to which she retorted; and the usual snap-dialogue went on as before. "Then you like music," said the hot-tempered gentleman. "Yes, I like it very much," said Polly. "Oh, do you?" Harry broke in. "Then what are you always crying over it for?" "I'm not always crying over it." "Yes, you are." "No, I'm not. I only cry sometimes, when I stick fast." "Your music must be very sticky, for you're always stuck fast." "Hold your tongue!" said the hot-tempered gentleman. With what he imagined to be a very waggish air, Harry put out his tongue, and held it with his finger and thumb. It was unfortunate that he had not time to draw it in again before the hot-tempered gentleman gave him a stinging box on the ear, which brought his teeth rather sharply together on the tip of his tongue, which was bitten in consequence. "It's no use _speaking_," said the hot-tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his hair. * * * * * Children are like dogs, they are very good judges of their real friends. Harry did not like the hot-tempered gentleman a bit the less because he was obliged to respect and obey him; and all the children welcomed him boisterously when he arrived that Christmas which we have spoken of in connection with his attack on Snap. It was on the morning of Christmas Eve that the china punch-bowl was broken. Mr. Skratdj had a warm dispute with Mrs. Skratdj as to whether it had been kept in a safe place; after which both had a brisk encounter with the housemaid, who did not know how it happened; and she, flouncing down the back passage, kicked Snap; who forthwith flew at the gardener as he was bringing in the horse-radish for the beef; who stepping backwards trode upon the cat; who spit and swore, and went up the pump with her tail as big as a fox's brush. To avoid this domestic scene, the hot-tempered gentleman withdrew to the breakfast-room and took up a newspaper. By and by, Harry and Polly came in, and they were soon snapping comfortably over their own affairs in a corner. The hot-tempered gentleman's umber eyes had been looking over the top of his newspaper at them for some time, before he called, "Harry, my boy!" And Harry came up to him. "Show me your tongue, Harry," said he. "What for?" said Harry; "you're not a doctor." "Do as I tell you," said the hot-tempered gentleman; and as Harry saw his hand moving, he put his tongue out with all possible haste. The hot-tempered gentleman sighed. "Ah!" he said, in depressed tones; "I thought so!--Polly, come and let me look at yours." Polly, who had crept up during this process, now put out hers. But the hot-tempered gentleman looked gloomier still, and shook his head. "What is it?" cried both the children. "What do you mean?" And they seized the tips of their tongues with their fingers, to feel for themselves. But the hot-tempered gentleman went slowly out of the room without answering; passing his hands through his hair, and saying, "Ah! Hum!" and nodding with an air of grave foreboding. Just as he crossed the threshold, he turned back, and put his head into the room. "Have you ever noticed that your tongues are growing pointed?" he asked. "No!" cried the children with alarm. "Are they?" "If ever you find them becoming forked," said the gentleman in solemn tones, "let me know." With which he departed, gravely shaking his head. In the afternoon the children attacked him again. "_Do_ tell us what's the matter with our tongues." "You were snapping and squabbling just as usual this morning," said the hot-tempered gentleman. "Well, we forgot," said Polly. "We don't mean anything, you know. But never mind that now, please. Tell us about our tongues. What is going to happen to them?" "I'm very much afraid," said the hot-tempered gentleman, in solemn measured tones, "that you are both of you--fast--going--to--the--" "Dogs?" suggested Harry, who was learned in cant expressions. "Dogs!" said the hot-tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his hair. "Bless your life, no! Nothing half so pleasant! (That is, unless all dogs were like Snap, which mercifully they are not.) No, my sad fear is, that you are both of you--rapidly--going--_to the Snap-Dragons_!" And not another word would the hot-tempered gentleman say on the subject. CHRISTMAS EVE. In the course of a few hours Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj recovered their equanimity. The punch was brewed in a jug, and tasted quite as good as usual. The evening was very lively. There were a Christmas tree, Yule cakes, log, and candles, furmety, and snap-dragon after supper. When the company was tired of the tree, and had gained an appetite by the hard exercise of stretching to high branches, blowing out "dangerous" tapers, and cutting ribbon and pack-thread in all directions, supper came, with its welcome cakes and furmety and punch. And when furmety somewhat palled upon the taste (and it must be admitted to boast more sentiment than flavour as a Christmas dish), the Yule candles were blown out, and both the spirits and the palates of the party were stimulated by the mysterious and pungent pleasures of snap-dragon. Then, as the hot-tempered gentleman warmed his coat-tails at the Yule log, a grim smile stole over his features as he listened to the sounds in the room. In the darkness the blue flames leaped and danced, the raisins were snapped and snatched from hand to hand, scattering fragments of flame hither and thither. The children shouted as the fiery sweetmeats burnt away the mawkish taste of the furmety. Mr. Skratdj cried that they were spoiling the carpet; Mrs. Skratdj complained that he had spilled some brandy on her dress. Mr. Skratdj retorted that she should not wear dresses so susceptible of damage in the family circle. Mrs. Skratdj recalled an old speech of Mr. Skratdj's on the subject of wearing one's nice things for the benefit of one's family, and not reserving them for visitors. Mr. Skratdj remembered that Mrs. Skratdj's excuse for buying that particular dress when she did not need it, was her intention of keeping it for the next year. The children disputed as to the credit for courage and the amount of raisins due to each. Snap barked furiously at the flames; and the maids hustled each other for good places in the doorway, and would not have allowed the man-servant to see at all, but he looked over their heads. "St! St! At it! At it!" chuckled the hot-tempered gentleman in undertones. And when he said this, it seemed as if the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj rose higher in matrimonial repartee, and the children's squabbles became louder, and the dog yelped as if he were mad, and the maids' contest was sharper; whilst the snap-dragon flames leaped up and up, and blue fire flew about the room like foam. At last the raisins were finished, the flames were all but out, and the company withdrew to the drawing-room. Only Harry lingered. "Come along, Harry," said the hot-tempered gentleman. "Wait a minute," said Harry. "You had better come," said the gentleman. "Why?" said Harry. "There's nothing to stop for. The raisins are eaten, the brandy is burnt out--" "No, it's not," said Harry. "Well, almost. It would be better if it were quite out. Now come. It's dangerous for a boy like you to be alone with the Snap-Dragons to-night." "Fiddle-sticks!" said Harry. "Go your own way, then!" said the hot-tempered gentleman; and he bounced out of the room, and Harry was left alone. DANCING WITH THE DRAGONS. He crept up to the table, where one little pale blue flame flickered in the snap-dragon dish. "What a pity it should go out!" said Harry. At this moment the brandy-bottle on the sideboard caught his eye. "Just a little more," muttered Harry to himself; and he uncorked the bottle, and poured a little brandy on to the flame. Now of course, as soon as the brandy touched the fire, all the brandy in the bottle blazed up at once, and the bottle split to pieces; and it was very fortunate for Harry that he did not get seriously hurt. A little of the hot brandy did get into his eyes, and made them smart, so that he had to shut them for a few seconds. But when he opened them again, what a sight he saw! All over the room the blue flames leaped and danced as they had leaped and danced in the soup-plate with the raisins. And Harry saw that each successive flame was the fold in the long body of a bright blue Dragon, which moved like the body of a snake. And the room was full of these Dragons. In the face they were like the dragons one sees made of very old blue and white china; and they had forked tongues, like the tongues of serpents. They were most beautiful in colour, being sky-blue. Lobsters who have just changed their coats are very handsome, but the violet and indigo of a lobster's coat is nothing to the brilliant sky-blue of a Snap-Dragon. How they leaped about! They were for ever leaping over each other like seals at play. But if it was "play" at all with them, it was of a very rough kind; for as they jumped, they snapped and barked at each other, and their barking was like that of the barking Gnu in the Zoological Gardens; and from time to time they tore the hair out of each other's heads with their claws, and scattered it about the floor. And as it dropped it was like the flecks of flame people shake from their fingers when they are eating snap-dragon raisins. Harry stood aghast. "What fun!" cried a voice close behind him; and he saw that one of the Dragons was lying near, and not joining in the game. He had lost one of the forks of his tongue by accident, and could not bark for awhile. "I'm glad you think it funny," said Harry; "I don't." "That's right. Snap away!" sneered the Dragon. "You're a perfect treasure. They'll take you in with them the third round." "Not those creatures?" cried Harry. "Yes, those creatures. And if I hadn't lost my bark, I'd be the first to lead you off," said the Dragon. "Oh, the game will exactly suit you." "What is it, please?" Harry asked. "You'd better not say 'please' to the others," said the Dragon, "if you don't want to have all your hair pulled out. The game is this. You have always to be jumping over somebody else, and you must either talk or bark. If anybody speaks to you, you must snap in return. I need not explain what _snapping_ is. _You know._ If any one by accident gives a civil answer, a claw-full of hair is torn out of his head to stimulate his brain. Nothing can be funnier." "I dare say it suits you capitally," said Harry; "but I'm sure we shouldn't like it. I mean men and women and children. It wouldn't do for us at all." "Wouldn't it?" said the Dragon. "You don't know how many human beings dance with dragons on Christmas Eve. If we are kept going in a house till after midnight, we can pull people out of their beds, and take them to dance in Vesuvius." "Vesuvius!" cried Harry. "Yes, Vesuvius. We come from Italy originally, you know. Our skins are the colour of the Bay of Naples. We live on dried grapes and ardent spirits. We have glorious fun in the mountain sometimes. Oh! what snapping, and scratching, and tearing! Delicious! There are times when the squabbling becomes too great, and Mother Mountain won't stand it, and spits us all out, and throws cinders after us. But this is only at times. We had a charming meeting last year. So many human beings, and how they _can_ snap! It was a choice party. So very select. We always have plenty of saucy children, and servants. Husbands and wives too, and quite as many of the former as the latter, if not more. But besides these, we had two vestry-men; a country postman, who devoted his talents to insulting the public instead of to learning the postal regulations; three cabmen and two "fares"; two young shop-girls from a Berlin wool shop in a town where there was no competition; four commercial travellers; six landladies; six Old Bailey lawyers; several widows from almshouses; seven single gentlemen and nine cats, who swore at everything; a dozen sulphur-coloured screaming cockatoos; a lot of street children from a town; a pack of mongrel curs from the colonies, who snapped at the human beings' heels; and five elderly ladies in their Sunday bonnets with Prayer-books, who had been fighting for good seats in church." "Dear me!" said Harry. "If you can find nothing sharper to say than 'Dear me,'" said the Dragon, "you will fare badly, I can tell you. Why, I thought you'd a sharp tongue, but it's not forked yet, I see. Here they are, however. Off with you! And if you value your curls--Snap!" And before Harry could reply, the Snap-Dragons came in on their third round, and as they passed they swept Harry along with them. He shuddered as he looked at his companions. They were as transparent as shrimps, but of a lovely cerulæan blue. And as they leaped they barked--"Howf! Howf!"--like barking Gnus; and when they leaped Harry had to leap with them. Besides barking, they snapped and wrangled with each other; and in this Harry must join also. "Pleasant, isn't it?" said one of the blue Dragons. "Not at all," snapped Harry. "That's your bad taste," snapped the blue Dragon. "No, it's not!" snapped Harry. "Then it's pride and perverseness. You want your hair combing." "Oh, please don't!" shrieked Harry, forgetting himself. On which the Dragon clawed a handful of hair out of his head, and Harry screamed, and the blue Dragons barked and danced. "That made your hair curl, didn't it?" asked another Dragon, leaping over Harry. "That's no business of yours," Harry snapped, as well as he could for crying. "It's more my pleasure than business," retorted the Dragon. "Keep it to yourself, then," snapped Harry. "I mean to share it with you, when I get hold of your hair," snapped the Dragon. "Wait till you get the chance," Harry snapped, with desperate presence of mind. "Do you know whom you're talking to?" roared the Dragon; and he opened his mouth from ear to ear, and shot out his forked tongue in Harry's face; and the boy was so frightened that he forgot to snap, and cried piteously, "Oh, I beg your pardon, please don't!" On which the blue Dragon clawed another handful of hair out of his head, and all the Dragons barked as before. How long the dreadful game went on Harry never exactly knew. Well practised as he was in snapping in the nursery, he often failed to think of a retort, and paid for his unreadiness by the loss of his hair. Oh, how foolish and wearisome all this rudeness and snapping now seemed to him! But on he had to go, wondering all the time how near it was to twelve o'clock, and whether the Snap-Dragons would stay till midnight and take him with them to Vesuvius. At last, to his joy, it became evident that the brandy was coming to an end. The Dragons moved slower, they could not leap so high, and at last one after another they began to go out. "Oh, if they only all of them get away before twelve!" thought poor Harry. At last there was only one. He and Harry jumped about and snapped and barked, and Harry was thinking with joy that he was the last, when the clock in the hall gave that whirring sound which some clocks do before they strike, as if it were clearing its throat. "Oh, _please_ go!" screamed Harry in despair. The blue Dragon leaped up, and took such a claw-full of hair out of the boy's head, that it seemed as if part of the skin went too. But that leap was his last. He went out at once, vanishing before the first stroke of twelve. And Harry was left on his face on the floor in the darkness. CONCLUSION. When his friends found him there was blood on his forehead. Harry thought it was where the Dragon had clawed him, but they said it was a cut from a fragment of the broken brandy-bottle. The Dragons had disappeared as completely as the brandy. Harry was cured of snapping. He had had quite enough of it for a lifetime, and the catch-contradictions of the household now made him shudder. Polly had not had the benefit of his experiences, and yet she improved also. In the first place, snapping, like other kinds of quarrelling, requires two parties to it, and Harry would never be a party to snapping any more. And when he gave civil and kind answers to Polly's smart speeches, she felt ashamed of herself, and did not repeat them. In the second place, she heard about the Snap-Dragons. Harry told all about it to her and to the hot-tempered gentleman. "Now do you think it's true?" Polly asked the hot-tempered man. "Hum! Ha!" said he, driving his hands through his hair. "You know I warned you, you were going to the Snap-Dragons." * * * * * Harry and Polly snubbed "the little ones" when they snapped, and utterly discountenanced snapping in the nursery. The example and admonitions of elder children are a powerful instrument of nursery discipline, and before long there was not a "sharp tongue" amongst all the little Skratdjs. But I doubt if the parents ever were cured. I don't know if they heard the story. Besides, bad habits are not easily cured when one is old. I fear Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj have yet got to dance with the Dragons. OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS. OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS. AN OLD-FASHIONED TALE OF THE YOUNG DAYS OF A GRUMPY OLD GODFATHER. CHAPTER I. "Can you fancy, young people," said Godfather Garbel, winking with his prominent eyes, and moving his feet backwards and forwards in his square shoes, so that you could hear the squeak-leather half a room off--"can you fancy my having been a very little boy, and having a godmother? But I had, and she sent me presents on my birthdays too. And young people did not get presents when I was a child as they get them now. _Grumph_! We had not half so many toys as you have, but we kept them twice as long. I think we were fonder of them too, though they were neither so handsome nor so expensive as these new-fangled affairs you are always breaking about the house. _Grumph_! "You see, middle-class folk were more saving then. My mother turned and dyed her dresses, and when she had done with them, the servant was very glad to have them; but, bless me! your mother's maids dress so much finer than their mistress, I do not think they would say 'thank you' for her best Sunday silk. The bustle's the wrong shape. _Grumph_! "What's that you are laughing at, little miss? It's _pannier_, is it? Well, well, bustle or pannier, call it what you like; but only donkeys wore panniers in my young days, and many's the ride I've had in them. "Now, as I say, my relations and friends thought twice before they pulled out five shillings in a toy-shop, but they didn't forget me, all the same. "On my eighth birthday my mother gave me a bright blue comforter of her own knitting. "My little sister gave me a ball. My mother had cut out the divisions from various bits in the rag-bag, and my sister had done some of the seaming. It was stuffed with bran, and had a cork inside which had broken from old age, and would no longer fit the pickle-jar it belonged to. This made the ball bound when we played 'prisoner's base.' "My father gave me the broken driving-whip that had lost the lash, and an old pair of his gloves, to play coachman with; these I had long wished for, since next to sailing in a ship, in my ideas, came the honour and glory of driving a coach. "My whole soul, I must tell you, was set upon being a sailor. In those days I had rather put to sea once on Farmer Fodder's duck-pond than ride twice atop of his hay-waggon; and between the smell of hay and the softness of it, and the height you are up above other folk, and the danger of tumbling off if you don't look out--for hay is elastic as well as soft--you don't easily beat a ride on a hay-waggon for pleasure. But as I say, I'd rather put to sea on the duck-pond, though the best craft I could borrow was the pigstye-door, and a pole to punt with, and the village boys jeering when I got aground, which was most of the time--besides the duck-pond never having a wave on it worth the name, punt as you would, and so shallow you could not have got drowned in it to save your life. "You're laughing now, little master, are you? But let me tell you that drowning's the death for a sailor, whatever you may think. So I've always maintained, and have given every navigable sea in the known world a chance, though here I am after all, laid up in arm-chairs and feather-beds, to wait for bronchitis or some other slow poison. _Grumph_! "Well, we must all go as we're called, sailors or landsmen, and as I was saying, if I was never to sail a ship, I would have liked to drive a coach. A mail coach, serving His Majesty (Her Majesty now, GOD bless her!), carrying the Royal Arms, and bound to go, rough weather and fair. Many's the time I've done it (in play you understand) with that whip and those gloves. Dear! dear! The pains I took to teach my sister Patty to be a highwayman, and jump out on me from the drying-ground hedge in the dusk with a 'Stand and deliver!' which she couldn't get out of her throat for fright, and wouldn't jump hard enough for fear of hurting me. "The whip and the gloves gave me joy, I can tell you; but there was more to come. "Kitty the servant gave me a shell that she had had by her for years. How I had coveted that shell! It had this remarkable property: when you put it to your ear, you could hear the roaring of the sea. I had never seen the sea, but Kitty was born in a fisherman's cottage, and many an hour have I sat by the kitchen fire whilst she told me strange stories of the mighty ocean, and ever and anon she would snatch the shell from the mantelpiece and clap it to my ear, crying, 'There, child, you couldn't hear it plainer than that. It's the very moral!' "When Kitty gave me that shell for my very own, I felt that life had little more to offer. I held it to every ear in the house, including the cat's; and, seeing Dick the sexton's son go by with an armful of straw to stuff Guy Fawkes, I ran out, and in my anxiety to make him share the treat, and learn what the sea is like, I clapped the shell to his ear so smartly and unexpectedly, that he, thinking me to have struck him, knocked me down then and there with his bundle of straw. When he understood the rights of the case, he begged my pardon handsomely, and gave me two whole treacle-sticks and part of a third out of his breeches-pocket, in return for which I forgave him freely, and promised to let him hear the sea roar on every Saturday half-holiday till farther notice. "And speaking of Dick and the straw reminds me that my birthday falls on the fifth of November. From this it came about that I always had to bear a good many jokes about being burnt as a Guy Fawkes; but, on the other hand, I was allowed to make a small bonfire of my own, and to have eight potatoes to roast therein, and eight-pennyworth of crackers to let off in the evening. A potato and a pennyworth of crackers for every year of my life. "On this eighth birthday, having got all the above-named gifts, I cried, in the fulness of my heart, 'There never was such a day!' And yet there was more to come, for the evening coach brought me a parcel, and the parcel was my godmother's picture-book. "My godmother was a gentlewoman of small means; but she was accomplished. She could make very spirited sketches, and knew how to colour them after they were outlined and shaded in Indian ink. She had a pleasant talent for versifying. She was very industrious. I have it from her own lips that she copied the figures in my picture-book from prints in several different houses at which she visited. They were fancy portraits of characters, most of which were familiar to my mind. There were Guy Fawkes, Punch, his then Majesty the King, Bogy, the Man in the Moon, the Clerk of the Weather Office, a Dunce, and Old Father Christmas. Beneath each sketch was a stanza of my godmother's own composing. "My godmother was very ingenious. She had been mainly guided in her choice of these characters by the prints she happened to meet with, as she did not trust herself to design a figure. But if she could not get exactly what she wanted, she had a clever knack of tracing the outline of an attitude from some engraving, and altering the figure to suit her purpose in the finished sketch. She was the soul of truthfulness, and the notes she added to the index of contents in my picture-book spoke at once for her honesty in avowing obligations, and her ingenuity in availing herself of opportunities. "They ran thus:-- No. 1.--GUY FAWKES. Outlined from a figure of a warehouseman rolling a sherry flask into Mr. Rudd's wine-vaults. I added the hat, cloak, and boots in the finished drawing. No. 2.--PUNCH. I sketched him from the life. No. 3.--HIS MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY THE KING. On a quart jug bought in Cheapside. No. 4.--BOGY, _with bad boys in the bag on his back_. Outlined from Christian bending under his burden, in my mother's old copy of the _Pilgrim's Progress_. The face from Giant Despair. No. 5 and No. 6.--THE MAN IN THE MOON, and THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER OFFICE. From a book of caricatures belonging to Dr. James. No. 7.--A DUNCE. From a steel engraving framed in rosewood that hangs in my Uncle Wilkinson's parlour. No. 8.--OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS. From a German book at Lady Littleham's. CHAPTER II. "My sister Patty was six years old. We loved each other dearly. The picture-book was almost as much hers as mine. We sat so long together on one big footstool by the fire, with our arms round each other, and the book resting on our knees, that Kitty called down blessings on my godmother's head for having sent a volume that kept us both so long out of mischief. "'If books was allus as useful as that, they'd do for me,' said she; and though this speech did not mean much, it was a great deal for Kitty to say; since, not being herself an educated person, she naturally thought that 'little enough good comes of larning.' "Patty and I had our favourites amongst the pictures. Bogy, now, was a character one did not care to think about too near bed-time. I was tired of Guy Fawkes, and thought he looked more natural made of straw, as Dick did him. The Dunce was a little too personal; but Old Father Christmas took our hearts by storm; we had never seen anything like him, though now-a-days you may get a plaster figure of him in any toy-shop at Christmas-time, with hair and beard like cotton-wool, and a Christmas-tree in his hand. "The custom of Christmas-trees came from Germany. I can remember when they were first introduced into England, and what wonderful things we thought them. Now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars openly discuss whether the presents have been 'good' or 'mean,' as compared with other trees of former years. "The first one that I ever saw I believed to have come from good Father Christmas himself; but little boys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement. They are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back drawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill--which I feel to this day--when the folding-doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of tapers, Mamma, like a Fate, advances with her scissors to give every one what falls to his lot. "Well, young people, when I was eight years old I had not seen a Christmas-tree, and the first picture of one I ever saw was the picture of that held by Old Father Christmas in my godmother's picture-book. "'What are those things on the tree?' I asked. "'Candles,' said my father. "'No, father, not the candles; the other things?' "'Those are toys, my son.' "'Are they ever taken off?' "'Yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand round the tree.' "Patty and I grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice murmured, 'How kind of Old Father Christmas!' "By and by I asked, 'How old is Father Christmas?' "My father laughed, and said, 'One thousand eight hundred and thirty years, child,' which was then the year of our Lord, and thus one thousand eight hundred and thirty years since the first great Christmas Day. "'He _looks_ very old,' whispered Patty. "And I, who was, for my age, what Kitty called 'Bible-learned,' said thoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind, 'Then he's older than Methuselah.' "But my father had left the room, and did not hear my difficulty. "November and December went by, and still the picture-book kept all its charm for Patty and me; and we pondered on and loved Old Father Christmas as children can love and realize a fancy friend. To those who remember the fancies of their childhood I need say no more. "Christmas week came, Christmas Eve came. My father and mother were mysteriously and unaccountably busy in the parlour (we had only one parlour), and Patty and I were not allowed to go in. We went into the kitchen, but even here was no place of rest for us. Kitty was 'all over the place,' as she phrased it, and cakes, mince-pies, and puddings were with her. As she justly observed, 'There was no place there for children and book; to sit with their toes in the fire, when a body wanted to be at the oven all along. The cat was enough for _her_ temper,' she added. "As to puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint which drove her out into the Christmas frost, she returned again and again with soft steps, and a stupidity that was, I think, affected, to the warm hearth, only to fly at intervals, like a football, before Kitty's hasty slipper. "We had more sense, or less courage. We bowed to Kitty's behests, and went to the back door. "Patty and I were hardy children, and accustomed to 'run out' in all weathers, without much extra wrapping up. We put Kitty's shawl over our two heads, and went outside. I rather hoped to see something of Dick, for it was holiday time; but no Dick passed. He was busy helping his father to bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold sprigs of holly for the morrow--that was the idea of church decoration in my young days. You have improved on your elders there, young people, and I am candid enough to allow it. Still, the sprigs of red and green were better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious devices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into life and leaf again for very Christmas joy! "And, if one only knelt carefully, they did not scratch his nose," added Godfather Garbel, chuckling and rubbing his own, which was large and rather red. "Well," he continued, "Dick was busy, and not to be seen. We ran across the little yard and looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or anybody. From this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping prettily away to a little hill about three-quarters of a mile distant; which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be a place of cure for whooping-cough, or 'kinkcough,' as it was vulgarly called. Up to the top of this Kitty had dragged me, and carried Patty, when we were recovering from the complaint, as I well remember. It was the only 'change of air' we could afford, and I dare say it did as well as if we had gone into badly-drained lodgings at the seaside. "This hill was now covered with snow, and stood off against the grey sky. The white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk. The only gay things to be seen were the red berries on the holly hedge, in the little lane--which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the Hall--and a fat robin redbreast who was staring at me. I was watching the robin, when Patty, who had been peering out of her corner of Kitty's shawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and cried, "'LOOK!' CHAPTER III. "I looked. An old man was coming along the lane. His hair and beard were as white as cotton-wool. He had a face like the sort of apple that keeps well in winter; his coat was old and brown. There was snow about him in patches, and he carried a small fir-tree. "The same conviction seized upon us both. With one breath we exclaimed, '_It's Old Father Christmas!_' "I know now that it was only an old man of the place, with whom we did not happen to be acquainted, and that he was taking a little fir-tree up to the Hall, to be made into a Christmas-tree. He was a very good-humoured old fellow, and rather deaf, for which he made up by smiling and nodding his head a good deal, and saying, 'Aye, aye, _to_ be sure!' at likely intervals. "As he passed us and met our earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so affably, that I was bold enough to cry, 'Good-evening, Father Christmas!' "'Same to you!' said he, in a high-pitched voice. "'Then you _are_ Father Christmas?' said Patty. "'And a Happy New Year,' was Father Christmas's reply, which rather put me out. But he smiled in such a satisfactory manner, that Patty went on, 'You're very old, aren't you?' "'So I be, miss, so I be,' said Father Christmas, nodding. "'Father says you're eighteen hundred and thirty years old,' I muttered. "'Aye, aye, to be sure,' said Father Christmas, 'I'm a long age.' "A _very_ long age, thought I, and I added, 'You're nearly twice as old as Methuselah, you know,' thinking that this might not have struck him. "'Aye, aye,' said Father Christmas; but he did not seem to think anything of it. After a pause he held up the tree, and cried, 'D'ye know what this is, little miss?' "'A Christmas-tree,' said Patty. "And the old man smiled and nodded. "I leant over the wall, and shouted, 'But there are no candles.' "'By and by,' said Father Christmas, nodding as before. 'When it's dark they'll all be lighted up. That'll be a fine sight!' "'Toys too, there'll be, won't there?' screamed Patty. "Father Christmas nodded his head. 'And sweeties,' he added, expressively. "I could feel Patty trembling, and my own heart beat fast. The thought which agitated us both, was this--'Was Father Christmas bringing the tree to us?' But very anxiety, and some modesty also, kept us from asking outright. "Only when the old man shouldered his tree, and prepared to move on, I cried in despair, 'Oh, are you going?' "'I'm coming back by and by,' said he. "'How soon?' cried Patty. "'About four o'clock,' said the old man, smiling. 'I'm only going up yonder.' "And, nodding, and smiling as he went, he passed away down the lane. "'Up yonder.' This puzzled us. Father Christmas had pointed, but so indefinitely, that he might have been pointing to the sky, or the fields, or the little wood at the end of the Squire's grounds. I thought the latter, and suggested to Patty that perhaps he had some place underground, like Aladdin's cave, where he got the candles, and all the pretty things for the tree. This idea pleased us both, and we amused ourselves by wondering what Old Father Christmas would choose for us from his stores in that wonderful hole where he dressed his Christmas-trees. "'I wonder, Patty,' said I, 'why there's no picture of Father Christmas's dog in the book.' For at the old man's heels in the lane there crept a little brown and white spaniel, looking very dirty in the snow. "'Perhaps it's a new dog that he's got to take care of his cave,' said Patty. "When we went indoors we examined the picture afresh by the dim light from the passage window, but found no dog there. "My father passed us at this moment, and patted my head. 'Father,' said I, 'I don't know, but I do think Old Father Christmas is going to bring us a Christmas-tree to-night.' "'Who's been telling you that?' said my father. But he passed on before I could explain that we had seen Father Christmas himself, and had had his word for it that he would return at four o'clock, and that the candles on his tree would be lighted as soon as it was dark. "We hovered on the outskirts of the rooms till four o'clock came. We sat on the stairs and watched the big clock, which I was just learning to read; and Patty made herself giddy with constantly looking up and counting the four strokes, towards which the hour hand slowly moved. We put our noses into the kitchen now and then, to smell the cakes and get warm, and anon we hung about the parlour door, and were most unjustly accused of trying to peep. What did we care what our mother was doing in the parlour?--we who had seen Old Father Christmas himself, and were expecting him back again every moment! "At last the church clock struck. The sounds boomed heavily through the frost, and Patty thought there were four of them. Then, after due choking and whirring, our own clock struck, and we counted the strokes quite clearly--one! two! three! four! Then we got Kitty's shawl once more, and stole out into the back-yard. We ran to our old place, and peeped, but could see nothing. "'We'd better get up on to the wall,' I said; and with some difficulty and distress from rubbing her bare knees against the cold stones, and getting the snow up her sleeves, Patty got on the coping of the little wall. I was just struggling after her, when something warm and something cold coming suddenly against the bare calves of my legs, made me shriek with fright. I came down 'with a run,' and bruised my knees, my elbows, and my chin; and the snow that hadn't gone up Patty's sleeves, went down my neck. Then I found that the cold thing was a dog's nose, and the warm thing was his tongue; and Patty cried from her post of observation, 'It's Father Christmas's dog, and he's licking your legs.' "It really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel; and he persisted in licking me, and jumping on me, and making curious little noises, that must have meant something if one had known his language. I was rather harassed at the moment. My legs were sore, I was a little afraid of the dog, and Patty was very much afraid of sitting on the wall without me. "'You won't fall,' I said to her. 'Get down, will you!' I said to the dog. "'Humpty Dumpty fell off a wall,' said Patty. "'Bow! wow!' said the dog. "I pulled Patty down, and the dog tried to pull me down; but when my little sister was on her feet, to my relief, he transferred his attentions to her. When he had jumped at her, and licked her several times, he turned round and ran away. "'He's gone,' said I; 'I'm so glad.' "But even as I spoke he was back again, crouching at Patty's feet, and glaring at her with eyes the colour of his ears. "Now Patty was very fond of animals, and when the dog looked at her she looked at the dog, and then she said to me, 'He wants us to go with him.' "On which (as if he understood our language, though we were ignorant of his) the spaniel sprang away, and went off as hard as he could; and Patty and I went after him, a dim hope crossing my mind--'Perhaps Father Christmas has sent him for us.' "This idea was rather favoured by the fact that the dog led us up the lane. Only a little way; then he stopped by something lying in the ditch--and once more we cried in the same breath, 'It's Old Father Christmas!'" CHAPTER IV. "Returning from the Hall, the old man had slipped upon a bit of ice, and lay stunned in the snow. "Patty began to cry. 'I think he's dead,' she sobbed. "'He is so very old, I don't wonder,' I murmured; 'but perhaps he's not. I'll fetch Father.' "My father and Kitty were soon on the spot. Kitty was as strong as a man; and they carried Father Christmas between them into the kitchen. There he quickly revived. "I must do Kitty the justice to say that she did not utter a word of complaint at this disturbance of her labours; and that she drew the old man's chair close up to the oven with her own hand. She was so much affected by the behaviour of his dog, that she admitted him even to the hearth; on which puss, being acute enough to see how matters stood, lay down with her back so close to the spaniel's that Kitty could not expel one without kicking both. "For our parts, we felt sadly anxious about the tree; otherwise we could have wished for no better treat than to sit at Kitty's round table taking tea with Father Christmas. Our usual fare of thick bread and treacle was to-night exchanged for a delicious variety of cakes, which were none the worse to us for being 'tasters and wasters'--that is, little bits of dough, or shortbread, put in to try the state of the oven, and certain cakes that had got broken or burnt in the baking. "Well, there we sat, helping Old Father Christmas to tea and cake, and wondering in our hearts what could have become of the tree. But you see, young people, when I was a child, parents were stricter than they are now. Even before Kitty died (and she has been dead many a long year) there was a change, and she said that 'children got to think anything became them.' I think we were taught more honest shame about certain things than I often see in little boys and girls now. We were ashamed of boasting, or being greedy, or selfish; we were ashamed of asking for anything that was not offered to us, and of interrupting grown-up people, or talking about ourselves. Why, papas and mammas now-a-days seem quite proud to let their friends see how bold and greedy and talkative their children can be! A lady said to me the other day, 'You wouldn't believe, Mr. Garbel, how forward dear little Harry is for his age. He has his word in everything, and is not a bit shy! and his papa never comes home from town but Harry runs to ask him if he's brought him a present. Papa says he'll be the ruin of him!' "'Madam,' said I, 'even without your word for it, I am quite aware that your child is forward. He is forward and greedy and intrusive, as you justly point out, and I wish you joy of him when those qualities are fully developed. I think his father's fears are well founded.' "But, bless me! now-a-days it's 'Come and tell Mr. Smith what a fine boy you are, and how many houses you can build with your bricks,' or, 'The dear child wants everything he sees,' or 'Little pet never lets Mamma alone for a minute; does she, love?' But in my young days it was, 'Self-praise is no recommendation' (as Kitty used to tell me), or, 'You're knocking too hard at No. One' (as my father said when we talked about ourselves), or, 'Little boys should be seen but not heard' (as a rule of conduct 'in company'), or, 'Don't ask for what you want, but take what's given you and be thankful.' "And so you see, young people, Patty and I felt a delicacy in asking Old Father Christmas about the tree. It was not till we had had tea three times round, with tasters and wasters to match, that Patty said very gently, 'It's quite dark now.' And then she heaved a deep sigh. "Burning anxiety overcame me. I leant towards Father Christmas, and shouted--I had found out that it was needful to shout-- "'I suppose the candles are on the tree now?' "'Just about putting of 'em on,' said Father Christmas. "'And the presents, too?' said Patty. "'Aye, aye, _to_ be sure,' said Father Christmas, and he smiled delightfully. "I was thinking what farther questions I might venture upon, when he pushed his cup towards Patty, saying, 'Since you are so pressing, miss, I'll take another dish.' "And Kitty, swooping on us from the oven, cried, 'Make yourself at home, sir; there's more where these came from. Make a long arm, Miss Patty, and hand them cakes.' "So we had to devote ourselves to the duties of the table; and Patty, holding the lid with one hand and pouring out with the other, supplied Father Christmas's wants with a heavy heart. "At last he was satisfied. I said grace, during which he stood, and indeed he stood for some time afterwards with his eyes shut--I fancy under the impression that I was still speaking. He had just said a fervent 'Amen,' and reseated himself, when my father put his head into the kitchen, and made this remarkable statement-- "'Old Father Christmas has sent a tree to the young people.' "Patty and I uttered a cry of delight, and we forthwith danced round the old man, saying, 'Oh, how nice! Oh, how kind of you!' which I think must have bewildered him, but he only smiled and nodded. "'Come along,' said my father. 'Come, children. Come, Reuben. Come, Kitty.' "And he went into the parlour, and we all followed him. "My godmother's picture of a Christmas-tree was very pretty; and the flames of the candles were so naturally done in red and yellow, that I always wondered that they did not shine at night. But the picture was nothing to the reality. We had been sitting almost in the dark, for, as Kitty said, 'Firelight was quite enough to burn at meal-times.' And when the parlour door was thrown open, and the tree, with lighted tapers on all the branches, burst upon our view, the blaze was dazzling, and threw such a glory round the little gifts, and the bags of coloured muslin with acid drops, and pink rose drops, and comfits inside, as I shall never forget. We all got something; and Patty and I, at any rate, believed that the things came from the stores of Old Father Christmas. We were not undeceived even by his gratefully accepting a bundle of old clothes which had been hastily put together to form his present. "We were all very happy; even Kitty, I think, though she kept her sleeves rolled up, and seemed rather to grudge enjoying herself (a weak point in some energetic characters). She went back to her oven before the lights were out, and the angel on the top of the tree taken down. She locked up her present (a little work-box) at once. She often showed it off afterwards, but it was kept in the same bit of tissue-paper till she died. Our presents certainly did not last so long! "The old man died about a week afterwards, so we never made his acquaintance as a common personage. When he was buried, his little dog came to us. I suppose he remembered the hospitality he had received. Patty adopted him, and he was very faithful. Puss always looked on him with favour. I hoped during our rambles together in the following summer that he would lead us at last to the cave where Christmas-trees are dressed. But he never did. "Our parents often spoke of his late master as 'old Reuben,' but children are not easily disabused of a favourite fancy, and in Patty's thoughts and in mine the old man was long gratefully remembered as OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS." THE END. * * * * * _The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform Edition published._ _It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series will be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover was specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing._ _The following is a list of the books included in the Series_-- 1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES. 2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES. 4. A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING. 5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES. 6. SIX TO SIXTEEN. 7. LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES. 8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL. 9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS. 10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS, &c. 11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER TALES. 12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES OF BEASTS AND MEN. 13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I. 14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II. 15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE--THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS. 17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the Bloody Hand--Wonder Stories--Tales of the Khoja, and other translations. 18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing's Letters. S.P.C.K., Northumberland Avenue, London, W.C. 
19826	----	THE WHITE CHRISTMAS AND OTHER MERRY CHRISTMAS PLAYS BY WALTER BEN HARE AUTHOR OF THE PLAYS "_Aaron Boggs, Freshman_," "_Abbu San of Old Japan_," "_Civil Service_," "_A College Town_," "_Kicked Out of College_," "_Macbeth à la Mode_," "_Mrs. Tubbs of Shantytown_," "_Parlor Matches_," "_A Poor Married Man_," "_My Irish Rose_," "_A Rustic Romeo_," "_Savageland_," "_A Southern Cinderella_," etc. ILLUSTRATED BY BUCKTON NENDICK CHICAGO T.S. DENISON & COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1917 BY EBEN H. NORRIS MADE IN U.S.A. [Illustration: From "ANITA'S SECRET OR CHRISTMAS IN THE STEERAGE"] THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED WITH THE BEST WISHES OF THE AUTHOR TO FRANCES MAAS ULLMANN THE ORIGINAL "ANITA" AND LUDWIG BLOCK ULLMANN THE ORIGINAL "JOLLY JACK FROST" * * * * * "I have always thought of Christmas time ... as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time ... when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely ...; and I say, God bless it!" CHARLES DICKENS. FOREWORD In these little plays I have tried to bring before the public the two dominant characteristics of the ideal Christmas season, kindness, expressed by "good will toward men," and the inward joy wrought by kind acts, and suggested by "peace on earth." As Yuletide draws near we like to think of the swell of Christmas feeling, kindness, peace and good will, that rises like a mighty tide over the world, filling it with the fresh, clean joys and generous impulses that produce the peace that passeth understanding. Some of the plays are filled with the spirit of fun and jollity that is always associated with Christmas merrymaking; in others I have tried to emphasize the spiritual blessings brought to the children of men on that first white Christmas night when Christ, the Lord, was born in Bethlehem, and all the angels sang, "Gloria in excelsis, peace on earth, good will toward men." CHILDREN IN PLAYS. The love of mimetic representation, either as a participant or as a spectator, is an ineradicable instinct of childhood and adolescence. Most of these plays call for a somewhat large number of children. This need not daunt the producer as the chief characters are few and many of the parts have very few lines to speak. Many extra children may be introduced in several of the plays, as a chorus. At Christmas time, the children's season, it is best to allow all who so desire to take part in the entertainment. Some of the parts are rather long, but all have been played by children of the age indicated in the text. Very little children have sometimes done remarkable work in the plays. I remember one instance when a very tiny Tiny Tim, who was not four years old, spoke his part correctly, was heard in every corner of the church and acted with a naturalness that was indeed remarkable. REHEARSALS. First and foremost, do _not_ over-rehearse your play. The chief charm in Christmas plays lies in their naturalness and simplicity, a part of which is almost sure to be lost if they have rehearsed the play until they have lost their wonder and excitement and enjoyment in the make-believe game of amateur theatricals. The director's aim should be to establish a happy co-operation with the players that will make the whole production, rehearsals, dress rehearsals and final performance, a series of good times crowned by a happy, if not perfect, production. The director should always strive to be cheerful and happy, ever ready to give advice and ever ready to ask for advice, even from the youngest players. Take them into your confidence. Discuss color schemes, costuming, property making, lighting and scenic effects with your actors. At the first rehearsal have the children listen to a reading of the play. Then read a short scene in detail, allowing each actor to read several parts. Try every child in every child's part before you make your final selection of the cast of characters. If it is possible, begin your second rehearsal on the stage where the play is to be given. Arrange chairs to represent entrances, doors, windows, etc., and have all properties on hand, in order to impress on the children's minds the necessity of learning the words and the action at the same time. At the third rehearsal the play should be given in its entirety, music, gestures, entrances, exits, groupings and crossing from one side of the stage to another at a given cue, etc. In fact, everything as in the completed production, except that the actors may use their copies of the play for reading the lines. DELAYS. The director should make every effort to guard against stage waits and delays of every sort. Have your stage hands, prompter, property managers, scene painters and all your assistants on hand at every rehearsal, if possible. Long waits between the acts, tardiness in beginning the performance, and all delays do much to destroy an otherwise happy impression. Every piece of scenery, every costume, every bit of make-up and every property should be in its place--all ready to make a smooth final performance. Dress rehearsals are absolutely necessary. The last two rehearsals should be complete performances of the play with lights, curtains, costumes, make-up, scenery and all incidentals exactly as they are to be on the night of the performance. With such preparation, scarcely anything is impossible of attainment. The pleasure of the work and the pride in a production well done will amply repay an ungrudging lavishment of time and labor. WALTER BEN HARE. _Drury College_, _Springfield, Mo._ * * * * * STAGE DIRECTIONS. Stage directions are purposely simplified and few abbreviations used. _R._ means right of the stage: _C._, center; _L._, left, etc. The actor is supposed to be facing the audience. MUSIC. Music is provided for a few of the songs in this book. The others are to be sung to old airs that are presumably familiar to everyone. If any of them should prove unfamiliar, the music of all except some of the hymns will be found in Denison's "_Songs Worth While_," one of the best arranged and most carefully edited collections of old favorites ever published. This book is beautifully printed on non-glossy paper, measuring 7 by 10-1/4 inches, and is well bound in a stout paper cover done in colors. It may be obtained from the publishers for the price of $1.00, postpaid. For all the hymns not included in "_Songs Worth While_," see any standard church hymnal. CONTENTS The White Christmas (8 Male, 7 Female Adults) 13 Anita's Secret or Christmas in the Steerage (1 Male Adult, 9 Boys, 7 Girls) 49 Christmas With the Mulligan's (2 Female Adults, 5 Boys, 5 Girls) 93 The Wishing Man (4 Male Adults, 13 Boys, 7 Girls) 131 A Christmas Carol or the Miser's Yuletide Dream (10 Male, 5 Female Adults, 4 Boys, 4 Girls) 167 Her Christmas Hat (4 Male, 5 Female Adults) 203 THE WHITE CHRISTMAS [Illustration: JOSEPH MARY SIMEON TIMOTHY ISAAC ANNA THOMAS RUTH RACHEL DEBORAH PRISCILLA MELCHOIR GASPAR BALTASAR PROLOGUE] THE WHITE CHRISTMAS A CHRISTMAS MORALITY PLAY IN ONE ACT. _Originally produced by the Quadrangle Club of the University of Missouri, Christmas Eve, 1909._ CHARACTERS. MARY _The Maiden Mother_ JOSEPH _Of the House of David_ SIMEON _An Old Shepherd_ TIMOTHY _A Shepherd, the Husband of Anna_ ISAAC _A Young Shepherd_ ANNA _The Wife of Timothy, the Shepherd_ THOMAS _Her Little Son_ RUTH _Her Little Daughter_ DEBORAH _Hostess of an Inn at Bethlehem_ RACHEL _A Maiden of Bethlehem_ PRISCILLA _Her Cousin_ MELCHOIR } GASPAR } _The Wise Men from the East._ BALTASAR } _A Concealed Choir. The Prologue._ _For description of costumes, arrangement of the scene, etc., see "Remarks on the Production" at the end of the play._ TIME OF PLAYING--_About One Hour._ * * * * * SCENE I: _Before the play begins the_ PROLOGUE _steps in front of the curtains and addresses the congregation._ PROLOGUE. The earth has grown old with its burden of care, But at Christmas it always is young, The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair, And its soul, full of music, bursts forth on the air, When the song of the angels is sung. It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming tonight! On the snowflakes which cover thy sod The feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white, And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delight, That mankind are the children of God. On the sad and the lonely, the wretched and poor, The voice of the Christ Child shall fall; And to every blind wanderer open the door Of hope that he dared not to dream of before, With a sunshine of welcome for all. --_Phillips Brooks._ And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Cæsar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria. And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David. To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife.... And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. (_Exit_ PROLOGUE.) (_Soft chimes. As these chimes die away in the distance a concealed choir is heard singing._) O COME, COME, AWAY. O come, come away From labor now reposing, Let busy care a while forbear; O come, come away. (_The front curtains are drawn, showing a winter street in Bethlehem. No one appears on the stage, but the choir continues singing outside at right front._) Come, come, our social joys renew, And thus where trust and friendship grew, Let true hearts welcome you, O come, come away. RACHEL _and_ PRISCILLA _enter from the inn at right front, arm in arm. They go to the center, then to the rear of the stage, turn and face the inn, pause a moment or two, listening to the choir, and then go out at rear left. The choir continues:_ From toils and the cares On which the day is closing, The hour of eve brings sweet reprieve, O come, come away. O come where love will smile on thee, And round its hearth will gladness be, And time fly merrily, O come, come away. _While the choir is singing the last three lines of the song_, SIMEON _and_ ISAAC _enter from rear left, leaning on their shepherd's crooks. They pause at rear center and listen to the singing. When the song is finished the organ continues the same music softly._ SIMEON. Make haste, my son, the hour is waxing late, The night is cold, methinks our sheep await. ISAAC. Nay gran'ther, I would liefer tarry here. The town is gay, the inns are full of cheer. SIMEON (_points to rear right_). But there our duty lies, the wind grows cold! Come, let's away and put the sheep in fold. (_Starts off right._) ISAAC. Nay, Simeon, wait! What means this crowd of men And women here in peaceful Bethlehem? SIMEON (_comes to him_). Herod the King hath issued a decree That each and all his subjects taxèd be; And every one who in this town saw light Must here return and register tonight. From all Judea, aye, from th' distant land, Each Bethlehemite must come at his command. ISAAC (_comes to the doorway of the inn and peers in_). The town is full of people, great and small, Each inn is crowded to its very wall. SIMEON (_comes down center and takes his arm_). But come, we're wasting time, 'tis very late. Make haste, my son, I know the flocks await! ISAAC. Thou speakest true, though I would rather stay, Our duty calls, so to the hills, away! (_They go out at rear right._) _The concealed choir repeats the first stanza of the song softly. After a slight pause_ DEBORAH _enters from the inn._ DEBORAH (_coming down to right front_). My inn is crowded to the doors. The heat Is stifling, but out here the air is sweet. (_Looks upward._) The bright stars twinkle with mysterious light, Methinks there's something strange about the night. _She sits on the bench in front of the inn._ TIMOTHY _enters from rear left._ DEBORAH _continues her soliloquy._ The air is still, the night is very cold, The shepherds seek the hills to watch the fold. (_Sees him._) (TIMOTHY _goes out at rear R._) DEBORAH. Some strange, unearthly voice seems calling me, Methinks this night portends great things to be. _Enter_ RACHEL _and_ PRISCILLA _from rear right, then come down center and address the hostess._ RACHEL. Hail, hostess of the inn, my cousin here Hath lodgings at your inn. We'd seek its cheer. DEBORAH (_rises_). Enter within. My guests tonight are gay And fain would turn this winter's night to day. RACHEL _and_ PRISCILLA _enter the inn, followed by_ DEBORAH. _The organ music continues softly. After a slight pause enter_ ANNA _from rear left. She leads_ RUTH _and_ THOMAS _by the hand._ THOMAS (_at rear center_). Oh, mother, hark! There's music in the inn! ANNA. 'Tis not for us--their noise and merry din. RUTH. Our little town is crowded, joyous, gay. THOMAS. So many travelers came this way today. RUTH. The night is chill and cold, I much do fear The little sheep will shiver by the mere. ANNA. Too cold it is for thee, I fear, in truth, Return and get thy cloak, my little Ruth. We'll wait for thee upon the little hill. (_Points off R._) But speed thy steps, the cold will work thee ill. RUTH. I'll fly, dear mother, like an arrow home. (_Runs out at L._) ANNA. We must not tarry. Come, my Thomas, come! (_She leads him out at rear R. There is a pause. The music changes to a mysterious plaintive air. The old German song, Holy Night, may be effectively introduced as an organ solo._) _Enter from rear right,_ JOSEPH, _walking with a staff and supporting_ MARY. MARY. Here is a place, now I must rest awhile! For many a league, for many a weary mile, We've trudged along since break of day began. JOSEPH. 'Tis true, and I'm an old and ancient man, My joints are stiff, my bones are waxing old-- And the long night is bitter, bitter cold. Here take my cloak and keep thee warm within, And wait thee here while I search out an inn. (_He wraps his cloak around her and seats her on the bench or stool in front of the manger. He goes out at rear left. The music changes to the Magnificat, to be found in all Episcopal hymnals._) MARY (_sings_). My soul doth magnify the Lord: and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. For he hath regarded: the lowliness of his handmaiden. For behold, from henceforth: all generations shall call me blessed. For he that is mighty has magnified me: and holy is his Name. And his mercy is on them that fear him: throughout all generations. He hath showed strength with his arm: he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seat: and hath exalted the humble and meek. He hath filled the hungry with good things: and the rich he hath sent empty away. He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel: as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed, forever. _Enter_ JOSEPH _from rear L._ JOSEPH. For hours I've trudged the street in fruitless quest, Here is an inn, mayhap at last we'll rest. _Enter_ DEBORAH _from the inn._ MARY. Husband, I'm faint; I can no farther go. Methinks I'll rest me here upon this loe. (_Sits in front of the manger._) JOSEPH (_assisting her_). Have courage, Mary, here's the hostess here. (_Comes to_ DEBORAH _at right._) We'd lodge with thee tonight. DEBORAH. Alas, I fear My inn is crowded to the very wall, Soldiers and scribes, the rich, the great, the small! JOSEPH. Is there room for us? My wife is ill. DEBORAH. My heart is sad and it is not my will To send you hence, but naught is left to do. Perhaps some other inn will shelter you. JOSEPH. Alas, the other inns are all the same! DEBORAH. Never was seen the like in Bethlehem. (_Laughter and noise at R._) My guests are merry, hear their jovial din! (_Goes to R._) I pity you, there's no room at the inn. (_Exits into the inn._) MARY. Our last hope gone! Now, what shall we do? My strength is leaving! (_Bows head._) JOSEPH. Would I could succor you. I'll wrap thee warm. Now rest thee here a while. We've traveled far, full many a weary mile. _Enter_ RUTH _from rear L., hurrying along._ JOSEPH. Maiden, I fain would stop thee in thy flight-- Can'st tell where we could lodge this winter night? RUTH. That inn is crowded. There's one upon the hill. JOSEPH. I've tried them all, my wife is very ill. RUTH. That little stable there upon the loe, (_Points to L front._) 'Tis snug and warm. 'Twill shield thee from the snow. MARY (_rises_). God's blessing on thy little head, sweet child! Come, Joseph, for the wind now waxes wild. (_Exits L. front._) (JOSEPH _leads her to exit L., then turns and looks off R._) JOSEPH. O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by. Yet in thy dark streets shineth (_Turns toward manger._) The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee tonight. (RUTH _stands at rear C., watching him._) _The curtains slowly fall._ Scene II: _Hymn by the congregation._ WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS. While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground. The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around, And glory shone around. "Fear not," said he,--for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind, "Glad tidings of great joy I bring, To you and all mankind, To you and all mankind." "To you in David's town this day, Is born of David's line, The Saviour, who is Christ, the Lord, And this shall be the sign, And this shall be the sign." "The heav'nly babe you there shall find To human view displayed, All meanly wrapped in swathing bands, And in a manger laid, And in a manger laid." Thus spake the seraph--and forthwith Appeared a shining throng Of angels, praising God, who thus Addressed their joyful song, Addressed their joyful song:-- "All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace; Good will henceforth, from heav'n to men, Begin and never cease, Begin and never cease." _The_ PROLOGUE _appears before the curtains and speaks._ PROLOGUE. There's scarlet holly on the streets, and silver mistletoe; The surging, jeweled, ragged crowds forever come and go. And here a silken woman laughs, and there a beggar asks-- And, oh, the faces, tense of lip, like mad and mocking masks. Who thinks of Bethlehem today, and one lone winter night? Who knows that in a manger-bed there breathed a Child of Light? There's fragrant scent of evergreen upon the chilling air; There's tinsel tawdriness revealed beneath the sunlight's glare; There's Want and Plenty, Greed and Pride--a hundred thousand souls, And, oh, the weary eyes of them, like dull and sullen coals. Who knows the town of Bethlehem, once gleamed beneath the star, Whose wondrous light the shepherds saw watching their flocks afar? And yet above the city streets, above the noise and whir, There seems to come a fragrant breath of frankincense and myrrh. I saw a woman, bent and wan, and on her face a light The look that Mary might have worn that other Christmas night. And as the little children passed, and one lad turned and smiled, I saw within his wistful eyes the spirit of the Child. --_Caroline Reynolds._ And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us. And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. (_Exit_ PROLOGUE _at L._) (_Soft chimes are heard. The_ SHEPHERDS, _accompanied by the concealed choir, are heard singing:_) LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark and I am far from home; Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me. _As the_ SHEPHERDS _begin on the second stanza of the hymn, the curtains rise disclosing the same scene as before._ SIMEON, TIMOTHY _and_ ISAAC _discovered seated in a group at rear center, singing._ THOMAS _stands by his father._ So long Thy pow'r hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone, And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost a-while. SIMEON. Methought I heard a whir of wings on high. TIMOTHY. I see naught save the snow and starry sky. ISAAC. We've come a long and mighty step today, From o'er the frosty hills and far away. THOMAS (_pointing over the manger_). Look, father, dost thou see that shining star That seems to stand above the town so far? 'Tis like a wondrous blossom on a stem, And see, it ever shines o'er Bethlehem! TIMOTHY. A brighter star, I'm sure I never saw-- And perfect form, without a speck or flaw. SIMEON. A stranger star! It never shone before, It standeth still above that stable door. _Enter_ ANNA _and_ RUTH _from rear left._ ANNA _carries a little lamb._ ANNA (_joining the group_). Look ye, I've found a little lamb new-born. TIMOTHY. Poor little beastie! Wrap him well and warm. SIMEON. An ill night to be born in, frost and snow, Naught but cold skies above, cold earth below. I marvel any little creature should be born On such a night. ANNA. I found it all forlorn, Crying beside its mother in the storm. SIMEON (_comes down a little to right front_). Hark, I thought I heard a sound of mighty wings! Listen! Is it the winter sky that sings? ISAAC (_with the group at rear center_). Nay, gran'ther, I heard naught. You're old and gray And weary with the miles you've walked today. SIMEON. At noon I met a man who tarried in the shade, He led a mule, and riding it a maid-- A maiden with a face I'll ne'er forget, A wondrous face, I seem to see it yet Lit with an inward shining, as if God Had set a lighted lamp within her soul. Many have passed all day, but none like these, And no face have I ever seen like hers. TIMOTHY. Belike the man and maid were strangers here, And come to Bethlehem at the king's command. RUTH (_comes down to_ SIMEON _and takes his hand_). Methinks I met that very man and maid-- A maiden with such wondrous dove-like eyes, I saw them near this place, all tired and worn, Trudging about the town, seeking an inn. SIMEON. And did they find one? RUTH. Nay, not so! For every inn was crowded to its doors. Hard by Deborah's inn there is a little barn, All full of cattle, oxen, cooing doves-- I showed it to them, and they went therein. THOMAS (_standing at rear L. with_ ANNA). Mother, that star! That wondrous, wondrous light, (_Points up._) It turns the night to day, it shines so bright I am afraid! It cannot be that any star, Only a star, can give so great a light. It frightens me. ANNA. All things are strange tonight. The very sheep are restless in their fold, They watch the star and do not mind the cold. SIMEON (_puts hand to right ear, bends toward right and listens_). Again I heard a singing in the sky! TIMOTHY. You heard the tinkling bell of some stray sheep, The night grows late, come let us all to sleep. SIMEON. Yea, all ye lie down and take your rest, I'll keep the watch alone, this night is blest. (_The others recline at the rear._) ANNA (_comes to_ SIMEON). Here, take the little sheep and keep it warm. (_Lies down._) SIMEON. Poor little new-born beast, I'll guard from harm. Again I marvel that you should be born On such a night, poor little lamb forlorn. (SIMEON _walks toward the manger with the sheep in his arms. The others sleep._) The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. (_Soft Music._) Hark! There's music in the wind! And that strange light There in the east, it brightens all the night! I seem to hear again the whir of wings, Awake, awake! It is an angel sings! (_He arouses the others. They listen wonderingly, standing or reclining._) VOICE (_an unseen soprano chants softly_). Glory to God in the highest! Fear not! For behold I bring you glad tidings Of great joy. For unto you is born this day In the city of David, a Saviour Which is Christ, the Lord. And this shall be the sign unto you: Ye shall find the heavenly Babe Wrapped in swaddling clothes, Lying in a manger. Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, Good will toward men! TIMOTHY. 'Twas a fine voice, even as ever I heard. ANNA. The hills, as with lightning, shone at his word. SIMEON. He spoke of a Babe here in Bethlehem. That betokens yon star! Full glad would I be, Might I kneel on my knee, Some word to say to that Child. TIMOTHY. See! In the east there breaks the day. ANNA. Let us tarry no longer; away, then, away! (ANNA _goes out at rear, behind the stable, with_ TIMOTHY, RUTH _and_ THOMAS.) ISAAC. Come, gran'ther, let us go and see this thing! SIMEON. But first get gifts to take the new-born King! Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, Good will toward men. (_They follow the others out at rear._) _The curtains fall._ SCENE III: _Hymn by the congregation:_ HARK! THE HERALD ANGELS SING. Hark! The herald angels sing, "Glory to the new-born King! Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled." Joyful, all ye nations, rise, Join the triumph of the skies; With th' angelic host proclaim, "Christ is born in Bethlehem." Christ, by highest Heaven adored; Christ, the everlasting Lord; Late in time behold Him come, Offspring of the favored one. Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see; Hail th' incarnate Deity: Pleased, as man with men to dwell, Jesus, our Immanuel. Hail! The Heav'n-born Prince of Peace! Hail! The Son of Righteousness! Light and life to all He brings, Risen with healing in His wings. Mild He lays His glory by, Born that man no more may die: Born to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them second birth. _Enter_ PROLOGUE _before the closed curtains._ PROLOGUE. Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him. When Herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him. And when he had gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people together, he demanded of them where Christ should be born. And they said unto him, In Bethlehem of Judea: for thus it is written by the prophet, And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Juda, art not the least among the princes of Juda: for out of thee shall come a Governor, that shall rule my people Israel. Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them diligently what time the star appeared. And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also. When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. _The White Christmas._ As the three wise men rode on that first Christmas night to find the manger-cradled Babe of Bethlehem, they bore gifts on their saddle-bows. Gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. And so the spirit of Christmas giving crept into the world's heart. We bring our gifts to the children. Rich children, poor children! The children of the high and the children of the humble! Poor little sick children--and the ragged children of the slums of our cities. Let us remember them all. So go ye, all of ye, into the highways and byways, and seek out the poor and the distressed, the humble and the afflicted, seek out the ragged children and the outcasts and the aged ones, and in the name of Him who was born on Christmas day, carry some sunshine into their hearts! Give unto the poor and the afflicted, and your hearts shall glow with that inward peace that passeth all understanding. Then--and then only--will you be able to sing with all the company of Heaven, Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth, good will toward men! And this will be your pure white Christmas. (_Exit_ PROLOGUE _at L._) _Soft chimes are heard. The curtains are drawn, disclosing the same scene as before._ DEBORAH _sits before her inn, deep in thought._ DEBORAH (_reading a scroll_). This is the ancient prophecy. Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel. Butter and honey shall he eat, that he may know to refuse the evil and choose the good. For before the child shall know to refuse the evil, and choose the good, the land that thou abhorrest shall be forsaken of both her kings. _Enter_ GASPAR _from behind the inn. He comes down center._ GASPAR. I pray thee, tell me, Lady Bethlehemite, If any wonders you have seen this night? DEBORAH (_rises_). I've seen a wondrous silver shaft of light Come from a star, and blinded is my sight. GASPAR. Tell me, for thou art native of this place, What dost thou know about the King of Grace-- King of the Jews? DEBORAH. Aye, in Jerusalem He dwells, and not in Bethlehem. He sits upon his mighty judgment throne, Cruel and stern, his heart a living stone. GASPAR. I mean a new-born King, of love and peace; His is the star--His reign shall never cease. DEBORAH. All things tonight seem passing strange to me, I have just read an ancient prophecy That this, our Bethlehem, King David's town, Shall be the birthplace, e'er of great renown, Of one called Councillor of King David's line Whose coming is foretold in words divine. And now you come with words of mystery! (_Muses._) Why should thy questions, which are dark to me, Cause me to think of Him? GASPAR. The star! The star! No more it moves about the heavens afar, It standeth still. O, hostess, kneel and pray, For Jesus Christ, the Lord, is born today! (_Hurries out right._) DEBORAH. His words are fraught with mystery; I'll within And seek protection in my humble inn. (_Exits right front._) _After a short pause_, MELCHOIR, GASPAR _and_ BALTASAR _enter from rear right._ MELCHOIR. Three kings came riding from far away, Melchoir, Gaspar and Baltasar; Three wise men out of the east were they, And they traveled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. BALTASAR. The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere; And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in prophecy. GASPAR. Of the child that is born, O Baltasar, I begged a woman to tell us the news; I said in the east we had seen His star, And had ridden fast and had ridden far To find and worship the King of the Jews. --_Adapted from Longfellow._ MELCHOIR. Brothers, our quest is ended; see the star Is standing still over this lowly hut. BALTASAR. Methinks it is a stable. Knock and see! GASPAR (_knocks on the door of the manger_). What ho, within! JOSEPH _enters from the L. rear._ JOSEPH. Sirs, whom seek ye? MELCHOIR. We have journeyed from afar Led by the shining of yon splendid star. We are Gaspar, Melchoir and Baltasar. BALTASAR. We seek a new-born King, Gold, frankincense to him we bring. And many a kingly offering. JOSEPH _draws back the curtain and reveals the interior of the manger._ MARY _is seen bending over the crib. The_ SHEPHERDS _are kneeling in the background. Very soft music heard in the distance, with faintly chiming bells at intervals._ GASPAR. Behold, the child is clothed in light! MELCHOIR. Our journey ends, passed is the night. BALTASAR. Now let us make no more delay, But worship Him right worthily. (_They enter the manger and kneel._) SIMEON. Hail, hail, dear child Of a maiden meek and mild. See, he merries! See, he smiles, my sweeting, I give thee greeting! Have a bob of cherries. (_Places a spray of cherries on the crib._) TIMOTHY. Hail, little One we've sought, See, a bird I've brought, See its feathers gay. Hail, little One adored, Hail, blessed King and Lord, Star of the day! (_Places a bird on the crib._) ISAAC. Hail, little One, so dear, My heart is full of cheer, A little ball I bring, Reach forth thy fingers gay, And take the ball and play, My blessed King. (_Places a ball on the crib._) _Enter all others from the Inn. They kneel outside the manger._ ALL (_sing, with concealed choir_). CHRISTMAS CAROL. (_See page 169_) Christ was born on Christmas day, Wreathe the holly, twine the bay, Light and life and joy is He-- The Babe, the Son, The Holy One Of Mary. He is born to set us free; He is born our Lord to be; Carol, Christians, joyfully; The God, the Lord, By all adored Forever. Let the bright red berries glow, Everywhere in goodly show, Life and light and joy is He, The Babe, the Son, The Holy One Of Mary. Christian men, rejoice and sing; 'Tis the birthday of our King, Carol, Christians, joyfully; The God, the Lord, By all adored Forever. THE THREE KINGS. Hail, King of Kings! GASPAR. I bring Thee a crown, O King of Kings, And here a scepter full of gems, For Thou shalt rule the hearts of men. (_Places crown and scepter on crib._) MELCHOIR. For Thee I bring sweet frankincense! (_He swings a smoking censor._) BALTASAR. And I bring myrrh to offer Thee! (_Places casket on the crib._) GASPAR. The greatest gift is yet ungiven, The gift that cometh straight from Heaven. O, Heavenly King, Heart's love we bring. MELCHOIR. Not gold nor gems from land or sea Is worth the love we offer Thee. BALTASAR. And lowly folk who have no gold, Nor gift to offer that is meet, May bring the dearest thing of all-- A loving heart and service sweet. (_All join in singing "Joy to the World."_) _Curtain falls._ THE WHITE CHRISTMAS. WHAT IT MEANS. How to make a pleasant, _helpful_ Christmas for the Sunday School is an annual problem. A tree with gifts, Santa Claus coming down the chimney, a treat of candy and nuts--these and many other schemes have been tried with a greater or less degree of success. But the criticism is often made that the true significance of the celebration of the birth of Christ is lost in the mere idea of bartering Christmas presents. "She didn't give me anything last year, so I'm not going to give her anything this year." One wise superintendent determined to teach his Sunday School pupils the precious lesson of the beauty of giving. He called his teachers together a few weeks before Christmas and proposed to eliminate entirely the idea of "getting something," and in its stead to try to teach something of the true spirit of Christmas, the blessedness of giving. The children were told that while at home they would receive all the usual presents, of course they would not get anything whatever from the Sunday School. The story of Jesus and how He gave His life, and how He liked best the gifts that cost us something, love, thought, foresight, charity, money--was told to the children and they were asked to save their pennies, instead of spending them for candy and nuts, to brighten the Christmas Day for God's poor and unfortunate. It was put to a vote and every little hand was raised, although it may be confessed that a few went up a little reluctantly. Teachers and young ladies met a few evenings later and made little stockings out of cheap cambric, with a cord put into the top of each in such a manner that it could be drawn together so the pennies would not be lost out. The stockings were about five inches long, and of various bright colors, and there were enough for every child. These were given out two weeks before Christmas. On Christmas Eve, near the close of the regular program, a large tree was disclosed, but without a single present on it. The Minister made a short talk on the joys of giving to the poor and the children marched up, singing a Christmas carol, and attached their little stocking-bags to the tree. Six little boys and girls passed among the congregation with larger stockings, collecting donations for the tree. These stockings had their tops neatly sewed around little circles of wire to keep them open. The program consisted of Christmas hymns and carols, interspersed with recitations--all breathing the spirit of the White Christmas. REMARKS ON THE PRODUCTION. SCENERY. Hang the rear and the sides of the stage with dark blue curtains, spangled with small silver bits of tinfoil, to represent very tiny stars. If the blue curtains are not available, use white sheets. Cover the floor with white sheets. Have two or three small evergreen trees at rear, covered with white calcimine and diamond powder. Soak long rags, shaped like icicles, in a strong solution of alum, and then let them crystallize, then attach them to the trees. [Illustration] Down right, near the audience, is a doorway, supposed to be the entrance to the inn. This may be simply an opening between two wooden columns, with a step or two leading in. A lantern hangs over the door. A small bench stands by the inn. Down left, near the audience, is the manger, a building extending out from left about seven feet. It has a back and one side of scenery or dark draperies and a thatched roof, covered with twigs or evergreen branches. There may be a door leading into the manger from the stage, but this is not necessary, as the characters can go out behind the manger. A front curtain, of dark goods, conceals the interior of the manger from the audience until it is withdrawn by Joseph. The interior of the manger is covered with hay. Rude boxes and farm implements all around. A large upturned chair with wooden legs may simulate the crib, if it is concealed by enough straw. An electric light bulb is concealed in this straw and shines on the face of Mary, bending over the crib. If desired, the manger scene may be presented in the choir loft, the manger hidden by curtains until revealed by Joseph. In this case have the evergreen trees at the left of the stage and arrange the manger scene at the rear and elevated above the other scene. This will prove most feasible in churches where the choir loft is immediately behind and above the platform. LIGHTS. Dim all the lights in the audience. Have a powerful searchlight, engine headlight or two powerful auto lights shining on the stage from a concealed elevation at the left. Shade these lights with a blue isinglass shield, thus casting a blue light over the entire stage. Use a strong yellow light on the manger scene, the rest of the stage being in darkness. PROPERTIES. If it is possible have bits of white confetti or finely cut paper fall from above during the shepherds' scene in Act II. The bases of the trees should be covered with cotton. Three rough crooks for the shepherds. Chimes to ring off the stage. A dinner gong or set of chimes will answer. For the lamb use a white muff, being careful to shield it from the direct gaze of the audience. A spray of cherries. A small bird of blue feathers. A ball. A crown and scepter made of gilded wood. A censor made of metallic butter dish suspended by chains. A fancy jewel case, supposed to contain myrrh. Bench in front of inn. Rude box in front of manger. COSTUMES. MARY--A sweet-faced blonde. Long tunic of light blue, falling straight from neck to the ankles. White stockings. Sandals. Hair in two long braids either side of face. White veil draped around head and shoulders, bound about the brow with circlet. Dark red mantle, fastened to left shoulder and draped around body. This mantle may trail on the ground. The tunic may be made of cotton crepon, the mantle of dyed muslin. JOSEPH--A virile, bearded man of about fifty. Sandals. Long black cassock, easily obtained from an Episcopal choir. Striped couch cover may serve as mantle. This should be draped about head and body. Long staff. SIMEON--An old man with white hair and beard. Tunic of potato sacking falling in straight folds from neck to ankles. Large gray shawl serves as mantle, draped on head and body. Long crook. Sandals. TIMOTHY--Man of forty. Costume similar to Isaac's. Striped mantle. ISAAC--Man of twenty. Shorter tunic similar to Simeon's. Fur rug draped over left shoulder. Dark red drapery on head. Sandals. Brown stripes criss-crossed on legs. Crook. ANNA--Long tunic of brown. Take a square white sheet and stripe it with bands of dark blue. This serves as a mantle, draped over head and body. Hair hanging. A woman of thirty-five. Sandals. If desired, a blue veil may be draped around the head and neck and the mantle draped over the body. THOMAS--A boy of seven. Sandals. Brown strips criss-crossed on legs from sandals to hips. Short white tunic cut like a boy's nightgown, but coming only to knees. Dark blue mantle. Small crook. RUTH--A girl of eleven. Blue tunic hanging in straight folds from neck to three or four inches above ankles. Border of figured goods, to simulate oriental embroidery, around bottom of robe and down the front. This should be about two inches wide. Sandals. White stockings. Hair hanging. White veil draped around head and shoulders. Later she enters with striped mantle. DEBORAH--A dignified matron of about forty-five. Sandals. Long kimono of solid color. Sash of yellow. Hair in two long braids on either side of face. Yellow drapery over head and shoulders. Rich striped mantle draped over the costume. RACHEL--Sandals. White tunic trimmed with red figured cloth to simulate oriental embroidery. Red sash. Wreath of red roses on head. Mantle made of a square white sheet with stripes of red sewed on it. Bracelets, armlets and anklets of silver paper. PRISCILLA--Sandals. Light green tunic. Dark green mantle. Gold paper armlets, etc. MELCHOIR--Tall, dark man with dark mustache. Long black cassock may be borrowed from an Episcopal Church. Over this is a red or yellow kimono. Sandals. Turban on head. This turban may be made from a calico covered crown of an old derby, with red and white striped rim. He wears many rich ornaments. Curtain chains around neck and on arms. This costume may sometimes be borrowed from a lodge of Shriners, Knights Templar, Royal Arch Masons or Odd Fellows. GASPAR--Similar to Melchoir. He is a young king aged about twenty-two. Wear white drapery on head and over it a golden (paper) crown. May wear sword. Sandals. BALTASAR--Old king with white hair. Long rich robe or kimono over a cassock. Red sash. Red head drapery. Golden crown. Sandals. ANGELS--Invisible to the audience. PROLOGUE--Stately lady in trailing Grecian robe of white. Hair powdered. This character should be played by a lady with distinct dramatic ability. NOTE.--If it is desired to simplify these costumes, kimonos, cassocks and cottas from Episcopal choirs, draperies of sheets and couch covers, and sandals made of a sole bound to foot with brown cloth cords, will answer admirably in the dim blue light. Nightgowns, dressing gowns, fur rugs, fur muffs opened, fur stoles, opera capes, spangled tunics, window cords and chains, etc., will make valuable substitutes for the oriental garments. ANITA'S SECRET OR CHRISTMAS IN THE STEERAGE [Illustration: SANTA CLAUS JACK FROST ANITA HULDA SERGIUS MEENY BIDDY MARY PADDY MIKE TOMASSO DUTCH TWINS NEELDA AH GOO YAKOB HANS MIEZE SANO SAN] ANITA'S SECRET OR CHRISTMAS IN THE STEERAGE A CHRISTMAS PLAY IN ONE ACT FOR SANTA CLAUS AND SIXTEEN CHILDREN. CHARACTERS. SANTA CLAUS _Adult_ JOLLY JACK FROST _Little Boy_ ANITA, _a Little Italian Immigrant_ _Aged Eight or Nine_ HULDA, _from Holland_ _Aged Ten_ SERGIUS, _from Russia_ _Aged Nine_ MEENY, _from Germany_ _Aged Seven_ BIDDY MARY, _from Ireland_ _Aged about Eight_ PADDY MIKE, _from Ireland_ _Aged about Seven_ KLINKER } _Little Dutch Twins_ SCHWILLIE WILLIE WINKUM} _Aged Four or Five_ NEELDA, _from Spain_ _Aged Five_ AH GOO, _from China_ _Little Boy_ YAKOB, _from Denmark_ _Aged Six_ HANS, _from Norway_ _Aged Four_ MIEZE, _from Germany_ _Aged Six_ SANO SAN, _from Japan_ _Little Girl_ * * * * * TIME OF PLAYING--_About One Hour and Fifteen Minutes._ COSTUMES, ETC. _For notes on costuming, scenery and properties, see "Remarks on the Production of the Play" at the end of the play._ ARGUMENT. It is the night before Christmas and the scene is on a big ocean-going vessel many miles out at sea. Down in the lower part of the ship, in the steerage, is a group of poor little immigrant children who are leaving the trials and troubles of the old world behind them and are looking forward to the golden promises held out by our own "land of the free and the home of the brave." But the hearts of the little immigrants are sad. It is the night before Christmas, and how could Santa Claus ever hope to reach them away out in the middle of the ocean? Even the sleigh and the magical reindeers could never be expected to make such a trip. Anita, a little Italian girl, alone has faith in the coming of the good Saint. She is wandering around the ship when all of a sudden, much to her surprise, she hears a mysterious noise in a great big barrel, and who should jump out but little Jack Frost himself. Jack assures her that Santa Claus really is coming to visit the ship, and more than that, he is going to make an especial trip in an air ship! And this is little Anita's secret. The children all fall asleep, but Anita keeps watch for the mysterious aeroplane that will bring joy to every little heart in the steerage, and, sure enough, just a little before midnight Anita and Jack Frost look through a telescope and see the lights of the approaching air ship. Soon Santa Claus himself is on board, and such a time as he and Anita and jolly Jack Frost have in arranging a wonderful Christmas surprise for the children. As an especial favor the good Saint decides to awaken the children himself very early on Christmas morning. The clock strikes twelve and it is Christmas Day. The bells of merry Christmas are heard chiming in the distance, and Santa Claus and jolly Jack Frost hold a Christmas morning revel with the little immigrant children away down in the steerage of the big vessel. * * * * * SCENE: _The steerage of a large ocean-going vessel. Entrances R. and L. Boxes and barrels down L. Box down R. Large barrel up L.C., with_ JOLLY JACK FROST _concealed therein._ HULDA _is seated on a small stool down R., taking care of_ KLINKER _and_ SCHWILLIE WILLIE WINKUM, _who are standing near her._ MEENY _is seated down L. on a box; she is knitting a woolen stocking._ SERGIUS, PADDY MIKE, TOMASSO, YAKOB _and_ AH GOO _are playing leapfrog at C. of stage._ HANS, MIEZE, NEELDA _and_ SANO SAN _stand at rear._ BIDDY MARY _is seated near_ HULDA; _she is peeling potatoes. All sing._ OPENING SONG. [Music illustration: 1. The ship is sail-ing ver-y fast, We can't go out to play; But Christmas Day is com-ing soon, It is-n't far a-way. 2. We're sail-ing to A-mer-i-ca, So far a-cross the sea, We're hap-py lit-tle im-mi-grants, Our hearts are light and free. 3. We're hap-py lit-tle for-eign-ers, From far a-cross the way, But soon we will be cit-i-zens Of dear old U.S.A. Then clap, clap, clap to-geth-er, Clap, clap, a-way; The steer-age is a hap-py place-- Tomorrow's Christmas Day.] (_On the words "clap, clap, clap together," the children hold left hand horizontally in front of their chests, palm upward, raising the right hand and bringing it down on the left with a sharp clap._ _Sing the first verse seated around stage. On the first four lines of the second verse nod heads and smile at audience. On the line "We're happy little immigrants," each one points to chest, nods head and smiles broadly._ _For the third verse all rise and stand in couples in small groups all around stage. On the first two lines of the third verse each one faces his partner slightly, nods at him and shakes index finger of right hand at partner. On "dear, old U.S.A." all make a deep bow to audience. After third verse is completed, all form a circle and skip around in time to the music, repeating the third verse. On "clap, clap, clap together," they stand still and clap hands as before. When the song is ended all resume former positions, as at the rise of the curtain, but the boys do not play leapfrog._) TOMASSO (_seated on floor at C._). Tomorrow comes the great, grand festival of Christmas, is it not, Paddy Mike? PADDY MIKE (_seated near him, nods his head_). Sure and it is. This is the holy Christmas Eve. MEENY (_seated down L., knitting stocking_). The night of the day behind Christmas is always Christmas Eve, ain't it? (_Nods head._) Sure it is. SCHWILLIE. Und tomorrow we gets lots of Christmas presents always, me und Klinker; don't we, Klinker? KLINKER. Sure we do. Leedle horses and pictures und candy und other things also; don't we, Schwillie Willie Winkum? HULDA. That was when we were at home in Holland. It's different, maybe, out here in this great big boat. Ven we get by the city of New York next week then maybe we'll get some presents already. KLINKER. But good Saint Nicholas always comes the night before Christmas; don't he, Schwillie Willie Winkum? SCHWILLIE. Sure. Won't he come tonight, Hulda? HULDA. How could he get way out here on the ocean already? Do you think he is a fish? We ain't living at home in Holland no more. We're way out on the Atlantic Ocean in a great big ship. MEENY. Ja, und I wish I was back at home already. So much have I been seasick, mit der ship going oop und down, oop und down! Ach, it's awful. (SERGIUS, TOMASSO, YAKOB, PADDY MIKE _and_ AH GOO _play jack-stones._) KLINKER. But Saint Nicholas ought to come tonight, Hulda. I been a awfully good boy, isn't I, Schwillie Willie Winkum? SCHWILLIE. Sure you is. Und I've been a awfully good boy, too. Isn't I, Klinker? KLINKER. Sure. We've been awfully good boys. HULDA. Maybe even if Saint Nicholas don't come tonight, you can see the great, big whale tomorrow. If he's a good whale he'll surely let the leedle Dutch twins see him on Christmas Day. MEENY. Oh, I vant to see der whale. I've looked und I've looked und I've looked, but I ain't even so much as seen his leedle tail yet already. Und it makes me seasick to look so much, too. BIDDY MARY. Are ye sure it was a whale ye saw that day, Sergius boy? SERGIUS. Of course I'm sure. It was awful big. The biggest fish I ever saw. Even in Russia we do not have such big fish as whales. Paddy Mike saw it, too. PADDY MIKE. Sure and I did. And me two eyes nearly fell out of me head with lookin' at it, it was that wonderful. He shot a big stream of water right up out of his head, he did, and then he dived down in the ocean again, and we didn't see him any more at all, at all. (MIEZE _and_ SANO SAN _turn backs to audience and look over the railing into the water._) HULDA (_to the twins_). There! Now if you get to see the great big whale, that's almost as good as having old Saint Nicholas come, ain't it? SCHWILLIE. Whales can't bring you no Christmas presents, can they, Klinker? KLINKER. Und whales you can see any time. I'd rather have Saint Nicholas, wouldn't I, Schwillie Willie Winkum? SERGIUS. Who is this Saint Nicholas they are looking for, Hulda? HULDA (_astonished_). Why, don't you know who he is yet? He's the best old man that ever was. Und he comes the night before Christmas und visits all the little children in Holland. MEENY (_proudly_). Und in Germany, too. (SERGIUS _goes to_ HULDA.) KLINKER. Und if they're good they get candy und oranges und toys und things, don't they, Schwillie Willie Winkum? SCHWILLIE. Und if they're bad, they get a good big birch stick. But I ain't been bad. I've been awfully good, isn't I, Klinker? KLINKER. Sure. Und me also. HULDA (_to_ SERGIUS). On Christmas Eve in Holland all the children march around the streets, following one who carries a big silver star. And the people who meet us give us money and gifts to help the poor. Oh, Christmas time is just grand in Holland! KLINKER. Und we set out our leedle wooden shoes und old Saint Nicholas fills 'em with candy. SCHWILLIE. Und we put a leedle bit of hay in our shoes for his good old horsie, Sleipner. Dot makes him happy. MEENY. In Germany we call him Santa Claus, und he comes riding in a sleigh drawn through the sky mit reindeers. Und we have Christmas trees all lighted mit candles und things, und full of toys und paper stars und angels und apples. But Santa Claus could never get out here in der middle of der ocean. If he did maybe he'd get seasick already, und all der reindeers would get drownded in der water. SERGIUS (_standing R.C._). In Russia there is an old woman named Babouska who visits all the children on the night before Christmas. She carries a big basket full of good things. TOMASSO (_seated on floor at C._). In sunny Italy the children all go to midnight church on Christmas Eve, and when we make ourselves awake on Christmas morning, our shoes are all full of candy and chestnuts and figs and oranges. But of course on a big ship like-a this we'll not get-a nothing at all. KLINKER (_crying_). But I want some presents already. SCHWILLIE (_crying_). Und me also. I want some presents, too. KLINKER. Und Saint Nicholas can't come. Oh, oh! He can't get out on the big ocean. SCHWILLIE. Maybe he could float out on a piece of ice yet. Could he, Hulda? HULDA. No. I don't think he's much of a floater. MEENY. If he did it would make him awful seasick. KLINKER. I wish we was landed in New York yet, so I do. SCHWILLIE. Where is Anita? She'll know. HULDA. Yes, Anita will know whether he is coming or not. She knows almost everything. PADDY MIKE (_standing at rear L._). Here comes Anita now, and sure she's having a grand time, so she is. ALL (_rising and going to rear, looking off L._). Here she comes. Hurrah for Anita. (_Music: The same as for the Opening Song._) TOMASSO (_calling_). Anita, Anita, come here quick. We want you. ANITA (_outside L._). I'm coming. Wait a minute. I'm coming. _Music swells louder._ ANITA _dances in from L., all sing as she dances around, waving her tambourine._ ALL (_singing to tune of the "Opening Song"_). We're sailing to America, Away across the sea, We're happy little immigrants, Our hearts are light and free. Then clap, clap, clap together, (_All skip around._) Clap, clap away; The steerage is a happy place-- Tomorrow's Christmas Day. ANITA (_comes forward to C. surrounded by the others_). Oh, I've just had the grandest time. It was so superb, magnificent, sublime! (_Extends arms in ecstasy._) I have-a been at the leetla window watching the great, grand, magnificent ocean. It was all so blue and so green and so purple--and the sinking sun is all shining on the great-a, beeg waves, like-a sparkling diamonds. (_Use elaborate gestures at all times._) And me, the poor, leetla Italian girl, gets to see all this great-a, grand-a ocean. It is superb, magnificent, sublime! Ah, I am so happy, I could sing and dance and kees everybody on the great-a, grand-a earth! MEENY (_at L._). Vot makes you so happy, Anita? Maybe I'd be happy yet also, if I didn't get seasick once in a while. ANITA. What makes me so happy, Meeny? It's the sun and the waves, and the sunlight shining like diamonds on the great-a, grand-a ocean. Are you not also happy, Biddy Mary? BIDDY MARY (_standing by_ ANITA). I am not. Sure, I niver do be having time to be seeing diamonds on the great big waves. I have to be hard at work, so I do, peeling the praties for our Christmas breakfast. ANITA. I watched the great-a red sun as he began to sink, sink, sink way down in the ocean. And the beeg-a waves got more beeg and more beeg and on top of them I saw long white lace fringe. The green silk waves were all-a trimmed with white lace fringe. And sometimes I think I see the leetla mermaid fairies dancing in the foam. Leetla green and white mermaids with the long long-a hair. TOMASSO (_at R._). You make-a me seek, Anita. There is-a no such things as fairies. ANITA. But I love to _think_ there is. It is a great, grand-a pleasure just to think there is. Is it not, Meeny? MEENY (_stolidly_). Oh, sure. ANITA. And that is why we should all be so verra, verra happy. We can think such-a lovely things. The poor leetla children at-a home, pouf! They cannot think such things, because they have never seen such a great, beeg-a ship, or such a great, beeg-a ocean-- SERGIUS. Or a whale. PADDY MIKE. Or a sailor man. HULDA. Or a nice little steerage bed built just like a shelf in the wall. TOMASSO. Or the great beeg-a engine that makes the ship go. MEENY. Or the tons and tons of coal vay down deep by the cellar. SERGIUS (_mocking her_). Way down deep by the cellar! Whoever heard of a cellar on board of a ship? You mean--down in the hatch. MEENY. Hatch? Vot is dot hatch? Dis ain't a chicken, it's a boat. (_All laugh._) KLINKER (_takes_ SCHWILLIE _by the hand and goes to_ ANITA). Anita, we want to ask you a question. ANITA. Well, and what is the question of the leetla Dutch twins? SCHWILLIE. Tonight is the night before Christmas. KLINKER. Und we want to know if the good Saint Nicholas is coming tonight. ANITA. I don't know. You see it would be a great beeg-a, long-a trip way out here on the ocean. KLINKER (_half crying_). But I want him to come. I've been a awful good boy, isn't I, Schwillie Willie Winkum? SCHWILLIE. Sure, you is. Und me also, ain't I, Klinker? ANITA. If you have both been verra, verra good I think that maybe the good Saint will come. (_Looks around._) Have you all been verra, verra good? OTHERS. Yes, all of us. HANS. We're always very, very good at Christmas time. AH GOO. Me velly, _velly_ good. ANITA (_points off R._). See, way up there on the upper deck, are the rich, grand-a ladies and gentlemen coming out from the great, beeg-a dining-room. If you go and stand under the hole maybe they'll throw you some oranges or candy. They're awful nice peoples on the upper deck. MEENY. Let's all go right away quick. Maybe we'll get some oranges und candy. KLINKER. Oh, how I do love oranges und candy, don't I, Schwillie Willie Winkum? SCHWILLIE. Sure, und me also, don't I, Klinker? SERGIUS. Let us all go together. (_All come forward and sing to tune of the Opening Song._) We're happy little immigrants, We'll sing our happy song, Our hearts are light, our faces bright-- The good ship speeds along. Then clap, clap, clap together, Clap, clap away; The steerage is a happy place-- Tomorrow's Christmas Day. (_All the children except_ ANITA _go out at R., repeating the chorus of their song._) ANITA. Surely the good-a Saint Nicholas will come tonight, because there are so many, many verra good children on board this-a ship. (_Counting on fingers._) There's Hulda from Holland and her two leetla brothers, the Dutch twins, Klinker and Schwillie Willie Winkum. They must have a great-a beeg-a Christmas present. And there's Sergius from Russia, and Meeny and Paddy Mike and Biddy Mary, and Neelda from Spain, and Yakob and Hans and Ah Goo and Mieze and leetla Sano San from afar away Japan. They must all have the great-a, grand-a presents. Maybe I could write old Santa Claus a leetla letter and tell how good the poor children way down in the steerage have been. And there's my cousin Tomasso from Italy. Oh, Santa Claus must bring him a new violin. Then he can make-a the beautiful music on the golden streets of New York. If there is anybody at all in the whole beeg world who should have a nice-a, beeg-a Christmas, it is the verra poor leetla children whose mammas and papas haven't got very much money. But sometimes the good Santa Claus forgets all about the verra poor leetla children--and that's the mostest saddest thing of all, for they are the verra ones he should remember. When I get to be a great-a, beeg, grand-a, reech lady in the golden streets of New York, ah! then I will buy presents and presents and presents, and I will-a give them to all the verra poor leetla children in the world. I wonder why it is that the verra good Santa Claus sometimes forgets the poor leetla children on-a Christmas Day. He never forgets the reech leetla children, only those who are verra, verra poor. And that is a sad misfortune. If I had-a nice-a Christmas present, with many candies and figs and oranges, I could never rest until I had given something nice to all the poor leetla children in the city--for that is what makes the mostest happy Christmas of all. _Enter_ SERGIUS _from R. quietly. He comes down behind_ ANITA _and places his hands over her eyes._ SERGIUS. Guess who it is. ANITA. Sergius! SERGIUS (_disappointed_). Why, I thought that you would think it was a goblin. ANITA. Goblin? What is a goblin, Sergius? SERGIUS. It's a little, wee bit of a man with a long beard. And they go around having a good time at night. They are always very active on the night before Christmas. (_Looks cautiously around._) I shouldn't be at all surprised if we should see some tonight. ANITA (_frightened_). Oh, Sergius, will they harm us? SERGIUS. Not very much. They just like to have a little fun, that's all. We have lots of them in Russia. And I believe there are some down here in the steerage. ANITA (_grasps his arm_). Oh, Sergius! Where are they? SERGIUS. Well, last night I could not sleep, so I got up and came in here, and just as I was passing by that barrel (_points to barrel up L.C. where_ JACK FROST _is concealed_), I thought I heard a noise. It was like some one rapping on the barrel. Like this. (_Raps on another barrel._) I thought it was a goblin and I never stopped running until I was safe in my bunk with the bedclothes around my head. ANITA. Pooh! I'm not afraid. No leetla goblin man can make-a me afraid. SERGIUS. They do wonderful things on Christmas Eve. But come; let us go to the bottom of the stairs. The ladies and gentlemen are looking down and Tomasso is playing his violin. Soon they will throw apples and oranges down to us, and perhaps money. Come and see. ANITA. No, I'd rather wait here. SERGIUS (_crossing to door at R._). All right, but don't let the goblin man catch you. (_Exits at R._) ANITA. The goblin man! Poof! There is no such thing as a goblin man. In-a Italy we do not have such goblin mans. He said he heard something rap, rap on the inside of the barrel. Poof! Sergius must have been having one beeg, grand-a dream. Never in all my life did I ever hear anything go rap, rap on the inside of a barrel. (_Stands close to_ JACK FROST'S _barrel._) And if I did, I'd think it was a leetla, weeny-teeny mouse. But a leetla, weeny-teeny mouse never could go rap, rap on the inside of a barrel, try as hard as he could. It must have been a dream. JACK FROST (_raps sharply on the inside of the barrel_). ANITA. Oh, what was that? I thought I heard something. (_Goes toward barrel cautiously._) Maybe it is the leetla, teeny-weeny baby mouse. (Rises on tiptoes to peer into the barrel.) I'll just peek in and see. (_Just as she looks into the barrel_, JACK FROST _pops up his head almost in her very face._) JACK FROST. Hello! ANITA (_starting back, very much frightened_). Oh! JACK FROST. Did you say oh, or hello? ANITA. I just said, oh. JACK FROST. Well, then, hello. (_Climbs out of the barrel._) ANITA. Hello. JACK FROST (_goes to her_). You aren't frightened, are you? ANITA (_at R._). Well, I'm a leetla frightened, but not verra much. JACK FROST. Why? I won't hurt you. ANITA. You came up so sudden. I never expected to find a boy in that barrel. And you are such a queer looking boy. JACK FROST. Boy? I'm not a boy. ANITA. You're not? You look like a boy. You're not a girl, are you? JACK FROST (_indignantly_). Well, I should say not! I'm just a kind of a sort of a kind of an idea, that's all. I'm your imagination. ANITA. I hope you're not a goblin. JACK FROST. Oh, no. I'm not a goblin. They're old and have long beards. I'm not old at all. (_Twirls around on toes._) See, I'm even younger than you are. (_Makes low bow._) I'm a pixie. ANITA. And what is a pixie? JACK FROST. I told you before, it's just your imagination. ANITA. You look like a boy. What is your name? JACK FROST. My name is Claus. ANITA. Claus! Why, what a funny leetla name. I never heard a name like that in Italy. Claus what? JACK FROST. Santa Claus. Haven't you ever heard of Santa Claus? ANITA. Oh, yes; many, many times. But you _can't_ be Santa Claus. JACK FROST (_indignantly_). I'd like to know why I can't! It's my name, isn't it? ANITA. But you are not the real, real truly Santa Claus. He is an old, old man. A leetla fat old man with white-a hair just like-a the snow, and a long, white-a beard. JACK FROST. Ho, you must be thinking of my daddy. ANITA. Your daddy? Is Santa Claus your daddy? JACK FROST. Sure, he is. I'm Jack Frost Santa Claus, Jr. Most folks call me Jolly Jack Frost. The little fat man with the white beard is my father. ANITA (_astonished_). Why, I didn't know Santa Claus had any leetla boys. JACK FROST. Sure, he has. Who do you think takes care of the reindeer, and who waters the doll-tree and picks the dolls? ANITA. Picks the dolls? Do the dolls grow on trees? JACK FROST. Yes, indeed, right next door to the taffy cottage, down Chocolate Lane. I take care of the marble bushes and the popgun trees. You just ought to see our wonderful gardens. ANITA. Oh, I'd love to see them. JACK FROST. We've got a Teddy-bear garden, and a tool garden, and a furniture garden, and a game garden, and a candy garden, though most of the candy comes from mines. ANITA. The mines? JACK FROST. Sure. We dig out just the kind we want. We have caramel mines, and vanilla mines and mines full of chocolate almonds, and rivers of fig paste and strawberry ice cream soda. They flow right through the picture-book garden. ANITA. Oh, it must be the most wonderful place in the whole world. JACK FROST. And I help take care of it. I have fourteen little brothers, and we're all twins. ANITA. And have you a mother, too? Has Santa Claus a nice-a, fine-a wife? JACK FROST (_laughs_). Of course he's got a wife. Haven't you ever heard of my mother. Her name is Mary. ANITA. Mary? Mary what? JACK FROST. Why, Merry Mary Christmas, of course. I thought everyone knew that. ANITA. And does she go round the world with Santa Claus on the night before Christmas? JACK FROST. Oh, no, she's too busy for that. She stays at home and takes care of the gardens. ANITA. But what are you doing here on the ship? I should think you'd be with your father. JACK FROST. Ah, that is a secret. You mustn't tell anyone. ANITA. How can I tell anyone when I don't know myself. JACK FROST. Well, maybe I'll tell you. ANITA. Oh, if you only would. I'd just love to have a great-a, beeg, grand-a secret. JACK FROST. You can keep a secret, can't you? ANITA. Of course I can. Girls can always keep secrets. JACK FROST. Some girls can't. But I believe you really can. Your name's Anita, isn't it? ANITA. Yes. But how did you know? JACK FROST. Oh, we know everything. How old are you? ANITA. If you tell me how you knew my name, I'll tell you how old I am. JACK FROST. Well, I just guessed it. ANITA. Then why don't you guess how old I am? JACK FROST. Cute, ain't you? ANITA. Not so verra cute. I'm going on nine. JACK FROST. Then you're old enough to keep the secret. Now, first you must promise you won't tell until tomorrow morning. ANITA. Cross my heart. (_She does so._) JACK FROST (_crosses to her_). Listen, then; here's the secret. (_He whispers in her ear._) ANITA (_after a pause, while he is whispering_). He is? _He is?_ Oh!! JACK FROST (_nods his head wisely_). Yes, he is. ANITA. Honest? JACK FROST. Honest injun! ANITA. With his pack and presents and a Christmas tree and everything? JACK FROST (_nods head emphatically_). Yes, ma'am, every single thing. ANITA. Tonight? JACK FROST. Just before the clock strikes twelve, when all the little children in the steerage are asleep. ANITA. But how will he get out here in the middle of the ocean? JACK FROST. Fly. ANITA. Fly? But he hasn't any wings. (JACK _nods._) He has? (JACK _nods._) Really and truly wings? JACK FROST (_nods_). Really and truly wings. ANITA. I never knew Santa Claus had wings before. JACK FROST. He only bought them this year. ANITA. Bought them? (JACK _nods._) Then they didn't grow on him? JACK FROST (_laughs_). Of course not. He's coming in an air ship. ANITA. Why, I never knew Santa Claus had an air ship. JACK FROST. He's got the very latest twentieth century model. He only uses the reindeer once in a while now. He can go much faster on an air ship. (_Sits down._) Oh, I'm tired. ANITA. I didn't know pixies ever got tired. JACK FROST. You ought to see the work I've done today. ANITA. Here on the boat? JACK FROST. Yes, ma'am, right here on the boat. ANITA. Oh, show me. JACK FROST. I will. But it's part of the secret. (_Goes to rear L._) Come here and I'll show you what I've been doing. ANITA (_goes to him_). It isn't anything scary, is it? JACK FROST. Of course not. (_Lets her peep through the curtain that conceals the Christmas tree from the audience._) There; what do you think of that? ANITA. Oh, oh! oh!! It's too great and grand and wonderful for words. Oh, what a wonderful, wonderful secret! I'm so glad you've told me. It is so much nicer to know all about it beforehand. I wish I could tell Tomasso. JACK FROST. Well, you can't. It's a secret and you mustn't tell anybody. ANITA. But are you really, truly sure he's coming? JACK FROST. Of course he is. That is our secret. ANITA. Oh, it's the grandest secret I ever had in all-a my life. I will not tell a soul that he is-a coming. It will be a Christmas surprise, and when I get to the beeg city of New York in America, I'll always remember this great-a beeg, nice-a secret about old Santa Claus and his nice leetla boy, Jack Frost. JACK FROST. What are you going to do when you get to America? ANITA. I am going to dance. My uncle, Pedro Spanilli, he haba de grind-organ. Until last-a month he had-a de nice-a monkey, named Mr. Jocko, but last-a month Mr. Jocko he die, and my uncle, Pedro Spanilli, he send for me to take-a his place. JACK FROST. Take the monkey's place? ANITA. Yes, sir. I'm going to go round with my uncle and hold out my tambourine, so! (_Poses and holds out tambourine._) And then I will-a collect the pennies, just like-a Mr. Jocko used to do. JACK FROST (_mocking her_). I suppose you are going to wear a leetla red cap and jump up and down this way (_imitates a monkey_), and say, "Give-a de monk de cent!" ANITA (_laughing_). Oh, no. I'm going to sing the leetla song, and dance the leetla dance, so! (_Hums and dances, or a song may be introduced at this point by_ ANITA.) Then, when I'm finished, I go to the kind leetla boy, Jack Frost, and hold out my tambourine, so! (_Does so._) And maybe he drops a nickel in my tambourine. Eh? Does he? JACK FROST (_sighs, then drops a nickel in tambourine_). Yes, I guess he does. And you just wait till tomorrow morning, Anita, and I'll give you the finest Christmas present on the Atlantic Ocean. ANITA. And you must not forget the leetla Dutch twins, and my cousin Tomasso, and Hulda and Meeny and Sergius and Ah Goo and Sano San and Needla and Biddy Mary and Paddy Mike and all the rest. JACK FROST. Whew! That's a big order. But we won't forget a single soul on Christmas Day. And now I've got to go and put the finishing touches on--you know what! (_Goes behind curtains that conceal the Christmas tree._) ANITA (_looks around_). Why, he's gone. JACK FROST (_sticking his head out of the curtains_). The sun has set, it's out of sight, so little Jack Frost will say good-night! (_Disappears back of curtains._) ANITA. Good-night, Jolly Jack Frost, good-night. Oh, it's the most wonderful secret in all the world. And won't the leetla children be glad to know that old Santa Claus has not forgotten them. He said that Santa Claus was coming tonight in the air ship, and it's got to be true, it's just got to be true. _Enter_ TOMASSO _from R., carrying violin._ TOMASSO. Anita, if you don't hurry you'll not get any supper at all. It's most eight o'clock. ANITA. Oh, I don't care for supper, Tomasso. I could-a not eat. I'm too much excited to eat. TOMASSO. What make-a you so excited, Anita? ANITA. Why, tonight--(pauses as she remembers her promise) Oh, that I cannot tell; it's a secret. TOMASSO. What is the secret? ANITA. If I told-a you, Tomasso, then it would no longer be a secret. TOMASSO. You should-a not have the secrets from me, Anita. I am your cousin, also--I am the head of the family. ANITA. But I made the promise not to tell. TOMASSO. Who you make-a the promise to? ANITA. I promised Jack--(_hesitates_) I mean, I make-a de promise to someone. TOMASSO. To Jack! Who is this-a Jack, Anita? ANITA. That is part of the secret. Listen, Tomasso, tomorrow morning you shall know everything. Early in the morning shall I tell-a you my secret. That will be my Christmas present to you. TOMASSO. All right. I'll wait. Oh, see, Anita, the moon is coming up. (_Points to L._) Just like-a big, round-a silver ball. ANITA. Let us stay here and watch the moon, Tomasso. TOMASSO. You'd better go and get your supper. Those leetla Dutch twins are eating everything on the table. I think they'd eat the table itself if it was-a not nailed to the deck. Hurry, Anita! ANITA. I go. (_Crosses to door at R., then turns toward him_). It's a awful good-a secret, Tomasso. (_Laughs and runs out at R._) TOMASSO (_looks off L._). Ah, the great, grand-a lady moon. She looks at me, I look at her. Maybe she'll like a leetla serenade. (_Simple violin solo by_ TOMASSO, _accompanied by hidden organ or piano. After he has been playing sometime, the other children come softly in from the R. and group around the stage. Note: If possible, get a boy for_ TOMASSO'S _part who can play the violin; if not, introduce a song at this point. "Santa Lucia," found in most school collections, would prove effective either as a vocal solo or as a violin solo._) BIDDY MARY. Sure, that's beautiful. It takes me back again to dear ould Ireland where the River Shannon flows. HULDA. What do you do in Ireland the night before Christmas, Biddy Mary? MEENY. Do you have a Christmas tree like we do in Germany? BIDDY MARY. We do not. We don't have any tree at all, at all. PADDY MIKE. And we don't get many presents. But it's a fine time we have for all that. Instead of getting presents, we have the fun of giving presents--and that's the finest thing in all the world, so it is, to make the other fellow happy. Sure, I just love to give presents. KLINKER. You can give me some if you want to. SCHWILLIE. Und me also some. BIDDY MARY. But where would we be getting presents out here in the middle of the ocean? In dear ould Ireland sure it's a fine time we're after having on Christmas Day. PADDY MIKE. It is that. With the fiddles playing and the dancers dancing and the fine suppers upon the table. SERGIUS. In Russia we always set a table in front of the window and put a fine linen cloth on it. (_Produces white lace-edged cloth._) Here is the cloth, but we have no window. HULDA. Here, use this box as a table. (_Indicates a large box at rear C._) Now, let us put the cloth on, so! (HULDA _and_ SERGIUS _put cloth on the box._) BIDDY MARY. The night before Christmas we always put a big candle, all gay with ribbons, in the window to welcome the Christ child. PADDY MIKE. Here is the candle. (_Places it on box at rear C._) Now I'll light it. (_Lights candle._) TOMASSO. We do that also in Italy. And we put a leetla picture of the Christ child on the table. (_Puts colored picture of Madonna and Child back of the candle._) BIDDY MARY. On Christmas Day it's the fine old tales we're after hearing in Ireland, all about the wonderful star that shone so bright that it turned night into day, and led the Wise Men all the way to where a little Babe in the manger lay. PADDY MIKE. And all the angels sang above of peace on earth, good will and love. BIDDY MARY. The shepherds wandering on the hill, Beheld the star and followed till They saw the Child and heard the song, The angels sang the whole night long. SERGIUS. May the spirit of Christmas enter every heart tonight, making all the world one big, happy family, no rich, no poor, no high, no low, all brothers and sisters, all children of the Lord on high! MEENY. Maybe good old Santa Claus will come after all. Vell, if he does I want to be ready for him. (_Produces two very large red stockings, made for the occasion._) Come, Yakob and Hans and Mieze, let us hang up our stockings here under the burning candle. (_They hang up the four pair of stockings._) NEELDA (_places a wreath of holly on the table_). Christ was born on the Christmas Day, wreathe the holly, twine the bay! Light and Life and Joy is He, the Babe, the Son, the Holy One of Mary! TOMASSO. Meeny and Yakob and Hans and leetla Mieze have hung up their stockings for the good-a Saint Nicholas, but in Italy we set out our shoes, so! And we always get them full of presents. (_Places small pair of wooden shoes on table._) MEENY. I like stockings much better than shoes already, because the stockings can stretch yet, und if they stretch real, real wide out maybe we can get a baby piano or a automobile in our stockings. Jah, stockings is mooch better als shoes. HULDA. Here is my beautiful star. (_Produces tinsel star._) That will remind us of the Star of Bethlehem that led the three Wise Men across the hills and plains of Judea unto the little manger where, surrounded by cattle and oxen, amid the straw, the Lord of Heaven was born on Christmas Eve. SCHWILLIE. Und all the angels sang, "Peace on earth, good will to men," didn't they, Klinker? KLINKER. Und all the shepherds heard them, and they followed the star and came to the manger to see the little Baby. MEENY. Let us all sit down here in front of the candle and the star, and see if old Santa Claus has forgotten us already. It's almost time for him to be coming. (_All sit down._) ALL (_sing_). THE TIME IS NEAR. [Music illustration: 1. The time is near, the time is near, San-ta Claus will soon be here! All the world is sweet-ly sleep-ing, An-gels now their watch are keep-ing, And the moon shines clear, And the moon shines clear. 2. Be-fore the dawn, be-fore the dawn, Saint Nick will have come and gone! Now with pa-tience we'll a-wait him, Hop-ing noth-ing may be-late him, On his jour-ney long, On his jour-ney long.] HULDA. Oh, I do hope Santa Claus will come and visit us tonight. But of course he cannot go every place. Some children have to be left out. KLINKER. Yes, that's so; but I hope it ain't us. Don't you, Schwillie Willie Winkum? SCHWILLIE. Sure, I do. I wish old Santa would hurry up and come, 'cause the old Sandman is here already. I'm getting awful sleepy. KLINKER. Me--I'm getting awful sleepy, too. (_Stretches and yawns._) TOMASSO. I wonder what has become of Anita? She said she had a wonderful secret that was-a verra, verra grand. MEENY. A secret, Tomasso? (_Goes to him._) TOMASSO (_standing at C._). Yes, a great, beeg, grand-a secret. BIDDY MARY (_goes to him and takes his L. arm_). Oh, what is it, Tomasso? MEENY (_taking his R. arm_). Yes, Tomasso, tell us vot it is already. BIDDY MARY (_turning_ TOMASSO _around to face her_). Sure, if there's anything on earth I _do_ love, it's a secret. HULDA (_and the other girls, surrounding_ TOMASSO). Yes, Tomasso, tell us the secret; we'll never tell anyone. MEENY (_pulling him around to face her_). Sure we won't. Nice Tomasso, tell us vot it is yet. TOMASSO (_hesitates_). Well, I---- BIDDY MARY (_pulling him around to face her_). Now, you tell _me_, Tomasso. I never tell any secrets at all, at all. TOMASSO. Well, I---- MEENY (_pulls him around again_). If you're going to tell it, I want to hear every word. I never want to miss noddings no times. BIDDY MARY (_pulls him back_). Neither do I. HULDA. Neither do I. MEENY. Neither do any of us. KLINKER. I don't want to miss nothing neither. SCHWILLIE. No, und I don't neither. ALL. Now, what is the secret, Tomasso? TOMASSO (_loudly_). It is not my secret. It is Anita's secret. ALL. Well, what is Anita's secret. TOMASSO. She wouldn't tell me. ALL (_turn away very much disappointed_). Oh! TOMASSO. She's promised to tell us all in the morning. She said that would be her Christmas present to us--to tell us the secret. (_All sit or recline around the stage. Lower the lights._) SERGIUS. It seems so strange to spend Christmas Eve away out here in the middle of the ocean. KLINKER (_almost asleep_). Wake me up, Hulda, just as soon as Santa Claus comes. BIDDY MARY (_at R._). Sure I think the Sandman has been after spillin' sand in all of our eyes. I'm that sleepy I can't say a word at all, at all. SANO SAN. They're putting out all the lights. Here, Sergius, hang my little lantern in front of the candle. AH GOO. Allee samee hang mine. (SANO SAN _and_ AH GOO _each give their lanterns to_ SERGIUS, _who lights them and hangs them on the table. Note: Nails must be put in the table at R. and L. corners facing front for these lanterns._) SERGIUS. I'm going to stretch out here and take a little nap. (_Reclines on floor._) Be sure and wake me up, Hulda, just as soon as you hear the bells on his reindeer. TOMASSO (_yawns_). I wonder what has become of Anita? HULDA (_stretches_). I believe I'm getting sleepy, too. OTHERS. So are all of us. BIDDY MARY. We're all noddin', nid, nid noddin', sure I think it's time we were all of us fast asleep. ALL (_sing sleepily_). "WE'RE ALL NODDIN'." [Music illustration: 1. We are all nod-din', nid, nid nod-din', We are all nod-din', and drop-ping off to sleep. So see San-ta Claus we've all done our best, [Transcriber's Note: probably should be "To see"] But we're aw-ful-ly sleep-y, so we'll take a rest. 2. We are all nod-din', nid, nid nod-din', We are all nod-din', and drop-ping off to sleep. It's aw-ful-ly late, we'll no lon-ger de-lay, But ride with the Sand-man, a-way and a-way.] (ALL _are sound asleep. Stage is dark._) KLINKER (_talking in his sleep_). Noddin', nid, nid noddin'. SCHWILLIE (talking in his sleep). Dropping off to sleep, ain't we, Klinker? _Soft, mysterious music._ ANITA _dances in from R. She dances around the stage, keeping time to the music and bending over the little sleepers._ ANITA. Asleep! Every last one of them is verra sound asleep. Meeny and Biddy Mary, and Sergius and Tomasso and the leetla Dutch twins and all! (_Goes to curtain at rear._) Jack Frost! Jolly Jack Frost! Come-a quick, come-a quick! They're all asleep. JACK FROST (_sticks his head out of the curtains_). Hello, what is it? ANITA. It is Anita. The leetla children are all here and sound asleep. JACK FROST (_coming down to her_). And so was I. They sang a song about noddin', nid, nid noddin', and I just went to sleep myself. I dreamed I was hunting a polar bear way up by the North Pole. (_Yawns._) I'm still awfully sleepy. ANITA. I didn't know that you ever went to sleep. JACK FROST. You bet I do. That's the one thing I've got against my daddy's Christmas trip every year. It wakes us all up right in the middle of the night. ANITA. The middle of the night? What _do_ you mean? JACK FROST. Middle of the north pole night. If it wasn't for Christmas we could go to bed about half past October and sleep until a quarter of May, but ma thinks we ought to help pa and then wait up until he comes home. My, I'm sleepy! Aren't you? ANITA. Oh, no, no! I'm verra too much excited to sleep. It's all about my secret. Are you really sure he is coming? JACK FROST. Of course he is, and it's almost time he was here now. It's nearly Christmas Day. Look way up there in the sky. You don't see anything that looks like an air ship, do you? ANITA (_looking up and off at R._). No, I cannot see a single thing. JACK FROST (_sees table at rear_). Oh, look here! The children have lighted a candle for him. That's just fine. It always pleases him. And see; here's a picture and a wreath of holly and the star of Bethlehem. And stockings and shoes all in a row. ANITA (_looking up and off R._). I can't see a thing. JACK FROST. Here's a telescope. Look through that. (_Takes home-made telescope from his barrel._) Now do you see anything? ANITA. Oh, no; now I cannot even see the stars or the moon. JACK FROST. Of course you can't. You are looking through the wrong end. Turn it around. ANITA (_looks up and off R. through telescope_). Oh, now I can see the stars. And, oh, look! I see a leetla, teeny-weeny thing way, way off--far up in the sky. Look, Jack Frost, is that the air ship? (_Fast music, played softly._) JACK FROST (_looks through the telescope_). Yes, I believe it is. ANITA (_dances wildly about the stage_). Oh, he's coming, he's coming. I'm going to get to see Santa Claus! Is it not wonderful? I'm going to see him. Let me look. (_Takes telescope._) Oh, it's getting bigger and _bigger_ and BIGGER! _Sleigh bells heard outside at R., far away in the distance._ JACK FROST (_capering around_). Hurray! daddy's coming! daddy's coming! ANITA. Now I can hear the bells. Oh, it's coming closer and _closer_ and CLOSER. Look out, it's going to hit the boat! (_Small toy air ship flies across the stage at rear, with tiny lights twinkling in it. Stretch a wire across rear of stage and high up, for the toy to run on._) JACK FROST. He flew right by us. ANITA. Maybe he didn't see the boat. Oh, now he isn't coming at all. JACK FROST (_looking out at L._). Yes, he is. He's landed right over there. Here he comes; here he comes! (_Music and bells louder and louder._) ANITA (_runs to L._). Here we are, Santa Claus. This is the place. Come in. Merry Christmas, Santa Claus, merry Christmas! _Loud fast music. Enter_ SANTA CLAUS _from L._ SANTA CLAUS. Hello, there--where are you? It's so dark I can't see a single thing. JACK FROST. Hello, daddy; merry Christmas. SANTA CLAUS (_shaking hands with him_). Hello yourself. Merry Christmas to you, too. Are you all ready for me? JACK FROST. Yes, it's all ready. The magical tree is just waiting for your touch to turn into a real Christmas tree. ANITA. Oh, we're going to have a real Christmas tree. SANTA CLAUS. Hello, who's this young person? JACK FROST. This is Anita. SANTA CLAUS. And why isn't she sound asleep like the rest of the children? JACK FROST. She's such a good little girl that I told her she could stay up with me and wait until you came. SANTA CLAUS (_laughs_). Oh, ho; so you've made a hit with my boy, Jack Frost, have you? Well, if that's the case, I guess you can stay. ANITA. But all of the children would like to see you, Santa Claus. See, they've prepared the candle and the wreath of holly and the star of Bethlehem all for you. There's Sergius and Tomasso and Hulda and Meeny and Hans and Yakob and Neelda and Ah Goo and Sano San and Mieze and the leetla Dutch twins, Klinker and Schwillie Willie Winkum. They've all been awfully good children. And Biddy Mary and Paddy Mike they brought the candle. They're good, too. SANTA CLAUS. Hurry, Jack, and fill up the shoes and stockings. JACK FROST (_filling them from the sack_). Yes, daddy, I'm hurrying. SANTA CLAUS. It's just two minutes till Christmas morning. I've had a hard night's work and I think I'll just take a little vacation here in the steerage. ANITA. Oh, Santa Claus, may I wake up all the leetla children and let them see you? SANTA CLAUS. Yes, just as soon as you hear the chimes announcing the birth of Christmas Day. ANITA. And don't you have any other place to go this year? SANTA CLAUS. I hope not. Here I am in the middle of the ocean and my air ship is just about played out. Jack, dump everything out of the sack and we'll give the little immigrants the jolliest kind of a Christmas. I'm not going to lug all of those toys and candy and things back to the North Pole again. JACK FROST (_empties sack on floor_). Here they are, daddy. SANTA CLAUS. Now, where's the tree? JACK FROST (_goes to rear of the stage and removes the curtains that have been concealing the dazzling Christmas tree._). There she is. Isn't she a beauty? ANITA. Oh, it's the greatest, most grand-a tree in all the world. (_Faint chimes are heard in the distance._) JACK FROST. There are the chimes. It is Christmas Day. Merry Christmas, daddy; merry Christmas, Anita. Christmas Day is here. ANITA (_dancing around_). Merry Christmas, Jack Frost! Merry Christmas, Santa Claus! Merry Christmas, everybody! Merry Christmas to all the world. Wake up, Hulda! Wake up! (_Shakes her._) JACK FROST. Wake up, Paddy Mike and Sergius! Wake up! Merry Christmas! SANTA CLAUS. Wake up, Meeny and Biddy. It's Christmas morning. And you two little shavers, Klinker and Schwillie Willie Winkum, wake up and give Santa Claus a good, old hug! (_The children all awaken. Rub eyes, stretch, etc._) HULDA. Oh, he's come, he's come, he's come! (_Runs and hugs_ SANTA CLAUS.) SCHWILLIE. Me, too. (_Hugs him._) I said he'd come, didn't I, Klinker? (_Lights all on full._) KLINKER (_hugging_ SANTA CLAUS). Sure you did. And me, too, didn't I, Schwillie Willie Winkum? MEENY. Oh, see the tree! The beautiful, beautiful Christmas tree. TOMASSO. And my leetla shoes are full of candy and toys. PADDY MIKE. Now, let's be all after giving three cheers for old Santa Claus. (_The cheers are given._) ANITA (_bringing_ JACK FROST _forward_). And this is the leetla Jolly Jack Frost. PADDY MIKE. Then three cheers for the leetla Jolly Jack Frost. (_The cheers are given._) ANITA (_at C. with_ JACK FROST). This was my Christmas secret. Santa Claus and the air ship and the Christmas tree and jolly Jack Frost and everything. This was the secret. PADDY MIKE. Now all of yeez give three cheers for Anita's secret. (_The cheers are given. Folk dance may be introduced. All sing Christmas carol as the curtain falls._) CURTAIN. REMARKS ON THE PRODUCTION OF THE PLAY. THE SCENERY. The stage should be set to represent the steerage of a large ocean-going vessel. A good elaborate set may be arranged with very little expense by following the diagram. The back drop should be of light blue with a few cumulus clouds in white. The water line should be about one-fourth from the bottom, and from this line downward the scene should be darker blue, with white waves. The background may be made from canvas or paper, as desired. A good effect has been produced by covering frames with tissue paper of the desired shades, the clouds and the water lines being cut from white paper and pasted on. A railing runs across rear of stage. This railing is made of wood, with a tennis net serving for the wiring. Round life-savers are cut from paper, painted and attached to the railing. The ventilator and hatchways may be made from brown bristol board. A large Christmas tree, lighted and decorated, stands at rear L. This is concealed by curtains. A square box or table stands at rear C. Several barrels and boxes are at left front, and a box is at right front. A large barrel stands at left of center near the rear. [Illustration] PROPERTIES. Woolen stocking and knitting needles for Meeny. Potatoes, knife, bowl for Biddy Mary. Jack-stones for Sergius. Tambourine for Anita. Nickel (coin) for Jack Frost. Violin for Tomasso. White, lace-edged table cloth for Sergius. Large candle decorated with red ribbons for Paddy Mike. Bright picture of Virgin and Child for Tomasso. Two large red stockings for Meeny. Extra stockings for Yakob, Hans and Mieze. Wreath of holly for Neelda. Small wooden shoes for Tomasso. Tinsel star for Hulda. Telescope for Jack Frost. Made from a pasteboard roll covered with black cloth. Toy air ship on a wire, to sail across stage at rear. Pack of toys for Santa Claus. Sleigh bells for Santa. Chimes heard outside. COSTUMES AND SUGGESTIONS. SANTA CLAUS--High boots. Red or brown coat or mackinaw, trimmed with fur (or cotton, dotted to imitate ermine fur). Cap to match coat. String of bells around neck. Pack of toys. White hair, mustache and long, white beard. Rosy cheeks. Do not wear a false-face, as this often frightens little children and makes the character seem unreal. When there are little children in the cast, their belief in Santa Claus must not be disturbed and the adult portraying the character need not attend the general rehearsals. The high boots may be shaped from black oil-cloth and drawn on over black shoes. Use a pillow or two to give an ample girth. JOLLY JACK FROST (aged 8 or 9)--A jolly, little chubby-faced boy who can memorize and deliver a long part. White stockings and shoes. Canton flannel suit of white, trimmed with long points cut from cloth, to represent icicles. Long-pointed cap of white, coming down around back of head and forming a long-pointed collar in front. The top point should be wired into position. Face and hands are powdered very white. Put small dabs of mucilage on the costume and sprinkle here and there with diamond dust powder. Trim the costume with bits of cotton to represent snow. ANITA (aged 8 or 9)--Dark hair and complexion. Black slippers with red rosettes or bows on them. White stockings. Green skirt. Small dark red apron, edged with white, black and green. Black spencer waist laced in front showing the white underwaist. Puffed sleeves falling to elbows. Green and red bows on elbows. Red silk handkerchief laid loosely over the shoulders. Gold beads around neck. Large earrings may be attached with court plaster. The headdress is a white oblong cloth, about six inches wide and about eighteen inches long. This cloth is gayly decorated with bands of red, green and black ribbons and the part on the head is padded with a small square of pasteboard. Tambourine decorated with red, black and green ribbons. A yellow silk handkerchief may replace the Sicilian headdress above described. HULDA (aged 10)--A blonde girl with hair in two long braids. Wooden shoes, white stockings. Several very full underskirts. Long skirt of dark blue, made very full around the bottom. This skirt is patched with squares of dark red and striped goods. Large blue gingham apron edged with stripes of dark red. White waist. Blue bodice of same material as skirt. Small white cap fitting close to head in back, but turned back in front with points over each ear. Face round and rosy. If the wooden shoes are not easily obtained, fair substitutes may be made by covering an old pair of shoes with cream colored oil-cloth. SERGIUS (aged 9)--Black oil-cloth leggings to knees. Dark trousers. Long Russian blouse of dark green coming nearly to knees and belted in at waist with black oil-cloth belt. Blouse edged with dark fur. Dark green cap trimmed with dark fur. MEENY (aged 7)--Full white waist. Black bodice laced with red. Rather short red skirt, with black stripes sewed around bottom. White lace apron edged with red and black. White mob cap, puffed high in front. Red and black strings on cap which are tied under her chin. She carries a gray woolen sock, half finished, and knitting needles. Wooden shoes if possible. BIDDY MARY--Old shoes and ragged stockings. Old-fashioned dress, rather short, of plaid gingham. Worn gingham apron. Little square shawl of red and black checked goods, crossed on breast. Old-fashioned, little black bonnet tied under her chin. She carries a pan of potatoes and a knife. Her age is about 8. PADDY MIKE--Small boy of 7, dressed in a man's suit, cut down in a clumsy manner. Green vest. Black swallow-tail coat. Little plug hat, made by covering a pasteboard form with black cloth. Shoes, old and worn, and many, many sizes too large for him. TOMASSO--Black slippers, white stockings. Red and yellow ribbons wound around legs. Black knee breeches and zouave jacket. Striped sport shirt. Red and yellow bows at knees and on shoulders. Red handkerchief knotted loosely at throat. Black felt hat, turned up side, gayly decorated with red and yellow ribbons. On his second entrance he carries a violin. A dark complexioned boy aged about 9. THE DUTCH TWINS (aged 4 or 5)--Hair in Buster Brown style. Very full blue trousers extending from under the arms to ankles. These are made of blue denim and patched with large vari-colored patches. Wooden shoes. Striped shirts. Dutch caps made of dark cloth, with a peak in front and a crown about six inches high. The twins should be dressed exactly alike and look as much alike as possible. Get chubby little fellows and thoroughly rehearse them in their part; in fact they must go over it so much that it must come as second nature to them on the night of the performance. Much of the humor in the play depends on the little Dutch twins. When they walk let them take long striding steps. Use frequent gestures, nods, etc., in their dialogue, but be sure and have every movement exactly the same at each rehearsal. These parts are not difficult if the little actors are well trained, and their success on the night of the performance will amply repay the trouble spent in their proper coaching. NEELDA--A little brunette girl, aged 4 or 5. Yellow sateen skirt and zouave jacket, trimmed with coarse black lace. Broad red sash tied on the side. White baby waist. Black lace mantilla over head, and hair dressed high with a high comb. Red rose over left ear. AH GOO--A chubby little Chinese boy of 5. White stockings, black slippers, white pajamas, slanting eyebrows, small round white cap and long pig-tail made of black yarn. Carries Chinese kite. YAKOB--Chubby boy of 6, dressed similar to twins, but in contrasting colors. Wears yarn stocking cap. Wooden shoes. HANS--Tall, thin boy of 9. Dressed similar to the twins, but in brown. Tall black cap similar to those worn by the twins. MIEZE--Little girl of 3 or 4, dressed similar to Hulda, but in dark red and red and white checked gingham. SANO SAN--Little Japanese girl in kimono and sash. Eyebrows slanting. Hair dressed high. Chrysanthemums over ears. Carries a paper parasol or fan. The Christmas tree is for the whole school and is concealed during the first part of the play by curtains. If there is to be no tree, all reference to it may be omitted without injury to the continuity of the play. Other songs may be substituted for the songs here given, but these have proved very successful in several performances of Anita's Secret. CHRISTMAS WITH THE MULLIGAN'S [Illustration: PATSY MATSY PETER PAN MRS O'TOOLE MRS MULLIGAN TEDDY MAGEE PATSY & MATSY (3rd Act) MICKY MACHREE BRIDGET HONORA MARY ANN MELISSA CLARISSA NORA EUDORA] CHRISTMAS WITH THE MULLIGAN'S A FUNNY CHRISTMAS PLAY IN THREE SHORT ACTS. CHARACTERS. THE WIDOW MULLIGAN _With a Heart Overflowing with Sunshine_ PATSY _Aged Twelve_ MATSY _Aged Eleven_ TEDDY MAGEE _Aged Seven_ NORA EUDORA _Aged Fourteen_ MICKY MACHREE _Aged Five_ BRIDGET HONORA _Aged Ten_ SWEET MARY ANN _Aged Eight_ MELISSA _Aged Six_ CLARISSA _Aged Six_ WEE PETER PAN _Aged Four_ MRS. O'TOOLE, _A Neighbor_ _With a Heart Overflowing with Kindness_ * * * * * TIME OF PLAYING--_About One Hour._ * * * * * _How they lived and what they wore will be told under the "Notes to the Manager" at the end of the play._ ARGUMENT. Sure, there isn't much argument at all, at all. It's all happiness and merriment and love, and where there is happiness and merriment and love there isn't any time for argument. The Widow Mulligan is a cheerful washerwoman who lives in Mulligan Alley in Shantytown, surrounded by her ten little Mulligans, to say nothing of the goat, Shamus O'Brien. A good-hearted neighbor, Mrs. O'Toole, has a lively time with the goat, but she forgives all his misdeeds as it is Christmas Eve and the little Mulligans are starting out for a grand Christmas entertainment. When they return they entertain their mother and Mrs. O'Toole, and, incidentally, the audience. But let's have done with the argument and let the fun begin. * * * * * ACT I. SCENE: _The Mulligan's front room. Entrances at right and left. Window at rear. At rise of curtain_ MRS. MULLIGAN _is discovered at C., washing clothes in a tub._ BRIDGET HONORA _and_ MATSY _are hanging wet clothes on a line, which runs across the rear of the stage._ MRS. MULLIGAN (_singing to a made-up tune as she washes_). Oh, give me a nice little home, And plenty of suds in me tub, And I will be happy all day, With me rubby-dub, rubby-dub, dub. The queen on her golden throne, Will envy me here at me tub, For no one's as jolly as I, With me rubby-dub, rubby-dub, dub. Sure, what would I do at a dance? Or what would I do at a club? But here in me kitchen I'm queen With me rubby-dub, rubby-dub, dub. Oh, give me a nice little home, And plenty of suds in me tub, And I will be happy all day, With me rubby-dub, rubby-dub, dub! MATSY. Maw, don't you think it's most time fer us to be going? MRS. MULLIGAN. Time to be going, is it? Well, I should hope not. Sure, half of the children are not dry yet, and the other half are not dressed. Bridget Honora, darlin', look in the other room and see how they're coming on. (_Exit_ BRIDGET _at R._) MATSY. I think we ought to be there early, so as we can get a good seat on the front row. I don't want to miss nothing. (_Hangs up a boy's union suit._) MRS. MULLIGAN. True for you, Matsy, and I don't want yeez to be missing anything either. It ain't like as if yeez go to a fine Christmas entertainment ivery night of yer lives. (_Washes._) MATSY. It's the first one any of us ever went to at all, at all. Do yeez think they be after having moving pictures? MRS. MULLIGAN. Of course not. Not in a Sunday School, Matsy. But belike they'll have a fine, grand Christmas tree with singin' and spaches and fine costumes and prisints for every one. (_Calls off R._) Bridget Honora! BRIDGET (_off R._). Yes, maw? MRS. MULLIGAN. Come here. _Enter_ BRIDGET _from R._ BRIDGET. Melissa and Micky Machree have been scrubbed until they shine. They're sitting in the window drying in the sun. Mary Ann is cleaning Peter Pan in the lard bucket, and Patsy is washing Teddy Magee in the rain-barrel. Nora is curling Clarissa's hair with the poker, and somebody's untied the goat. MRS. MULLIGAN. Untied the goat, is it? Matsy Mulligan, put on yer hat at once and see what's become of Shamus O'Brien. He's a good goat, is Shamus, but he's like the late Mr. Mulligan, he has a rovin' disposition and a tremenjous appetite. Hurry now, Matsy. MATSY (_whining_). Aw, now, maw, I can't go and hunt the goat. I'm all dressed up for the entertainment. If I go after the goat, sure it's all mussed up I'll be. MRS. MULLIGAN. Yis, if I swat you one wid this wet cloth, it's worse than mussed up you'll be. Hurry after the goat. Niver a step does any Mulligan take from this house tonight until Shamus O'Brien is safe in the kitchen, wid his horns tied to the wash boiler. MATSY. Sure, I dunno where to look fer him. MRS. MULLIGAN. Go over to Mrs. O'Toole's cabbage garden; like as not ye'll find him there. Sure, Shamus has a fine appetite for cabbages. MATSY. Don't let 'em start afore I get back. I don't want to miss nothin'. (_Takes cap and exits L._) MRS. MULLIGAN. Now, Bridget Honora, lave off hanging up the clothes and go in and see if Melissa and Micky Machree are dry yet. And if they are call me in and I'll attend to their costumes. BRIDGET. Maw, Mary Ann's having an awful time. She's growed so that her skirt and her waist has parted company, and what she'll be after doing I don't know at all, at all. MRS. MULLIGAN. Is there anything she can use as a sash? BRIDGET. No'm. Nora and Clarissa have used up all the sashes. MRS. MULLIGAN (_takes fringed bureau cover from wash-basket_). Look here, now, Bridget Honora, see what I've found in the wash. It's a tidy to go on top of a dresser, but I'm thinking it's just the thing to fill the gap between the skirt and the waist of Mary Ann. BRIDGET. Yes, maw. (_Exit R._) _Enter_ PATSY _from R. He runs in and is very much excited._ PATSY. Oh, maw, maw, come quick! Hurry, or he'll be drowned. MRS. MULLIGAN. What is it, Patsy? Spake quick. PATSY. It's Teddy Magee. I was givin' him a wash in the rain-barrel, when all of a sudden, bad luck to him, he slipped through me fingers and fell head-first down in the barrel. (_Cries._) Oh, it's drownded dead he'll be. Oh, oh! (_Cries._) MRS. MULLIGAN. Oh, me baby, me baby! (_Rushes out at R._) _Enter_ NORA _and_ CLARISSA _from L._ NORA. Now sit right down there, Clarissa, and don't be moving a hair, because you're all fixed and ready for the entertainment. CLARISSA. And how do I look, Nora? NORA. Ye look like a Christmas angel, so you do. Your hair curled just lovely and your striped stockings will be the admiration and envy of the entire Sunday School. PATSY. Oh, Nora Eudora, come on quick. Teddy Magee fell in the rain-barrel and it's drownded dead he is intirely. (_Cries._) NORA. In the rain-barrel? How did he get in the rain-barrel? PATSY. Sure, I was washing him, I was. And he was that slippery with the soap that he slid through me fingers and down to the bottom of the barrel. NORA. Oh, the poor little Teddy Magee. (_Runs out R., followed by_ PATSY _and_ CLARISSA.) _Enter_ MARY ANN _and_ PETER PAN _from L._ MARY ANN. And how de yeez like me new sash, Peter Pan? PETER PAN. Scwumptious. MARY ANN. It's a tidy cover off'n a bureau, and I don't want to wear it at all, at all. Folks'll be after thinking I'm a bureau. Don't it look funny, Peter Pan? PETER PAN. Scwumptious. MARY ANN. I'm not going to wear it, so I'm not. _Enter_ BRIDGET _from L._ BRIDGET. Mary Ann Mulligan, and what are yeez trying to do with your nice new sash? MARY ANN. I ain't going to wear no tidy cover. Folks'll be after thinking I'm a bureau. BRIDGET. Sure they'll think worse than that if yeez take it off. That's what comes of yer growing so fast. Yer skirt is fer six years old, and yer waist is fer six years old, and so you have to wear the sash to help out the other two years. Sashes are awful stylish, anyhow. It's pretty, too, ain't it, Peter Pan? PETER PAN. Scwumptious. _Enter_ MRS. MULLIGAN _from R., followed by_ PASTY _and_ NORA. MRS. MULLIGAN. It's lucky for him that there wasn't any more water in the rain-barrel, or he would have been drownded dead sure. Patsy, yeez had no business to let him drop. Nora, you go out and finish him. Where's Clarissa? _Enter_ CLARISSA _from R._ CLARISSA. Here I am, maw. MRS. MULLIGAN (_looks her over carefully_). Well, you're all ready. That's one. Nora and Patsy and Matsy are all ready. That makes four. Mary Ann, are you all fixed? MARY ANN. Yes, mum, but I don't like me sash at all, at all. Folks will all know it's a bureau tidy, it's got fringe and everything. MRS. MULLIGAN. Oh, ho, me fine young lady. I suppose yeez want a peek-a-boo dress all trimmed with mayonnaise ruffles down the bias, do you? It's lucky for you I found that tidy in the wash, so it is. And don't yeez eat too much or breathe hard or ye'll bust it, and then where'll you be at? BRIDGET. Maw, Mary Ann's chewing her apron. MRS. MULLIGAN (_at the wash-tub_). Mary Ann Mulligan, take that apron out'n your mouth. I niver saw such a girl to be always chewing something. It's first yer dress and then yer apron or your petticoat, whatever happens to be your topmost garment. Clothes were not made to chew. _Enter_ NORA _with_ TEDDY, MELISSA _and_ MICKY, _from L._ NORA. Here they are, maw, all ready for the party. MRS. MULLIGAN. Are ye sure they're all clean? NORA. I am that. They've been scrubbed until me two arms ache. And Micky's had a bath in the rain-barrel. MICKY. I have that, and I don't want another one, either. MRS. MULLIGAN. All yeez sit down and let me look ye over. NORA. Have ye finished the washing, maw? MRS. MULLIGAN. For the prisint, yes. I have more important duties to perform. Now, first and foremost, don't walk pigeon-toed. Bridget, have ye got a clane handkerchief? BRIDGET. Yis, mum. MRS. MULLIGAN. Well, don't forget to use it if the necessity arises, and you'd better set next to Peter Pan so's he can use it, too. He's been kinder nosey all day, and I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't coming down with a cold in his head. How do you feel, Peter Pan? PETER PAN. Scwumptious. MRS. MULLIGAN. Micky Machree Mulligan, and what are yeez looking cross-eyed for? Do ye think it improves yer beauty? MICKY. I thought there was a speck of dirt on me nose. MRS. MULLIGAN. Well, there's not, and hold yer head up straight. PATSY. Maw, ain't it most time to go? MRS. MULLIGAN. It lacks two hours yet of the time, and Matsy ain't come back with the goat. Whatever's become of Shamus O'Brien I'd like to know. Which of yeez seen him last? NORA. I saw him this mornin'. He was eatin' a tin tomato can down in the alley. MRS. MULLIGAN. The poor thing! Now I suppose I'll have a sick goat on me hands on top of all me other troubles--and tomorrow's Christmas Day. BRIDGET. Maw, suppose they won't let us in the Sunday School at all, at all. We don't belong to that Sunday School. What'll we do then? MRS. MULLIGAN. Indade they'll not turn yeez away on Christmas Eve. I chose that Sunday School for yeez to attend because it's the largest and the most fashionable in town. Mrs. Beverly Brewster goes there, and wherever Mrs. Beverly Brewster goes, sure yeez can count on it, it's bound to be most fashionable and select. MARY ANN. But we never went there before. They'll think it's awfully nervy fer us to come buttin' in at their Christmas entertainment. MRS. MULLIGAN. Niver once will they. They'll welcome yeez with open arms and many Christmas prisints. And whatever yeez get be sure and say, "Thank yeez kindly and much obliged." Can ye do that? ALL. Oh, yes, mum. MRS. MULLIGAN. Clarissa, look out'n the door and see if ye see anything of Matsy and the goat. CLARISSA. Yes, mum. (_Goes to door at L._) MRS. MULLIGAN. Mary Ann Mulligan, quit fooling with yer sash. If I've told yer once I've told yer a hundred times it's liable to bust and yer skirt and yer waist ain't on speakin' terms. CLARISSA (_at door_). Maw, here comes Mrs. O'Toole. MRS. MULLIGAN. It's the goat. He's been filling himself up on the O'Toole cabbages. My, my, that goat'll be the death of me yet. _Enter_ MRS. O'TOOLE, _limping in from L._ MRS. O'TOOLE. Good evening, Mrs. Mulligan. MRS. MULLIGAN. The same to ye, Mrs. O'Toole. Come in and set down. MRS. O'TOOLE. I have no time to set down, and I have no inclination to set down. And it's all on account of yer goat, Shamus O'Brien. MRS. MULLIGAN. Me goat, is it? MRS. O'TOOLE. It is the same, and it's an injured woman I am this night. MRS. MULLIGAN. My, my! I'll have to kill that old goat. He's entirely too obstreperous. And did he chase you, Mrs. O'Toole? MRS. O'TOOLE. Chase me? He did worse than chase me. He caught up with me. MRS. MULLIGAN. And where is he now? MRS. O'TOOLE. Niver a know do I know where he is. I left your boy Matsy chasing him down the alley with a rope. MRS. MULLIGAN. Bridget, go in the far room and get a wee drop of tay for Mrs. O'Toole. MRS. O'TOOLE. I can't drink any tay. I'm that injured I can't drink at all, at all. MRS. MULLIGAN. A drop of tay will warm ye up. Hurry, Bridget. BRIDGET. Yis, mum. (_Exits R._) MRS. O'TOOLE. I was out in me cabbage garden picking a bit of cabbage for me owld man's Christmas dinner. I was bending over looking at the cabbage whin all of a sudden I felt meself flying through the air and I landed in the watering trough, so I did. And it was full of water. And I'm almost killed entirely--and it's all the fault of your goat, Mrs. Mulligan. MRS. MULLIGAN. There, now, Kathleen, darlin', sit down and take things easy. MRS. O'TOOLE. I'll not sit down, Mollie Mulligan. Sure I'm thinking I'll be after spindin' the rist of me life standing up on me two fate. MRS. MULLIGAN. So the goat struck ye, did he? MRS. O'TOOLE. He did. MRS. MULLIGAN. My, my, the trouble I've had all along of that Shamus O'Brien. He's an awful goat, is Shamus O'Brien. _Enter_ BRIDGET _with two cups of tea._ BRIDGET. Here's the tea, mum. MRS. MULLIGAN. Thank ye kindly, Bridget. Here, Kathleen, take a cup of tay and let it soothe your wounded feelings. MRS. O'TOOLE. Sure, it's more than me feelings that is wounded, Mrs. Mulligan. (_Drinks tea._) CLARISSA. Maw, ain't it time we were starting for the entertainment? MRS. MULLIGAN. My, my, I've been that excited about the misdeeds of that rascal Shamus O'Brien that I had forgotten the Christmas entertainment entirely. MRS. O'TOOLE. Sure, your family looks as though they were going out in society, Mollie Mulligan. MRS. MULLIGAN. They are that. They're on their way to the fine church entertainment at the Sunday School down the strate. NORA (_at door L._). Maw, here comes Matsy with the goat. (_Looks out of door._) MRS. MULLIGAN (_goes to door and speaks off L._). Matsy Mulligan, tie that goat in the back yard and tie all his four fate together. I'll tach him a lesson, if it's the last thing I ever do. Patsy, go out and help your brother tie up Shamus O'Brien. (_Exit_ PATSY _at L._) MRS. O'TOOLE. Nora Eudora, darlin', have ye got a sofy pillow handy. I think if I had a couple of sofy pillows I could set down and enjoy me tay. NORA. Yis, mum. Here's two of 'em. (_Arranges them in the chair._) _Enter_ PATSY _and_ MATSY _from L._ MATSY. Come on, all of yeez, or we'll be late for the show. And I don't want to miss nothin'. MRS. MULLIGAN (_standing at R._). I think yeez are all ready now. Let me see if there's anyone missing. (_Counting and pointing to each in turn._) There's Patsy and Matsy and Teddy Magee, Nora Eudora and Micky Machree, Bridget Honora and sweet Mary Ann, Melissa, Clarissa and wee Peter Pan. PATSY. We are all here, maw. MRS. MULLIGAN. Now, yer all ready. Throw out yer heads. Forward, march! CHILDREN. Good-bye, maw. MRS. MULLIGAN. Good-bye, and the Lord love yeez all. Have a good time. Good-bye. (_The children march out at L._) MRS. O'TOOLE. Ten of 'em. I don't see how ye ever manage to make both ends meet, Mollie Mulligan, with ten big, healthy children--to say nothing of the goat, Shamus O'Brien. MRS. MULLIGAN (_in door waving hand to children_). Good-bye. Have a good time. (_Yells._) Mary Ann, don't let yer sash bust in two! (_Crosses to R. and sinks in chair._) MRS. O'TOOLE. Ye have a fine family, Mrs. Mulligan. Ye have a fine bunch of boys, and ye have a bunch of girls, and ye have a fine bunch of babies; but ye have an awful goat. MRS. MULLIGAN. Shamus O'Brien is the pest of me heart, Kathleen O'Toole; so he is; but he's all that's left of me late husband's property. Michael Mulligan thought the world of that goat, he did. MRS. O'TOOLE. I'm a peaceful woman, Mollie Mulligan, and a calm, neighborly woman; but I don't like goats. MRS. MULLIGAN. I don't blame ye at all, at all, Kathleen. But poor Shamus O'Brien was probably only nosing around fer a bit of Christmas Eve dinner. I'll kape him tied in the future. MRS. O'TOOLE. Sure and it is Christmas Eve, isn't it? MRS. MULLIGAN. Indade it is, and for the sake of the holy eve, I think ye'd best be after forgiving the poor goat and not harbor any ill feeling agin him on Christmas Day. MRS. O'TOOLE. Harbor ill feeling, is it? Faith, then I'll not, Mollie Mulligan, and it's meself that'll be bringing over a big cabbage head on the morning for Shamus O'Brien's Christmas dinner. MRS. MULLIGAN (_rises_). I'll be after tidying up the house a bit. It's little enough I've got for the children's Christmas tomorrow morning; but at least I can have me house in order and a burning candle shining in the windy. (_Lights candle and sets it on table in front of the window._) This light shall burn on Christmas Day, For Him who in the manger lay, And all are welcome at my door, The high, the low, the rich, the poor, And every heart shall sing again Of peace on earth, good will to men. MRS. O'TOOLE (_rises_). Your burning candle takes me back again to the days of me childhood in County Clare. Well do I mind me last Christmas Eve in ould Ireland, the little thatched cabin with its one window, the stinging smoke of the peat fire, the lads and the colleens and the ould piper--and the merry dances and songs, do ye remember, Mollie, darling? (_Puts arms on hips, wags head from side to side and sings briskly_:) [Music illustration: 1. Did you ev-er go in-to an I-rish-man's shanty, Where mon-ey was scarce but where wel-come was plen-ty? A three-leg-ged stool and a ta-ble to match it, But the door of the shan-ty is al-ways un-latched. 2. Our nate lit-tle house, it looks out on the street, There's two beau-ti-ful rooms and a pig-sty com-plete. Each girl has a dress and each boy has a coat, There's tin hap-py chil-dren, six pigs and a goat. 3. Sure the Mul-li-gans al-ways are hap-py and bright, They sing in the morn-ing, they sing in the night, Now Pat-sy and Mat-sy are strong as can be, But the bil-ly-goat's strong-er than ath-er, you see! Tee-oo-dle, dum-doo-dle, dum-doo-dle, dum day! Tee-oo-dle, dum-doo-dle, dum-doo-dle, dum day! Tee-oo-dle, dum-doo-dle, dum-doo-dle, dum day! Tee-oo-dle, dum-doo-dle, dum-doo-dle, dum day!] MRS. O'TOOLE (_sings briskly_): Did you ever go into an Irishman's shanty, Where money was scarce but where welcome was plenty? A three-legged stool and a table to match it, But the door of the shanty is always unlatched. Tee-oodle, dum-doodle, dum-doodle, dum day! (_Repeat until end._) MRS. MULLIGAN (_faces her, assumes same position, sings briskly_): Our nate little house, it looks out on the street, There's two beautiful rooms and a pig-sty complete. Each girl has a dress and each boy has a coat, There's tin happy children, six pigs and a goat. Tee-oodle, dum-doodle, dum-doodle, dum day! (_Repeat until end._) MRS. O'TOOLE (_sings_): Sure the Mulligans always are happy and bright, They sing in the morning, they sing in the night, Now Patsy and Matsy are strong as can be, But the billy-goat's stronger than ather, you see! Tee-oodle, dum-doodle, dum-doodle, dum day! (_Repeat until end._) MRS. O'TOOLE _hums the song faster and begins to jig, by kicking out R. and L. foot alternately, on first three lines and twirling on fourth line._ _At the beginning of the "Tee-oodle,"_ MRS. MULLIGAN _starts in and does exactly as_ MRS. O'TOOLE _did on the first four lines, while_ MRS. O'TOOLE _skips around stage in a circle._ _On the second verse they march forward and back, arms on hips. Forward again. Do-si-do (backs to back). March forward and back and then each twirls alone._ MRS. O'TOOLE _knocks over the table._ MRS. MULLIGAN, _not to be outdone, knocks over the tub. The music becomes faster and faster._ _On third verse they jig alone, then forward and back, forward again and swing each other madly. While they are dancing they shout out occasionally, "Huroo for ould Ireland!" "That's me fine lady!" "Look at me now!" etc._ CURTAIN. ACT II. _Same as scene before. The wash-tub has been removed, also the washing from the line. The table has been straightened and_ MRS. O'TOOLE _is seated there making a toy elephant._ MRS. MULLIGAN _is seated at L. dressing a doll body in a baby's dress. The candle burns before the window._ MRS. O'TOOLE. It's lucky for us, darlin', that me husband is out at his lodge tonight. I can stay with you until the children return from the entertainment, and maybe it's a bit of a Christmas Eve high-jinks we can be having afterwards. MRS. MULLIGAN. Indade, I'm glad to have ye, Kathleen. Will your husband be long at lodge? MRS. O'TOOLE (_cutting the elephant's ears from brown paper_). He will that. Pat is the Grand Exalted Chafe Ruler of the Benevolent and Obstreperous Order of United Wooden-men, and he won't be home till marnin'. MRS. MULLIGAN. Is he now? The late Mr. Mulligan was niver much of a lodge joiner but that made no difference to him; he niver came home till marnin', lodge or no lodge. MRS. O'TOOLE. Remember, Mollie, you're coming over to dinner with us tomorrow. It's at one o'clock. MRS. MULLIGAN. Oh, Kathleen, I can't be laving the children at all, at all. On Christmas Day, too. MRS. O'TOOLE. Of course you can't. Ye're going to bring the children over with ye. MRS. MULLIGAN. The whole tin of them? MRS. O'TOOLE (_counting on fingers_). Patsy and Matsy, And Teddy Magee, Nora Eudora, And Micky Machree, Bridget Honora, And sweet Mary Ann, Melissa, Clarissa, And wee Peter Pan. MRS. MULLIGAN. And ye're willing for the whole bunch of us to come? MRS. O'TOOLE. All but the goat. I draw the line at Shamus O'Brien. Ye see it's this way. Me man, Pat, won a turkey in a raffle, and it's as big as a billy-goat. Then on top of that me daughter Toozy, that's married and lives in the country, sent us two chickens and a goose. And there's only me and Pat to ate all that. MRS. MULLIGAN. Kathleen O'Toole, it's a saint ye are. MRS. O'TOOLE. I says to Pat, says I, "Christmas ain't Christmas at all, at all, unless there's some children at the dinner." "What'll we do?" says Pat. "Invite the Mulligans," says I. And Pat was tickled to death. We've potatoes and squash and cabbage from me own garden, and we've oyster dressing and cramberries and stewed corn and apple fritters, and it's meself that has made eight mince pies, and four punkin ones--and I think we'll be after having a dinner on Christmas Day that would do credit to ould Saint Patrick himself. MRS. MULLIGAN. Sure, ye almost make me cry for joy, Kathleen O'Toole, and after the goat trated ye the way he did, too. MRS. O'TOOLE. If a woman can't be neighborly and loving on Christmas Day, Mollie Mulligan, sure I'm thinking she niver can be neighborly and loving at all, at all. MRS. MULLIGAN. And ye're aven makin' a bit of an iliphant for wee Peter Pan. MRS. O'TOOLE. I am that. Here's the little, fat body. (_Shows cylindrical piece of dark green squash._) And here's the four legs. (_Shows two bananas cut in half._) I'll just stick the legs on with nails--and there he stands. Now, here's a little potato for a head, and an ould skinny carrot for a trunk. I'll stick them on with a hair pin. (_Does so._) Now, I'll stick on the ears and put in the shoe-button eyes, and with this wee bit of black paper for a tailpiece, and there ye are. Mr. Mumbo Jumbo Mulligan as natural as life and twice as handsome. (_Shows elephant to audience._) MRS. MULLIGAN. Here's a doll baby I've dressed, but it's no head she has at all, at all. MRS. O'TOOLE. Use a big yellow apple or a wee yellow punkin, and put on a baby cap--and there ye are. Stick in some buttons for eyes, and a wee nose and mouth of red paper--and stick the head on the body with some hair pins, and the quane herself niver had a better doll baby. MRS. MULLIGAN. I'll put her right here on the table alongside of the iliphant. MRS. O'TOOLE. It's nine o'clock, it is. Isn't it time for the children to be home? MRS. MULLIGAN (_goes to door at R._). It is that. (_Looks out._) And here they come now. (_The children are heard outside at R., singing to the tune of "Marching Through Georgia."_) The Mulligans are coming now, as happy as can be, We've been to the Sunday School and saw the Christmas tree, Had a lark with Santa Claus and take a tip from me, We'll all be marching on Christmas! (_They march in from R., come down to front and line up._) Hurrah, hurrah, the Mulligans are here, Hurrah, hurrah, for Santa Claus so dear, Sure, it was a happy night, The best one in the year, And we'll be marching on Christmas! Patsy got a trumpet, little Micky got a drum, Matsy got a spinning top, you ought to hear it hum, Clarissa got a candy cane, oh, won't we have the fun, When we are marching on Christmas! Hurrah, hurrah, the Mulligans are here, Hurrah, hurrah, for Santa Claus so dear, Sure, it was a happy night, The best one in the year. And we'll be marching on Christmas. Nora got a picture-book, Melissa got a rake, Every Mulligan on deck got oranges and cake, Got a bag of candy, too--and got the stomachache, But we'll be marching on Christmas. Hurrah, hurrah, the Mulligans are here, Hurrah, hurrah, for Santa Claus so dear, Sure, it was a happy night, The best one in the year. And we'll be marching on Christmas. (_They march around stage while singing the chorus, but line up in front while singing the verses. Use gestures to indicate the different persons and their toys._) MRS. MULLIGAN. And did ye have a good time at the entertainment? BRIDGET. Indade and we did that. It was as good as a circus parade and a picture show together. They treated us just lovely. MRS. MULLIGAN. Did they now? And you wasn't invited at all, at all. MATSY. They gave us a seat way up in front, and Micky Machree acted like a pig, he did. Sure, he grabbed two oranges. MRS. MULLIGAN. Why, Micky, it's ashamed of ye I am. MICKY. I grabbed one to bring home to you, maw. I wanted you to have some of the Christmas present, too. MRS. MULLIGAN (_hugs him_). That's just like your father, Micky. MRS. O'TOOLE (_helping children off with hats, wraps, etc._). And did ye have a good time, wee Peter Pan? PETER PAN. Scwumptious, just scwumptious. MARY ANN. And me sash niver busted in two at all. And I was one of the most stylish young ladies present, so I was. MELISSA. And they had a great, big Christmas tree. Clean up to the ceiling. With lights and toys and candy and little stars and bright fairies and angels and everything. PATSY. And ould Santy Claus was there with a long white beard and a big pack of presents to everyone. CLARISSA. And I pulled Santa Claus' whiskers and they nearly fell off. He must be getting pretty old, 'cause his whiskers is coming loose. BRIDGET. And Santy Claus called out all the names and everybody got up when their names was called and he gave 'em a present. MICKY. And they never called our names at all, at all. MRS. MULLIGAN. That's because they didn't know them. They didn't expect you at the party. MARY ANN. It was a surprise party, maw. MRS. MULLIGAN. How was it a surprise party, Mary Ann? MARY ANN. They all looked surprised when we came in. NORA. When I saw they weren't going to call out our names, I just rose up in me seat and took the whole nine of 'em by the hand and marched right up to Santa Claus. He looked real surprised at the bunch of us. MRS. MULLIGAN. I should think he would. NORA. "And who are you?" says he. "We're the ten little Mulligans from Mulligan Alley in Shantytown," says I, as cool as an icicle. "And we're ready for our presents, if it's all the same to you," says I. I thought they was going to fire us out, but what did he do but dive way down in the bottom of the sack and give every last one of us a present? TEDDY. And then he gave us bags of candy and oranges and apples and peanuts and popcorn and a candy cane, and then they had a show and Bridget Honora spoke a piece, she did. MRS. O'TOOLE. How did ye happen to spake a piece, Bridget Honora? BRIDGET. I just stood up and told 'em I knowed one. There ain't nuthin' bashful about me. And I kind o' thought we ought to do something to help pay fer the good things they gave us. MRS. MULLIGAN (_petting her_). That's me good little Bridget Honora. MELISSA (_sees doll on table_). Oh, wee! Lookee there! Where'd she come from? MRS. O'TOOLE. Santa Claus was after being here while you were away and he left it for you. MELISSA. Is it all for me? MRS. MULLIGAN. It's the Mulligan dolly. It's fer all ten of yeez. PATSY. She can have my share. I don't want no dolls. MICKY. Oh, look at the efulunt. Look at the efulunt. MRS. O'TOOLE. That is Mumbo Jumbo Mulligan from the sunny shores of Africa, way down in Louisiana. CHILDREN. Who's he fur? Who's he fur? PETER PAN (_takes elephant_). He's fur me. Scwumptious! TEDDY. Maw, they had a show there at the Sunday School. There was a wee little man, about so long (_measures about two feet_), and he stood up on a table and sang a song, so he did. PATSY. Humph! I know how they did that. Matsy and me can show it to you. MELISSA. And they had the Turnover Topsy Turvies, too. CLARISSA. They stood upside down on their heads. MRS. MULLIGAN. My, my--but it must have been a wonderful show. MRS. O'TOOLE. Just think what we missed, Mollie Mulligan. MATSY. I didn't miss nothin'. I never miss nothin' no time. NORA. We could give just as good a show our own selves. OTHERS. Let's do it; let's do it. Let's give a show for maw and Mis' O'Toole. TEDDY. Would you like to see it, maw? MRS. MULLIGAN. If it ain't too late. MRS. O'TOOLE. What matters it how late it is? Christmas comes but once a year---- ALL. And when it comes it brings good cheer. MRS. MULLIGAN. Then sure we'll have the show. Poor folks can be just as happy on Christmas Day as rich folks. It's all in the way you feel about it. PATSY. Now, maw, you and Mrs. O'Toole take your seats out there in front. (_Points to front row of the audience._) MATSY. I'll help you carry them out. (_They carry down two chairs from the stage and seat_ MRS. MULLIGAN _and_ MRS. O'TOOLE _in the audience._) PATSY. Now, we'll have to draw the curtain to get the stage ready. NORA. And while we're getting ready Mary Ann can say her piece. CURTAIN FALLS. MRS. MULLIGAN (_in audience_). My, my, Kathleen, what a large crowd of people are here tonight. I'm afraid I'm not dressed up for the occasion. MRS. O'TOOLE. Dressed up, is it? Indade you are. Ye have on short sleeves and a low-neck dress. What more would ye want? There's the minister and his wife setting right back there. (_Speaks to them._) Good avening, Brother ----; sure, it's a fine avening we're having, is it not? MRS. MULLIGAN (_speaks to a lady in audience_). My, my, is it yourself, Mrs. ----? Sure, I'm glad to see ye out. It's a long time since I've had the pleasure of seeing you. (_Speaks to several children._) And there's ---- and ---- and ----. I'm glad to see all of yeez. Sure, some day yeez must come over to me house in Mulligan Alley and I'll let you play with the goat, Shamus O'Brien. MRS. O'TOOLE. I see the young ladies over there, and each one of them has a young man. My, my, it does me ould heart good to see the young folks enjoying themselves. It ain't so many years since me and Pat was courting each other just like the rest of yeez. MRS. MULLIGAN. Mrs. O'Toole, do you see that young man sitting there all by his lonesome? Ain't it a shame? And him such a good looking young feller, too. I've a good notion to go over there and cheer him up a bit. Maybe his girl is here with another fellow. MRS. O'TOOLE. Sure, there's plenty of girls here without any fellows at all, at all. Why should a young man sit all alone like a bump on a log, whin there's so many handsome colleens waiting for the chance at him? MRS. MULLIGAN. Whist, Mrs. O'Toole, it's making him embarrassed yeez are. Will you look at the red color in his face? MRS. O'TOOLE. If ye ask me my opinion, Mollie Mulligan, sure and I think he's after waiting fer one of yer own lovely daughters. MRS. MULLIGAN. Well, he might go further and fare worse. Nora Eudora's a fine girl, if I do say it myself. MRS. O'TOOLE. Whist, here comes Mary Ann out in front of the curtain to spake her piece. (MARY ANN _comes in front of the curtain, makes a bow and recites:_) 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 thought 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 of the year I am sure This is the time to remember the poor. Plenty of children there are in our city, Who have no fathers or mothers to pity; Plenty of people whose working and heeding Scarcely can keep all their dear ones from needing. Now, if I came every year in December, These are the ones I would surely remember. Once on a beautiful Christmas you know Jesus our Saviour was born here below, Patiently stooping to hunger and pain, So He might save us, His lost ones, from shame; Now if we love Him, He bids us to feed All His poor brothers and sisters who need. Blessed old Nick! I was sure if you knew it, You would remember and certainly do it; This year, at least, when you empty your pack, Pray give a portion to all who may lack. Then, if there's anything left and you can Bring a small gift to wee Peter Pan. _--Emily H. Miller.--Adapted._ MRS. O'TOOLE (_applauding vigorously_). Wasn't that dandy? Sure, little Mary Ann has a wonderful education, so she has! MRS. MULLIGAN. She takes after her own mother. I was just like her when I was that age. MRS. O'TOOLE. And you're just like her still, Mollie Mulligan. Sure you're the sunshine of Mulligan Alley and the belle of Shantytown. MRS. MULLIGAN. Whist now! It's covered I am wid blushes. But, hush! I think the show is about to begin. ACT III. _Curtain rises disclosing the same scene. Three long sheets hang on the line, reaching down to the floor and extending clear across the stage. The children are behind the sheets. The line is about three and one-half feet high. The table sets obliquely in front of the door at R. It is covered with a sheet or long cloth reaching to the ground._ PATSY _and_ TEDDY _form the dwarf._ PATSY, _coatless, has a long pair of striped stockings on over his arms, and a pair of shoes on his hands, ornamented on insteps with large rosettes._ TEDDY _stands behind him and thrusts his arms as far as they will go under_ PATSY'S _armpits. A kind of a tunic covers both. Wear a large crimped frill or an enormous turned-down collar._ PATSY _stands behind table and places his shoe-clad hands upon it, which represent the feet of the dwarf. The door curtains are fastened together a few inches above his head, concealing_ TEDDY. PATSY _must lean slightly over the table or the legs will not appear to support the body._ _When the curtain is up, enter_ MATSY _from L. dressed as a Showman._ MATSY (_bows to audience, speaks in a loud voice, using megaphone_). Come and see Jumbo, Samson symbolical! Come and see Slivers, Clown really comical! Come and see Zip, the foremost of freaks! Come and see Palestine's Sinister Sheiks! Eager Equestriennes, each unexcelled, Most mammoth menagerie ever beheld, The Giant, the Fat Girl, the Lion-faced Man, Aerial Artists from far-off Japan, Audacious Acrobats shot from a gun, Don't miss the greatest show under the sun! Now, if you will kindly lend me your ears for a moment, I will fill them free of charge with a few words concerning the world's greatest assortment of marvelous monstrosities. In the first cell we have Senor Macaroni Spaghetti from the land of the banana. The senor is thirty-nine inches high, and, strangely enough, thirty-nine years old, to say nothing of the fact that he weighs thirty-nine pounds. (PATSY _scratches his nose with his foot._) He arrived last week by parcel post to join our circus. The senor is looking for a wife. Oh, you needn't laugh! It's true. Some of you near-sighted ladies should have brought magnifying glasses, for Senor Macaroni Spaghetti is the smallest speck of humanity that ever lived in captivity. He stands on a silver dollar and puts his hand in a thimble. (TEDDY _makes funny gestures during this entire speech._) The senor will now entertain you in his entertaining way. PATSY (_sings_). SPAGHETTI FROM OLD ITALY. (Music on page 107) Me name is Spaghetti, I came o'er the sea, To visit this land from old Italy, I have a small monkey, he jumps with a string, And if he was here to you he would sing: (_Dances._) Tee-oodle, dum-doodle, dum-doodle, dum day! (_Repeat until end._) I once fell in love with the sweet Antoinette, She say she will marry the little Spaghett, But she said she no like-a a hand-organ man, So I stand on the corner and sell-a banan. (_Dances._) Tee-oodle, dum-doodle, dum-doodle, dum day! (_Repeat until end._) I wed Antoinetta and live in a flat, I buy-a fine clothes and a big silk-a hat, I make-a much money and this little gent, He maybe some day will be big President. (_Dances._) Tee-oodle, dum-doodle, dum-doodle, dum day! (_Repeat until end._) MATSY. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I'll call your attention to the seven little Sunbonnet babies. Behold them, them famous Mulligan twins. (_Exits L._) _The heads of_ NORA, MICKY, BRIDGET, MARY ANN, MELISSA, CLARISSA _and_ PETER _appear above the sheets at rear. Each wears a large sunbonnet. They sing to the tune "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp!"_ Little Mulligans are we, and our hearts are light and free, For it's Christmas Eve and soon we'll be in bed, We're peculiar little folks, full of jollity and jokes, And you ought to see us stand upon our head! Tramp, tramp, tramp, we'll soon be marching, We are going off to bed, But before we leave you now, Each of us will show you how Little Mulligan can stand upon her head. (_All disappear under sheet. They repeat chorus and hold up their arms above the sheet. The arms are covered with stockings and shoes are on their hands. They slap hands together, making feet dance, etc._) Tramp, tramp, tramp, we'll soon be marching, We are going off to bed, But before we leave you now, Each of us will show you how Little Mulligan can stand upon her head. (_Repeat._) MRS. MULLIGAN (_from audience_). Nora! Bridget! Mary Ann! What do ye mane! You'll kill yourselves entirely. (_Rushes to the stage, followed by_ MRS. O'TOOLE.) If you stand on your head like that, all your brains will rush down into your fate. NORA (_head above curtain_). That's the way they did in the show. (_All come out on stage._) MRS. O'TOOLE. Well, well, well, wonders will never cease. Sure, I niver spint such a fine Christmas Eve in all me life before. MRS. MULLIGAN (_stands C. facing audience, surrounded by the ten children._) Sure, I think we've had a fine Christmas celebration, don't you? And before ye go let this sink down deep in your hearts and minds--it doesn't take money and fine clothes and costly gifts to make a fine Christmas at all, at all. All it takes is loving hearts and loving hands, and merry faces of happy boys and girls. We didn't have any money--but you see what a lovely time we've had--and it's all because the spirit of Christmas was in our hearts--and the spirit of Christmas means love, and love is the greatest thing in all the world. Merry Christmas to all of yeez, and may ye never regret the time you spent Christmas Eve with the ten little Mulligans. CURTAIN. NOTES TO THE MANAGER. WHERE THE MULLIGANS LIVED. The scenery is very simple or may be dispensed with entirely. Entrances R. and L. and a window at the rear are necessary. An old table stands in front of the window, and a larger table, also old, stands down R. Several soap boxes are down L. and these with an upturned bucket serve as seats for the Mulligans. An old rag carpet covers the floor. A wash-tub, with wash-board, clothes, etc., stand at C. Two rickety chairs are on the stage, one R.C. and one L.C., the latter a rocking-chair. The larger table is covered with a well worn red cloth and supports an old-fashioned lighted lamp. Several tin cans, filled with bright flowers, stand on the table in front of the window. Curtains or bed comforts are draped over the door at R. An old sofa stands up L. Colored prints adorn the walls. A clothes line runs across the stage at rear. On this line several garments are drying, bright stockings, a union suit, red flannels, etc. Remember the scene is laid in Mulligan Alley and the stage must be arranged according to Mulligan taste. WHAT THE MULLIGANS WORE. MRS. MULLIGAN--Powdered hair, parted in middle and combed over ears, somewhat unkempt. Well worn, old-fashioned cloth waist, with sleeves rolled up and open in the neck. Skirt of contrasting color. The skirt is turned up, showing flannel petticoat. Unstarched and rather soiled dark gingham apron, of ample proportions, but without bib. Hair twisted in knob at the back of head. Large, old shoes. MATSY and PATSY--Long, tattered trousers, old suspenders, large, well worn shoes, calico shirts, torn and patched. Bright calico neckties. Caps. In Act III Matsy wears a large black mustache, a long black coat, much too large, and a stiff hat three sizes too big, while Patsy wears the dwarf's tunic and has his face made up yellow, with rouge on cheeks. TEDDY and MICKY--Short trousers, well worn and patched. Striped stockings. Old shirts. NORA and BRIDGET--Ankle skirts, waists of a different color. Bright calico bows. Large hair ribbons. MARY ANN, MELISSA and CLARISSA--Short skirts. Striped stockings. Old shoes. Funny hats and waists. PETER PAN--Calico slip. Baby's hat. MRS. O'TOOLE--Old-fashioned walking dress of bright colors. Shawl and little bonnet. Red wig, if desired. THE WISHING MAN [Illustration: Type of Type of WISHING MAN FRENCH DOLLS TIN SOLDIERS KA-ZIN-SKI GRANDPA GRANDMA FATHER MOTHER NURSEMAID DUMPLING TOOTSY SNOOKUMS ATTENUATED ROLY POLY TOOTSY DUMPLING ENLARGED Type of SNOOKUMS BEARS JIM DANDY BABY JUMBO] THE WISHING MAN A CHRISTMAS WHIMSY FOR SWEETE CHARITIE. IN THREE SHORT ACTS. _As presented by Class No. 10, Wesley Chapel, Columbus, Ohio. Re-written from memory._ CHARACTERS. THE WISHING MAN _Young Man_ THE ROLY-POLY DUMPLING _Stout Young Man_ THE ATTENUATED TOOTSY _Tall, Thin Young Man_ THE ENLARGED SNOOKUMS _Young Man_ GRANDPA GREEN _Boy of Fourteen or Fifteen_ GRANDMA GREEN _Plump Girl of same age_ FATHER FRITZ _Boy of about Fourteen_ MOTHER FRITZ _Girl of about Fifteen_ NURSE MAID _Girl of about Thirteen_ DUMPLING _Boy of Eight_ TOOTSY _Girl of Seven or Eight_ SNOOKUMS _Boy of Six or under_ KA-ZIN-SKI _Tall Boy_ TEDDY BEAR _Small Boy_ JIMMIE BEAR _Small Boy_ BABY JUMBO _Made of Two Larger Boys_ ANNETTE _Little Girl_ BABETTE _Little Girl_ OLIVETTE _Little Girl_ PRIVATE BLACK _Little Boy_ PRIVATE JACK _Little Boy_ PRIVATE MACK _Little Boy_ JIM DANDY, _a Stick of Candy_ _Little Boy_ * * * * * TIME OF PLAYING--_About Forty-five Minutes._ * * * * * _For description of costumes, scenery, etc., see "Remarks on Production" at the end of the play._ ACT I. SCENE: _A room in_ FATHER FRITZ'S _house. Doors at R. and L. Small table down L. with three chairs around it. Sofa down R. Easy chair down C. Lighted lamp on table. Window at rear._ DUMPLING _is seated on a rocking-horse at rear C._ GRANDPA _stands by him helping him rock it._ TOOTSY _is on a rocking-horse at L. front, with_ FATHER _and_ MOTHER _helping her rock it._ SNOOKUMS _is on a baby rocking-horse at R. front, with_ GRANDMA _and_ NURSE MAID _in attendance. Very little furniture on stage. If the rocking-horses are not easy to get,_ DUMPLING _and_ TOOTSY _may be astride of sticks with horses' heads._ _Curtain rises to bright music._ ALL (_sing_). HOP, HOP, HOP! [Music illustration: 1. Hop, hop, hop! Nim-ble as a top, Where 'tis smooth and where 'tis sto-ny, Trudge a-long, my lit-tle po-ny, Hop, hop, hop, hop, hop! Nim-ble as a top. 2. Whoa, whoa, whoa! How like fun you go! Ver-y well, my lit-tle po-ny, Safe's our jaunt tho' rough and sto-ny, Spare, spare, spare, spare, spare! Sure e-nough we're there. 3. Here, here, here! Yes, my po-ny dear; Now with oats and hay I'll treat you, And with smiles will ev-er greet you, Po-ny, po-ny dear! Yes, my po-ny dear.] DUMPLING (_dismounting_). Whoa, there, Jimmie! Oh, Grandpa, I do love my pony. It's the best of all my presents. GRANDPA. Well, it's time you put him in his stall. TOOTSY (_dismounting_). I'm going to call my pony after Mr. ----. (_Insert the name of some well known man._) 'Cause he looks just like him. GRANDMA (_helping_ SNOOKUMS _from pony_). And what are you going to call your pony, Snookums? SNOOKUMS. Going to call him Elizabeth, after you, Grandma. GRANDMA (_kisses her_). That's my baby! MOTHER. Grandma, we'd better get our hats and coats. It's nearly time for the car to be after us. FATHER. Come, Grandpa. It's nearly eight o'clock. GRANDPA. But I don't like to leave the children. DUMPLING. And we don't like to have you leave us, either. My, this has been the grandest Christmas day I've ever seen. MOTHER. Come, Grandma. (_Exits L. with_ GRANDMA.) GRANDPA. Come, children. (_They gather around him._) I'm glad you've had such a happy Christmas. You got everything you wanted, didn't you? TOOTSY. Yes, everything. My, I wish Christmas would come every day. DUMPLING. Tell us the story about old Saint Nick, Grandpa. GRANDPA. Do you want to hear that old chestnut again? CHILDREN. Oh, yes, yes! GRANDPA (_takes_ SNOOKUMS _on his lap, the other children stand by his knee._) 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads; Grandma in her kerchief and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,-- When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. When what to my wondering eyes would appear But a wee little sleigh and eight little reindeer, With a wee little driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick. More rapid than eagles his reindeers they came, And he whistled and shouted and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! Now, dash away, dash away, dash away, all." So up to the housetop the reindeer they flew, With a sleigh full of toys, and Saint Nicholas, too. As I drew in my head and was turning around, Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in red from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim e'er he drove out of sight: "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" --_Clement C. Moore._ CHILDREN. Oh, that was just lovely. TOOTSY. I just wish I could see him. Just once! DUMPLING. And so do I. I'm going to catch him some Christmas Eve. SNOOKUMS. Me, too! _Enter from L._, MOTHER _and_ GRANDMA, _wearing winter coats and hats. They carry coats and hats for_ FATHER _and_ GRANDPA. MOTHER. Here, Grandpa, put on your coat and hat, or we'll be late for the dinner. (_Helps him._) GRANDPA. I'd rather stay here and talk to the children. FATHER (_putting on his coat_). But Aunt Clara is expecting us. GRANDMA. And the auto is at the door. GRANDPA. Dumpling, are you sure you got everything you wanted for Christmas? DUMPLING. I can't think of anything else. GRANDPA. If you didn't, and if all three of you children can agree on anything else, it shall be yours if money can buy it. TOOTSY. Money can buy everything, can't it, Grandpa? GRANDPA. No, my dear, not quite everything. DUMPLING. But suppose we wish for something that money can't buy? GRANDPA. I'd try to get it for you some other way. TOOTSY. How, Grandpa; how? GRANDPA. Why, I'd tell the Wishing Man. He'd get it for you. GRANDMA. Come along, John; don't put such nonsense in the children's heads. FATHER. We must hurry along to Aunt Clara's, children. But this is Christmas night. You may all stay up tonight just as long as you wish. DUMPLING. Oh, can we? Can we? MOTHER. Yes. Cecelia will look after you. Cecelia? NURSE MAID. Of course I will, mum. MOTHER. Come along, now. We must hurry. (_Kisses the children and goes out R. with_ GRANDMA, GRANDPA _and_ FATHER.) TOOTSY (_dancing around_). Oh, we can stay up just as long as we wish! Goody, goody! Why that is the very best gift of all. NURSE MAID. Now you children be good, and if you want me, call out. I'll be down in the kitchen with the cook. (_Goes out at L._) DUMPLING. Now we're left all alone. TOOTSY. I don't see why Aunt Clara couldn't have invited us to her dinner party, too. SNOOKUMS (_playing with doll_). Snookums likes dinner party. DUMPLING. It's 'cause we ain't big enough. TOOTSY. My, I wisht I was a great, great, great big girl. DUMPLING. There, that's a wish that money can't buy. TOOTSY. Grandpa said he'd get us anything we wished for. DUMPLING. What do you wish, Snookums? SNOOKUMS. Wish Grandpaw would come home. TOOTSY. I know a real good wish. I wish it were Christmas every day. Don't you, Dumpling? DUMPLING. No, I don't. We'd have to have a present and a tree and a turkey and plum pudding every day of our lives. We'd get awfully tired of it after a while. Just think, we'd have to give away about a million presents every year. TOOTSY. I'll tell you what I really do wish. DUMPLING. What? TOOTSY. I wish we could do just like grown up folks do. I wish I was the biggest little girl in all the world. DUMPLING. And I wish so, too. I wish we were just awfully, awfully, awfully big--and then we could go to Aunt Clara's dinner party, and everywhere. SNOOKUMS. Me wish me was great big Snookums. TOOTSY. But money couldn't buy that wish, Dumpling. DUMPLING. No, that's right. But Grandpa said if he couldn't buy our wish he'd get it some other way. TOOTSY. How could he get it? DUMPLING. He said he'd tell the Wishing Man. TOOTSY. My, I wonder if there really is such a person! DUMPLING. I don't know. But I'd like to see him if there is. TOOTSY. I'll make a rhyme. Good Mr. Wishing Man, how do you do? If there is such a person, we'd like to see you! DUMPLING. If you come from afar, if you come from near, Good Mr. Wishing Man, appear, appear! _The_ WISHING MAN _rolls out from under the table, rises, faces the three children, arms akimbo._ WISHING MAN (_after a pause, drawls_). Well? DUMPLING _and_ TOOTSY (_frightened, down R._). Well? (_They look at each other, pause, then repeat._) Well! SNOOKUMS (_comes in front of them, stands facing the_ WISHING MAN, _arms akimbo_). Well? WISHING MAN. Well, I'm here. DUMPLING. Who's here? WISHING MAN. Why, _I_ am here. You said you would like to see me and so I have come. _I'm_ here. TOOTSY. Are you the Wishing Man? WISHING MAN. That's my name. (_Sings to the tune of "Wearing of the Green." He sings briskly, shaking head in time and dancing a step or two._) I'm the friend of all the children, And I'll help you if I can, Just tell me what your wishes are, For I'm the Wishing Man. I have wishbones on my fingers, I have myst'ry in my eyes, My clothes are trimmed with horseshoes, And they're stained with magic dyes. My pocket's full of rabbits' feet, And clover leaves and charms, For luck I've got a big black cat All tattooed on my arms, I'm a friend of all the children, And I'll help you if I can, So tell me what your wishes are-- For I'm the Wishing Man. I come from a distant country Away up near the pole, But the things that I am telling you, You mustn't tell a soul. I know every witch and goblin, And if you would believe! I have fortunes in my pocket-book, And wonders up my sleeve. When any little boy or girl Says, "Wishing Man, appear!" I jump right up from underneath, And here I am, my dear! I'm a friend of all the children, And I'll help you if I can, So tell me what your wishes are-- For I'm the Wishing Man. DUMPLING. And can you really grant us anything we wish for? WISHING MAN. I can, if it's a good wish--and if you all agree on the same thing. TOOTSY. Anything in the wide, wide world? WISHING MAN. Well, pretty nearly anything. Would you like some new toys? TOOTSY. Oh, no, thank you. This is Christmas, you know, and we got ever so many toys. SNOOKUMS. Ever so many toys. WISHING MAN. I don't see what you called me for. You seem to have everything you want. DUMPLING. Oh, no, we haven't. We've made a wish, and we're all agreed on it. WISHING MAN. Are you sure it's a good wish? DUMPLING. Oh, yes, it's an awful good wish. You see, we want to be great big children so we can stay up late at night and go to Aunt Clara's dinner parties. That's our wish. We want to be the biggest children there are anywhere. WISHING MAN (_laughs heartily_). Oh, ho, ho, ho! That's the funniest wish I ever heard since I've been in the wishing business. So you want to be the very biggest children there are anywhere, do you? TOOTSY. Yes, sir; that's just what we want. I want to be a great, big, tall little girl. WISHING MAN (_laughing_). A great, big tall little girl, hey? DUMPLING. And I want to be a great, big, big, _big_ little boy. WISHING MAN. Oh, a big, _big_, BIG little boy, hey? SNOOKUMS. And so do I. WISHING MAN. And so do you, hey? CHILDREN. Yes, sir; that is our wish. WISHING MAN. Well, I'll have to see if I can accommodate you. It's a pretty big job, you know. TOOTSY. You said you could give us anything we wished for. WISHING MAN. But I didn't think you'd wish for anything like that. DUMPLING. That's the only thing we want, Mr Wishing Man. WISHING MAN (_rubbing his chin and speaking thoughtfully_). Well, now--let me see. I'm afraid it's too big a job for me. In the first place I haven't any marble. CHILDREN. Marble? WISHING MAN. Yes. In order to make you grow and grow and grow, you'll have to stand on marble. TOOTSY. We have a marble-top table in the front hall. DUMPLING. Oh, yes. And we can all stand on top of the table. WISHING MAN. But I have to stand here by the open window. TOOTSY. Well, we can go in there and leave the door open. You can stay here and make our wish come true. Come on, Dumpling. WISHING MAN. Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you all of you sure you want to be made into great big, big little children? CHILDREN. Yes, all of us. WISHING MAN. All right. If that's your wish, it's no business of mine. Go out in the front hall and climb on the marble-top table and I'll see what I can do for you. TOOTSY. Oh, come on, quick, Dumpling, before he changes his mind. (_Runs out R. with_ DUMPLING _and_ SNOOKUMS, _the latter taking very long strides._) WISHING MAN. It's a very foolish wish, but maybe they'll be satisfied if I make them the biggest children on earth. (_Throws back curtains at the window._) I'll see what I can do. DUMPLING (_outside_). I'm standing up on the table now. WISHING MAN. Hickety, kickety, setting sun, (_Making mysterious passes._) Thunder, lightning, flash of a gun! Let him grow bigger, it won't be much fun; Hickety, kickety, number one! (_Lights flash out, then on again, then out. Low rumbles of thunder heard. Lights on again, then off. Loud crash outside._) TOOTSY. Now it's my turn. I'm on the table. WISHING MAN. Witchery, twitchery, kangaroo, Thunder and lightning, Kalamazoo! Lengthen her, strengthen her, rip, bazoo, Make her a giantess, number two! (_Lightning and thunder as before._) SNOOKUMS (_outside_). Now, Mr. Wishing Man, I'm on the table. WISHING MAN. That's the Baby Snookums. Very well, little Snookie Ookums! I'll change you into the biggest baby on earth. Rumpety, thumpety, Kankakee, Lengthen him out to six foot three! The biggest baby we ever did see, Rumpety, thumpety, number three! (_Same noises as before, only louder._) _Enter_ NURSE MAID _from L._ NURSE MAID. Goodness, gracious! Is it a tornado or an earthquake? (_Sees_ WISHING MAN.) Oh! (_Screams loudly._) And who are you? Murder! Thieves! Robbers! Where's me children? Where's little Dumpling and Tootsy and Baby Snookums? (_Fast, loud music._) WISHING MAN (_yells_). Where are your children? _Enter_ BIG DUMPLING, BIG TOOTSY _and_ BIG SNOOKUMS. _They join hands and dance around at R._ WISHING MAN. There they are. There are little Dumpling and Tootsy and Baby Snookums. (NURSE MAID _looks at children, screams loudly, throws up her arms and faints in a chair at L. of stage._ WISHING MAN _stands at C. with arms akimbo, laughing at her. The three big children dance in a circle at R._) CURTAIN. ACT II. SCENE: _No scene at all. The action takes place in front of the closed curtains. Note: During this act the managers should be arranging the stage for the next act._ _The children who are present in the audience should be given seats down in front. At this point they rise and go upon the stage in front of the curtain and sing, accompanied by a chorus of older children behind the scenes. An adult leader may appear with the children. All sing, marching around platform and acting out the song:_ FOLLOW ME, FULL OF GLEE. Movement Song. [Music illustration: 1. Chil-dren go, to and fro, In a mer-ry, pret-ty row: Foot-steps light, fa-ces bright, 'Tis a hap-py, hap-py sight; Swift-ly turn-ing round and round.[A] Do not look up-on the ground, 2. Birds are free, so are we, And we live as hap-pi-ly; Work we do, stud-y, too, Learn-ing dai-ly some-thing new; Then we laugh, and dance, and sing, Gay as birds or an-y-thing: 3. Work is done, play's be-gun, Now we have our laugh and fun: Hap-py days, pret-ty plays, And no naught-y, naught-y ways. Hold-ing fast each oth-er's hand, We're a hap-py, cheer-ful band; CHORUS. Fol-low me, full of glee, Sing-ing mer-ri-ly. Sing-ing mer-ri-ly, mer-ri-ly, mer-ri-ly, Sing-ing mer-ri-ly, mer-ri-ly, mer-ri-ly, Fol-low me, full of glee, Sing-ing mer-ri-ly.] [Footnote A: They all twirl around.] (_The music continues softly as they resume their seats in the audience. After a pause the_ WISHING MAN _sticks his head out from the curtains. He takes one step in front, bows, then skips down to front and bows again._) WISHING MAN. Hello, little boys and girls, how do you do this fine winter night? I know what each of you has been thinking. You've been wishing that _you_ could meet the Wishing Man and that he would make _your_ wishes come true. Now, haven't you? Well, I've made that wish come true. You wished to meet me, and here I am. I've been watching you all the year in Sunday School. I know how you have worked over your lessons, how you have helped your teachers and how punctual you have been. To be sure, I know some of you haven't helped your teachers as much as you could have done, but I'll forget all that at Christmas time. Now tell me what you wish for most. CHILDREN (_in audience who have previously rehearsed this scene_). A Christmas tree. A look at old Santa Claus. Some nice Christmas presents, etc. WISHING MAN. Stop, stop. I can't attend to so many wishes at once. LITTLE GIRL (_rising_). Please, Mr. Wishing Man, couldn't you tell us what we'd better wish for? WISHING MAN. Have you ever had a great, big Christmas tree? CHILDREN. Oh, yes, lots of times. WISHING MAN. Have you ever seen my old friend, Mr. Santa Claus? CHILDREN. Oh, yes. LITTLE BOY. We see him every year at Christmas. WISHING MAN. How would like to go with me to Wishing Land. CHILDREN. Oh, goody! (_Clapping hands._) That would be fine. Can you take us there? WISHING MAN. Of course I can. And that's just what we'll do. We'll all of us go to the Wishing Land. First, I'll call little Dumpling. Dumpling, little Dumpling, where are you? BIG DUMPLING _comes in from behind the curtains._ BIG D. Here I am, Mr. Wishing Man. I was playing with my little horse and wagon. (_He plays with tiny horse and wagon._) WISHING MAN. And how do you like being a great, big Dumpling? BIG D. Well, not very well. I'm always bumping my head on the doors and things. And all my toys are so very little I'm always breaking them. WISHING MAN. Where is your sister? Where is little Tootsy? BIG TOOTSY _enters._ BIG T. Here, Mr. Wishing Man. I'm here. Me and my little dolly. WISHING MAN. Well, little Tootsy, how do you like being a great, big Tootsy? BIG T. I don't like it very well. My clothes don't seem to fit, and I know I look awfully funny. (_To audience._) Don't I? Everybody laughs at me and it always makes me cry. (_Cries._) WISHING MAN. And where is little Snookie Ookums? BIG SNOOKUMS _enters._ BIG S. Here I am, Mr. Wishing Man. Here's 'ittie Snookie Ookums. WISHING MAN. You look like a 'ittie baby elephant, Snookie Ookums. Well, are you children satisfied with your wish? THE THREE. Not very much. We wish we were little again. BIG S. (_crying_). I tried to ride my little horsie and I bweaked him all to pieces. BIG D. And I can't get enough to eat. My little knife and fork and spoon are too little, and when I eat I swallow dishes and all. (_Cries._) BIG T. And all my clothes are too little for me, and I look so funny that everybody laughs at me. And I don't like it at all. (_Cries._) WISHING MAN. I'm just going to start on a journey to the Wishing Land. The toys there are awfully big. They'd be just the right size for you. Would you like to go with me? BIG S. Is it very far? BIG D. Could we get back by bedtime? BIG T. Wouldn't it be awfully cold flying through the air? WISHING MAN. Oh, no. We'd fly so fast you'd only have time to shiver once and then we'd be right there. THE THREE. Oh, yes; let's go. WISHING MAN. All right. Now all of you part your hair right in the middle, so you won't be heavier on one side than on the other. (_They do so._) That's good. Now give me your hands and hold on tight and we're off to the Wishing Land. Follow me, full of glee. (_All sing the first verse and chorus of "Follow Me, Full of Glee," accompanied by the children in the audience. At the end all dance off the stage at R._) ACT III. SCENE: _The Wishing Land. Green or dark colored curtains at rear and at sides. Use all the large palms and potted trees available. A trumpet vine is attached to curtains at the rear. This is made of branches pinned on curtain to simulate a vine. Several tin trumpets are tied to the branches and many trumpets of various sizes made of paper. These stick out of the vines like blossoms._ [Illustration: Fig. 1] _At rear right is a large tree with buds made of tissue paper and toy drums showing in the buds. See diagram. The leaves forming these buds should be pointed oval in shape and vary in size as they represent buds or open flowers. The drums hang down from the branches and the petals, when open, hang open and partly cover them. Another tree stands at rear L. This is hung with candy or bits of colored paper simulating candy. Candy canes are on this tree and_ JIM DANDY _is sleeping at bottom of tree._ _At R. about half-way back are branches arranged to look as if growing, and about three feet high, hung with balls of various sizes and colors._ _At L. about half-way back are three little girls dressed as French dolls. They stand in a row facing the audience. At either end of the row is a frame to support the cheesecloth curtain that hides them from the audience. They must stand stiffly with arms held out straight in front of them._ _At L. front are several rows of flower pots or boxes containing growing plants with dolls fastened among the leaves. These are branches about eighteen inches high, with green paper buds partly enveloping the dolls._ _At R. front is a large square box (a pasteboard cracker box or breakfast food box covered with red tissue paper will answer) in which is_ KA-ZIN-SKI _concealed by the lid._ _At R. half-way back just in front of the ball-trees stand three little boys dressed as toy soldiers. They stand erect and do not move._ _Curtain rises to mysterious music played by piano. This continues some little time until the audience "takes in" the scene._ _After a pause, enter the_ WISHING MAN, _followed by the three_ BIG CHILDREN. WISHING MAN. Well, here we are in the Wishing Land. My kingdom and not a soul to welcome me! BIG D. Oh, what a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful place. BIG S. See 'ittie bitsy teeny weeny trumpets gwowing in twees. BIG T. And the dolls. The lovely, lovely dolls. WISHING MAN (_clapping his hands_). What, ho! Is there none to welcome me? _Enter_ TEDDY BEAR _from L._ TEDDY BEAR (_comes to_ WISHING MAN _and bows low_). BIG D. Oh, see the Teddy Bear. BIG T. And he's the biggest one I ever saw. BIG S. Nice pussy, nice, nice pussy! (_Strokes_ TEDDY BEAR.) TEDDY BEAR (_growls_). BIG S. (_much frightened_). Oh, naughty, naughty, naughty! WISHING MAN. Hello, Teddy Bear. Where's your brother? TEDDY BEAR (_shakes head as if he does not know_). WISHING MAN. Go out and find him for me. Have you been a very, very good Teddy Bear while I was away? TEDDY BEAR (_nods his head_). WISHING MAN. That's good. Now go out and find Jimmy Bear. TEDDY BEAR (_nods head and ambles out at R._). WISHING MAN (_looking around_). Everything is growing fine. I think the bicycle trees need a little more water. Well, children, what do you think of the Wishing Land? BIG D. It's awfully pretty. BIG T. It's perfectly gorgeous. BIG S. Wunnerful, simply wunnerful. WISHING MAN. Here's where I grow my toys. See, there is the trumpet vine, and the candy tree and the dolly flowers. Whenever a little child makes a wish for anything like that, all I have to do is to come in here and pick a toy. See? BIG D. Oh, lookee at the tin soldiers. They're awful big. Can I have one, Mr. Wishing Man? WISHING MAN. I don't think they're quite ripe yet. BIG S. Me want a twumpet. Want a nice, big twumpet to blow. WISHING MAN (_picks a trumpet_). There you are, my little man. BIG T. I want one, too. A nice loud one. WISHING MAN (_picks one_). And there's one for you, Tootsy. BIG D. Believe I'll take a drum. WISHING MAN (_picks a drum_). There you are. Right off the tree. BIG D. Now we'll have a parade. (_They march around stage playing trumpets and drums._) WISHING MAN. Here, here, wait a minute. You're making enough noise to wake the dead. Hold on, there. Quiet, quiet! BIG T. Oh, dear! Just as we were having such a lovely time. BIG S. Oh, whee! See the funny box. (_Goes to_ KA-ZIN-SKI'S _box._) What is in it, Mr. Wishing Man? WISHING MAN. You'd better let it alone. That's Ka-zin-ski, and Ka-zin-ski doesn't like babies. BIG S. But I wish to see him. WISHING MAN. Is it a wish? BIG S. Yes, sir; it's a wish. WISHING MAN. Then pull the string. (BIG S. _leans over the box, pulls a spring, the lid flies up and_ KA-ZIN-SKI _pops out almost in the baby's face._ BIG S. _screams and falls flat down on the stage._) BIG S. Oh, whee! Take him away! I'm fwightened, I am. Vill he come after me? WISHING MAN. No, no. Get up, 'ittie Snookie Ookums, he won't hurt you. BIG D. Say, Mr. Wishing Man? WISHING MAN. What is it, my little boy? BIG D. Can we have anything we wish for here in the Wishing Land? WISHING MAN. Of course you can. That's what the Wishing Land is for. BIG D. Then I wish I was a little boy again. I'm too big to enjoy myself. BIG T. And I wish I was a little girl again. Everybody laughs at me, 'cause I'm so big. BIG S. And I wish I was a 'ittie, teeny, weeny baby again. Being so big fwightens me so. WISHING MAN. Oh, ho! So you all want to be little again? THE THREE. Yes, sir, if you please. BIG T. Why, I'm so big that I can't get all of me into bed. I'll have to let my feet hang outside. BIG S. And if I get in my baby buggy, I'll bweak it all down. BIG D. And my mamma won't recognize me at all, 'cause I'm grown so big. WISHING MAN. That's all very well, but it will be quite a job to make you all little again. It will take three magic fern seeds, and I don't think I have any ripe yet. (_Music, a march._ TEDDY BEAR _dances in in time to the music. He goes up to the_ WISHING MAN, _pulls his head down and whispers something in his ear. Then hands him a little box._) BIG D. Oh, what is it, Mr. Wishing Man? Is it the fern seed? WISHING MAN (_looks in the little pill box_). Yes, but it's only one fern seed. Only one of you can be made little again. BIG D. Give it to my sister, Tootsy. She's a girl. BIG T. No, give it to Dumpling. He's the oldest. WISHING MAN. I think I'll give it to 'ittie Snookie Ookums. Here, Snookums, take that little seed and go down by the pump and get a drink of water. Put the seed in the water and swallow it and you'll be the original 'ittie Snookums again. BIG S. Oh, goody, goody, goody! (_Takes box and skips out at R._) (_Music again, a march._ JIMMY BEAR _dances in, whispers to the_ WISHING MAN _and gives him a pill box._) WISHING MAN. Here's another fern seed. Ladies first, Dumpling. I'll give it to Tootsy. BIG T. Oh, you dear, good Wishing Man. I'll give you a nice hug and kiss for that. (_Does so, takes box, skips out at R._) (_Music again. Enter_ BABY JUMBO, _dancing in time to the music._ WISHING MAN _bends down and whispers to the elephant._ JUMBO _raises one foot, a front one, and gives him a pill box._) WISHING MAN. And here's the third magical fern seed. Here you are, Master Dumpling. Hurry along and grow little again. BIG D. Oh, thank you, sir. (_Takes box and skips out at R._) JUMBO _and the_ TWO BEARS _dance out at L. in time to the music._ WISHING MAN (_goes to the doll bushes_). The dolly plants don't seem to be doing very well. (_Picks a doll._) Here's a ripe one. I'm going to give that to (_insert some little girl's name_) for a Christmas present. And here's another for ----. I wonder how my big French dolls are doing. They're dreadfully hard to raise. They require so much attention. I have to keep them under cover to protect them from the sun. The wax melts so easily and the pretty red cheeks are apt to run down over their pretty French dresses. (_Removes cover._) How nice they look. There's Annette, Olivette and Babette. Three as pretty little French ladies as ever came out of Paris. I think they're just about ready to pick. They're such pretty dollies that I think I'll give them to little boys instead of little girls. I'll give Annette to (_insert little boy's name_) and I'll give Olivette to ----, and little Babette I'll give to ----. My, my, I was forgetting all about the children and the mysterious fern seed. I wonder if it has changed them back into real little children again. (_Looks out at R._) Yes, here they come. _Enter from R._ DUMPLING, TOOTSY _and_ SNOOKUMS. DUMPLING. Oh, thank you, Mr. Wishing Man. I feel ever so much better now. TOOTSY. Yes, indeed. My clothes are a perfect fit and nobody will laugh at me now. SNOOKUMS. I feel perfectly fan-tas-a-ma-gor-ious. TOOTSY. Oh, see the pretty French dollies. I wish they would talk to me. WISHING MAN. If that's your wish, they can. TOOTSY (_presses_ ANNETTE). Can you talk? ANNETTE (_imitates talking doll_). Pa-pa, pa-pa, pa-pa! TOOTSY (_presses_ OLIVETTE). And what can you say? OLIVETTE. Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma! SNOOKUMS (_presses_ BABETTE). Go on and talk to me. BABETTE. Mer-ry Christ-mas! Mer-ry Christ-mas! TOOTSY. I wish you could wind them up so they could walk around and play with us. WISHING MAN. Is that your wish? TOOTSY. Oh, yes. Do you think you can do it? WISHING MAN. I can try. (_Takes large clock key and winds each doll. The sound of winding should be imitated by a rattle behind the scenes._) ANNETTE. Pa-pa, pa-pa, pa-pa! (_Walks forward without bending knees._) DUMPLING. Here, stop her. She'll fall down. (_Grabs her._) Here, turn around. Walk this way. (_Walks with her._) OLIVETTE. Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma; (_Starts to walk._) TOOTSY (_catches her_). Oh, I think you are a darling. (_Walks with her._) BABETTE. Mer-ry Christ-mas! Mer-ry Christmas. (_Starts to walk._) WISHING MAN. Here, wait for me. (_Takes her arm and they walk together._) DUMPLING. Wind up the soldiers. Then each dolly can have a partner. WISHING MAN. Just a minute. (_Winds up the soldiers._) (_The dolls continue walking around with jerky steps._) PRIVATE BLACK (_as_ BABETTE _passes him_). Allow me. (_Offers her his arm._) PRIVATE JACK (_as_ ANNETTE _passes him_). Allow me. (_They promenade._) PRIVATE MACK (_as_ OLIVETTE _passes him_). Allow me. (_They promenade._) TOOTSY (_very much excited, runs to_ WISHING MAN.) Oh, I wish they were all alive. WISHING MAN. You do? Is that your wish? (_She nods._) Then I'll make them all alive. Hickety, kickety, bees in a hive, Witchery, twichery, you're alive. (_The dolls and soldiers twirl around and chatter merrily in pantomime. Their actions from now on are as natural as possible._) SNOOKUMS (_suddenly sees the candy tree_). Oh, lookee! Candy! WISHING MAN. That's alive, too. (JIM DANDY _marches down._) Mr. Snookie Ookums, let me introduce you to Mr. Jim Dandy, a stick of candy. SNOOKUMS. Would he mind if I'd take a bite out of his leg? JIM DANDY. You bet he would. I'm alive now. WISHING MAN (_looks off at L._). And here comes Teddy Bear and Jimmy Bear. They're alive, too. And look at the Baby Elephant. _Enter_ TEDDY BEAR, JIMMY BEAR and BABY JUMBO. _The piano plays a march. All march around the stage, first the_ WISHING MAN, _then_ BLACK _and_ BABETTE, JACK _and_ ANNETTE, MACK _and_ OLIVETTE, JIM DANDY _and_ TOOTSIE, TEDDY BEAR _and_ DUMPLING, _then_ BABY JUMBO _with_ SNOOKUMS _riding on his back, then_ JIMMY BEAR _capering in the rear. March around several times. A simple folk dance may be introduced at this point. All sing two verses of "Follow Me, Full of Glee."_ CURTAIN. REMARKS ON THE PRODUCTION. The room was all in shimmering white with a background of small pine trees in large wooden pots. The floor was covered with white muslin and scattered with leaves, pine needles and cones. In one corner was a giant snow pile, made of a frame covered with cotton. This was presided over by the Snow Queen and her Maids and white-wrapped bundles were on sale for five cents. Jack Frost and his boys presided over a large tree in another corner. Small toys wrapped in white tissue paper were attached to this tree and sold for five cents. Or Santa Claus may preside at the sale. Snowballs of white popcorn and snowballs filled with candy were on sale at another booth, presided over by red and white Striped Candy Girls. Candy canes were also sold here. In the fourth corner a snow scene in the woods was depicted. A local acrobat, dressed as a Snow-man, did stunts, assisted by several boys dressed as clowns. They pelted the Snow-man with snowballs and then sold bags of white confetti. The Snow-man also ran a game where snowballs were thrown at a target. The target was a circle of black cambric, the snowballs were rubber balls covered with raw cotton and rolled in flour. Balls sold three for five cents. A postoffice in charge of Mrs. Santa Claus is recommended, where each pays five cents postage due for packages and postcards. If snowballing the target is too "mussy," a large holly wreath with a cluster of sleighbells in the center may be suspended from the ceiling with red and green streamers. Three balls of soft rubber are provided and the contestants try to throw the balls through the wreath and ring the bells. Stuffed stockings on a clothesline may be offered for sale. This should be presided over by Moll Pitcher and her colonial wash-maids. A rummage sale of toys added quite a large sum to the general fund. There was a 5-cent table, a 10-cent table and a 25-cent table. THE SCENERY FOR THE PLAY. The rear of the stage should be hung with dark curtains. Arrange the trumpet vine and the trees in place before the play begins. Then hide them with screens, these screens serving as the "scenery" for Act I. During the progress of Act II, in front of the front curtain, remove the screens and furniture of Act I and arrange the stage for Act III as described in the text. For the thunder effect in Act I rattle a large sheet of sheet-iron and explode several large fire-crackers. The arrangement of the stage in Acts I and III is fully described in the text. PROPERTIES. Table with long cover completely hiding the Wishing Man. Lighted lamp on table. Chairs and sofa. Window at rear. Two curtains can simulate a window. Trumpet vine with tin and paper trumpets. Drum tree with tissue paper buds and toy drums. Candy tree. Ball plants. Frame to hide the French dolls. Doll plants. Pasteboard box with cover for Ka-zin-ski. Three small pill boxes. COSTUMES. THE WISHING MAN--Dressed as a clown, white suit with red horseshoes on it. Red ruffles around arms, ankles and neck. Long, pointed, white clown cap. Face and neck should be covered with white grease paint and when it is dry apply white powder. Then blacken the nose and lips with hot black grease paint. Make tiny high eyebrows of this black paint and paint round black circles on cheek bones. GRANDPA, GRANDMA, FATHER and MOTHER should be dressed in modern costume, but they must be made up and costumed to look the part. NURSE MAID--Black dress, long. White apron, collar, cap and cuffs. DUMPLING, TOOTSY and SNOOKUMS--Pretty dresses suitable for Christmas. THE BIG DUMPLING, TOOTSY and SNOOKUMS--Dressed exactly like their little counterparts. Wigs, etc. KA-ZIN-SKI--Tall boy dressed as a clown. False face. Bushy whiskers and wig. A regular jack-in-the-box make-up. THE TIN SOLDIERS--Long trousers of shiny blue cambric with red stripes at the sides. Shiny red jackets with yellow bands and buttons across front and on sleeves. Toy guns. The cheeks and lips should be very red to imitate toy soldiers. THE FRENCH DOLLS--Fancy dresses and bonnets. Hair in curls. Faces painted to represent wax dollies, red cheeks, eyebrows black, eyelashes beaded with black hot grease paint. JIM DANDY--Red and white striped stockings. From the knee to under the arms the suit is a cylindrical roll of white pasteboard striped with red. Sleeves and collar white striped with red. Pointed white cap striped with red. THE BEARS--Costumes of brown canton flannel, fuzzy side out. Get a pattern for a child's nightdress with feet. Allow it rather loose in front, so that a folded knit shawl can be securely fastened (with safety pins) to the shoulders in front, beneath it, thus making the round body of the bear. For the back of the suit do not cut the waist part separate from the legs, as is usual in the pattern, but allow the waist to be as wide as the seat of the drawers. Then lay a pleat from A to B on either side, tapering to form a loose fit below the waist. Sew thumbless mittens to the ends of the sleeves, padding them a little on the back and sewing on palms of a light tan, to represent paws. [Illustration: Fig. 2] Fit the seat of the drawers at the back loose enough to give freedom of motion, but no more. For the heads, cut hoods like Fig. 3, taking a straight piece of cloth and fitting it with pleats around the face, etc. Make ears of two thicknesses of the cloth, stitched and turned like Fig. 4. Lay a box-pleat at A-B and sew them to the hood at C-D, so that they will stand out and forward. See Fig. 5. Sew this hood to the neck of the suit, so that all goes on together. Bear false faces. [Illustration: Fig. 3] [Illustration: Fig. 4] [Illustration: Fig. 5] BABY JUMBO--Two medium sized boys form the elephant. Two four-foot sticks are fastened together with twenty-inch crosspieces, thus: [Illustration] Forming a rack which two boys carry on their shoulders. Cut two pieces from gray cambric like Fig. 6 to form the head, having the trunk about a yard long; sew them together and stuff with rags; sew on white pasteboard tusks, large buttons for eyes and big ears cut out of cambric and lined with one thickness of paper. Attach strings at A and tie to the first crosspiece of the rack. Pad the rack with an old comfort sewed fast with cord to hold it in place. [Illustration: Fig. 6] Set the rack on the boy's shoulders, then standing with heads bent forward, the foremost boy supporting the elephant's head with his head and slipping his right hand into the upper part of the trunk so as to swing it. Throw over them a large, dark-colored shawl, reaching to their knees, fasten it together in the back and pin on a tail made of cambric and stuffed. Legs covered with brown burlap. A CHRISTMAS CAROL OR THE MISER'S YULETIDE DREAM [Illustration: SCROOGE BOB CRATCHIT MARLEY'S GHOST SECOND SPIRIT THIRD SPIRIT WAIT MISSION LASS FRED FIRST SPIRIT COSTUME OF MRS. FEZZIWIG FEZZIWIG BELLA EBENEZER & DICK FIDDLER PETER, BETTY, BELINDA and MRS. CRATCHIT MARTHA BOB TINY TIM THE CRATCHIT FAMILY] A CHRISTMAS CAROL OR THE MISER'S YULETIDE DREAM ADAPTED FROM CHARLES DICKENS' IMMORTAL STORY. CHARACTERS. EBENEZER SCROOGE _A Middle-aged Merchant_ "Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire." BOB CRATCHIT _Scrooge's Clerk_ "With the Christmas spirit in his heart." FRED _Scrooge's Nephew_ "A whole-souled, merry-hearted young married man." TWO MISSION LASSIES THE GHOST OF JACOB MARLEY _Scrooge's Partner_ "Dead these seven years." FIRST SPIRIT (Little Girl) _The Ghost of Christmas Past_ SECOND SPIRIT _The Ghost of Christmas Present_ THIRD SPIRIT _The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Be_ A CHORUS OF YOUNG BOYS _Carol Singers_ FIRST WAIT _The Leader of the Singers_ MR. FEZZIWIG _A Jolly Old Merchant_ MRS. FEZZIWIG _One Vast Substantial Smile_ EBENEZER _Scrooge as a Young Man_ DICK _His Fellow Clerk_ THE OLD FIDDLER BELLA _Scrooge's First and Only Love_ MRS. CRATCHIT _Bob's Wife_ BELINDA, _Aged Eighteen_ } MARTHA, _Aged Seventeen_ } PETER, _Aged Fourteen_ } BOB, _Aged Eleven_ } _Bob Cratchit's Family_ BETTY, _Aged Nine_ } TINY TIM, _Aged Four_ } _Five Ladies, Five Gentlemen and a Little Boy for the Fezziwig Tableau_ STAVE I. SCENE: _The counting house of_ SCROOGE _and_ MARLEY. _A dark, dreary office, indicated by brown curtains at sides, with entrances R. and L. and brown curtains at rear. Note: These rear curtains must be arranged to be parted, showing the tableau stage back of the real stage. The tableau stage is elevated a few feet above the real stage (this makes a better picture but is not absolutely necessary). High desk at R. facing the R. wall. Tall stool at this desk; ledger, quill pen, ink, candle on this desk. Small, old desk down L., facing audience. Desk chair back of this desk. Two common wooden chairs at R.C. and L.C. Ledger, quill pen, books, candle stuck in an old dark bottle, on desk down L._ _Full description of costumes, a detailed illustration of the stage setting, etc., will be found at the end of the play._ _Before the curtain rises_ WAITS _are heard singing off L. Curtain rises disclosing_ BOB CRATCHIT _seated on stool, bent over ledger at desk R., working by the light of the candle._ WAITS (_outside, sing "Christmas Carol"_). (CRATCHIT _turns and listens._) _Enter_ SCROOGE _from R. in a towering passion. Slams door R._ CRATCHIT _hurriedly returns to his work._ SCROOGE _crosses to door L. and flings it open angrily._ CHRISTMAS CAROL. J.M. NEALE. THOMAS HELMORE. [Music illustration: 1. Christ was born on Christ-mas day, Wreathe the hol-ly, twine the bay, Light and life and joy is He, The Babe, the Son, the Ho-ly One of Ma-ry. 2. He is born to set us free; He is born our Lord to be; Car-ol, Chris-tians, joy-ful-ly; The God, the Lord, by all a-dored for-ev-er. 3. Let the bright red ber-ries glow Ev-'ry-where in good-ly show, Light and life and joy is He, The Babe, the Son, the Ho-ly One of Ma-ry. Christian men, re-joice and sing; 'Tis the birth-day of our King. Car-ol, Christians, joy-ful-ly; The God, the Lord, By all a-dored For-ev-er. Night of sadness, Morn of glad-ness Ev-er-more: Ev-er, Ev-er, Aft-er man-y troub-les sore, Morn of glad-ness ev-er-more, and ev-er-more. Mid-night scarce-ly passed and o-ver, Draw-ing to the ho-ly morn; Ver-y ear-ly, Ver-y ear-ly, Christ was born. Sing out with bliss, His name is this: Em-man-u-el! As 'twas fore-told, In days of old, By Ga-bri-el.] SCROOGE (_flinging open door L. at this point_). Get away from my door. Begone, ye beggars! I've nothing for you. FIRST WAIT (_sticking his head in door at L._). Only a shillin', sir, for a merry Christmas, yer honor. SCROOGE. Get away from there or I'll call the police. FIRST WAIT. Only a shillin', sir. SCROOGE. Not a penny. I have other places to put my money. Go on, now. You don't get a cent. Not a penny! FIRST WAIT. All right, sir. Merry Christmas, just the same, sir. (_Exits L._) SCROOGE (_comes down to his desk at L., muttering_). Howling idiots! Give 'em a shilling, hey? I'd like to give 'em six months in the work'us, that I would. Paupers! I'd show 'em what a merry Christmas is. (CRATCHIT _gets down from stool and starts to slink out L._) Hey! CRATCHIT (_pauses, turns to_ SCROOGE). Yes, sir. SCROOGE. Where you goin'? CRATCHIT. I was just goin' to get a few coals, sir. Just to warm us up a bit, sir. SCROOGE. You let my coals alone. Get back to work. I'm not complaining about the cold, am I? And I'm an older man than you are. Back to work! CRATCHIT (_sighs, pauses, then says meekly_). Yes, sir. (_Resumes work._) SCROOGE. You want to let my coals alone if you expect to keep your job. I'm not a millionaire. Understand? (_Loudly._) Understand? CRATCHIT. Yes, sir, I understand. (_Shivers, wraps long white woolen muffler closer about throat and warms hands at candle._) SCROOGE. Here it is three o'clock, the middle of the afternoon, and two candles burning. What more do you want? Want me to end up in the poorhouse? FRED (_heard outside at L._). Uncle! Uncle! Where are you? Merry Christmas, uncle. FRED _enters from L. He is happy and bright and has a cheerful, loud laugh. He enters laughing and comes down C._ SCROOGE (_looking up from his work_). Oh, it's you, is it? FRED. Of course it is, uncle. Merry Christmas! God save you! SCROOGE (_with disgust_). Merry Christmas! Bah! Humbug! FRED. Christmas a humbug, uncle? You don't mean that, I'm sure. SCROOGE. I don't, hey? Merry Christmas! What cause have you got to be merry? You're poor enough. FRED (_laughing good-naturedly_). Come, then, what right have you got to be dismal? You're rich enough. So, merry Christmas, uncle. SCROOGE. Out upon your merry Christmas! What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer? You keep Christmas in your own way and let me keep it in mine. FRED. Keep it? But you don't keep it! SCROOGE. Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it do you! Much good has it ever done you! FRED. Christmas is a good time, uncle; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them in the social scale. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and I say, God bless it, God bless Christmas! CRATCHIT (_who had been listening eagerly, claps his hands_). Good! SCROOGE. Let me hear another sound from _you_ and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your job. Get to work! CRATCHIT. Yes, sir. (_Resumes his work on the ledger._) SCROOGE (_to_ FRED). You're quite a powerful speaker, sir. I wonder you don't go into Parliament. FRED. Don't be angry, uncle. Come, dine with us tomorrow. SCROOGE. Dine with you? Me? I'll see you hanged first. Dine with you? I'll see you in-- CRATCHIT (_sneezes violently_). SCROOGE. What's the matter with _you_? (_Turns to_ FRED.) I'm a busy man. Good afternoon. FRED. Come, uncle; say "Yes." SCROOGE. No. FRED. But why? Why? SCROOGE (_savagely_). Why did you get married? FRED. Because I fell in love. SCROOGE. Bah! (_Resumes his work._) Good afternoon. FRED. I want nothing from you. I ask nothing from you. But why can't we be friends? SCROOGE. Good afternoon. FRED. Uncle I won't part in anger. My dear mother was your only sister--your only relation. For her sake let us be friends. SCROOGE (_savagely_). Good afternoon. FRED. I'll still keep the Christmas spirit, uncle. A merry Christmas to you. SCROOGE (_busy at ledger_). Bah! FRED. And a happy New Year. SCROOGE. Good afternoon! FRED (_goes to_ CRATCHIT). And a merry Christmas to you, Bob Cratchit. CRATCHIT (_getting down from stool, shaking hands with_ FRED _warmly_). Merry Christmas, sir. God bless it! FRED. Ay, God bless it! And a happy New Year. CRATCHIT. And a happy New Year, too! God bless that, too! FRED. Ay, Bob, God bless that, too. (_Exit L._) SCROOGE. Cratchit, get to work! CRATCHIT. Yes, sir. (_Resumes work._) SCROOGE (_looks at him_). Humph! Fifteen shillings a week and a wife and six children, and he talks about a merry Christmas. Humph! (_Works on ledger._) _Enter from L._ TWO MISSION LASSIES. _They come down C._ FIRST LASS. Scrooge and Marley's, I believe? Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley? SCROOGE. Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years. He died seven years ago this very night. FIRST LASS. We have no doubt his liberality is represented by his surviving partner. (_Shows subscription paper._) SCROOGE. Liberality? Humph! (_Returns paper to her._) SECOND LASS. At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge, we are trying to make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who are suffering greatly. Hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir. SCROOGE. Are there no prisons? SECOND LASS (_sighs_). Plenty of prisons, sir. SCROOGE. And the workhouses--are they still in operation? FIRST LASS. They are, sir; but they scarcely furnish Christmas cheer for mind and body. We are trying to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink and means of warmth. SECOND LASS. We chose this time because it is a time when want is keenly felt and abundance rejoices. What shall we put you down for? SCROOGE. Nothing. FIRST LASS. You wish to be anonymous? SCROOGE. I wish to be left alone. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, I don't believe in it. And I can't afford to make idle people merry. They should go to the poorhouse. SECOND LASS. Many of them would rather die, sir, than do that. SCROOGE (_savagely_). If they would rather die, they'd better do it and decrease the population. And besides, I am a very busy man. FIRST LASS. But, sir-- SCROOGE. Good afternoon. FIRST LASS. I'm sorry, sir. Sorry-- SCROOGE. Sorry for them? FIRST LASS. No, sir, I'm sorry for you, sir. Good afternoon. (_Exits L. followed by_ SECOND LASS.) SCROOGE. Sorry for me, hey? (_Pause. He works. The clock strikes five._) Sorry for me! CRATCHIT (_closes his book, blows out candle_). Is there anything more, sir? (_Comes to C._) SCROOGE. You'll want all day off tomorrow, I suppose? CRATCHIT. If it's quite convenient, sir. SCROOGE. Well, it isn't--and it's not fair. If I'd dock you a half a crown for it you'd think I was ill using you, wouldn't you? CRATCHIT (_nervously_). I don't know, sir. SCROOGE. And yet you expect me to pay a full day's wages for no work. CRATCHIT. It only comes once a year, sir. Only once a year. SCROOGE. A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December! But I suppose you've got to have the whole day. But you be here all the earlier next morning. CRATCHIT. Oh, yes, indeed, sir. (_Goes out R._) SCROOGE. I'll stay here a bit and finish up the work. _Enter_ CRATCHIT _from R. with hat. He turns up his coat collar, wraps the long white woolen muffler around chin and pulls hat down over his face._ CRATCHIT (_crosses to door L._). I'm going, sir. SCROOGE. All right. CRATCHIT (_shields face with arm as though he were afraid Scrooge might throw something at him_). Merry Christmas, sir! (_Runs out L._) SCROOGE. Bah! Humbug! (_He works at ledger. Finally drops his head on his arms and sleeps. The light of his candle goes out. Note: Scrooge might blow it out unseen by audience._) _The stage is now in darkness. A musical bell tolls off L. After a pause another bell tolls off R. The clinking of chains is heard. When the stage is completely darkened the_ GHOST OF MARLEY _slips in and sits at R. He is entirely covered with black, face and all, as he slips in, so as to be quite invisible._ _Mysterious music. Sudden clap of thunder heard. An auto light from the wings at R. is thrown on the_ GHOST'S _face. This light should be green. The thunder dies away. Clanking of chains heard._ GHOST (_groans_). SCROOGE (_starts up, looks at Ghost, pauses_). How now! What do you want with me? GHOST. Much. SCROOGE. Who are you? GHOST. Ask me who I was. SCROOGE. Well, who were you, then? GHOST. In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. SCROOGE. You are fettered. Tell me why. GHOST. I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, yard by yard, the heavy chain of avarice. Now I must make amends for the opportunities I neglected in life. SCROOGE. But you were always a good man of business, Jacob. GHOST. Business? Mankind should have been my business. Kind actions, charity, mercy, benevolence, love--all should have been my business. I am here tonight to warn you, to warn you, Ebenezer Scrooge, that you have yet a chance of escaping my fate. SCROOGE. You were always a good friend to me. GHOST. You will be haunted by Three Spirits. SCROOGE. If it's all the same to you, I think I'd rather not. GHOST. Without their visits, you cannot hope to escape my fate. Expect the first when the bell tolls one. SCROOGE. Couldn't I take it all at once and have it over, Jacob? GHOST. Remember my warning, heed the message and you may yet be saved. My time is over. (_Chains rattle._) Farewell, farewell, farewell! (_Loud crash of thunder. Light is quenched and_ GHOST _exits unseen by audience._) _Pause. The bell tolls one. Enter_ SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS PAST _from R. She comes down R. Strong white light on her from R._ SCROOGE (_trembling_). Are you the Spirit whose coming was foretold to me? FIRST SPIRIT. I am. SCROOGE. Who and what are you? FIRST SPIRIT. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. SCROOGE. Long past? FIRST SPIRIT. No, your past. SCROOGE. Why have you come here to me? FIRST SPIRIT. For your own welfare. I must teach you the first lesson of consideration. SCROOGE. But I _am_ considerate. FIRST SPIRIT. Are you a kind master to your clerk? SCROOGE. Well, I'm not unkind. FIRST SPIRIT. Do you remember your own first master? One Fezziwig by name? SCROOGE. Indeed, I do. Bless his dear, old heart. He was the kindest master that ever lived. FIRST SPIRIT. Then why haven't you followed his good example? Would any of your clerks say that you were the kindest master that ever lived? SCROOGE. Well, times have changed, that's it--it's all the fault of the times. FIRST SPIRIT. It's all the fault of a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel has ever struck out a generous fire. No wind that blows is more bitter than he, no falling snow is more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. And his name is Ebenezer Scrooge. SCROOGE. All I ask is to edge my way along the crowded path of life. I want to be left alone. That's all--left alone. FIRST SPIRIT. I have come to save you, Ebenezer Scrooge. I have come to kindle into life the stone that once was your heart. First I will show you the kind heart and generosity of your old time master. Behold the warehouse of Fezziwig and Company. (_Rear curtains are drawn apart, revealing a workshop, with desk down R. facing front. Barrel up L. Sign on rear wall reads, "Fezziwig and Company." Two young men_, EBENEZER _and_ DICK, _discovered happily working at desk. Fezziwig stands up L. looking off L._ WAITS _are heard singing off L. at rear._) WAITS (_sing, music page 169_). Christ was born on Christmas Day, Wreathe the holly, twine the bay, Light and Life and Joy is He, The Babe, the Son, The Holy One Of Mary. FEZZIWIG (_flinging them a handful of coins_). That's right, my lads. Sing away. Merry Christmas to you. WAITS (_outside_). Thank ye, sir. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Thank ye, sir. (_They sing and the song dies away in the distance._) SCROOGE (_down R. with_ FIRST SPIRIT). Why, it's old Fezziwig. Bless his dear, old heart. It's Fezziwig alive again. FEZZIWIG (_comes merrily down C._). Yo ho, my boys! No more work for tonight. Christmas Eve, Dick! (_Throws his arms over the shoulders of the two boys._) Christmas Eve, Ebenezer! God bless Christmas. DICK. Ay, ay, sir. EBENEZER. Ay, ay; God bless Christmas. FIRST SPIRIT. Did you hear that, Scrooge? That is yourself--and you said God bless Christmas. SCROOGE. That's true. That was thirty years ago. FEZZIWIG (_bustling about_). The missis and the girls are down stairs, so let's clear away before you can say Jack Robinson. (_They push desk back, and decorate rear stage with strings of Christmas greens_, FEZZIWIG _talking all the time._) Yo ho! That's right, Dick. String the Christmas greens. Here you are, Ebenezer. We're going to have the merriest time in all the kingdom. (_Dancing a step or two._) I'll show ye how to enjoy life. That's it. Now we're all ready. (_Sings._) "Wreathe the holly, twine the bay!" Let's have lots of room. Clear away, Dick. Here comes the fiddler now. _Enter_ OLD FIDDLER. _He sits on barrel at rear and starts to "tune up."_ OLD FIDDLER. Merry Christmas, sir. FEZZIWIG. The same to you, granfer, and many of 'em. _Enter_ MRS. FEZZIWIG _from L._ MRS. FEZZIWIG. Lawsy, lawsy, I thought we'd be late. (_Goes to the two boys and puts her arms over their shoulders._) And how's my merry boys tonight? DICK. Finer'n a fiddle. EBENEZER. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Fezziwig. MRS. FEZZIWIG. The same to you, dear lads. FEZZIWIG. Where's the girls, mother? MRS. FEZZIWIG. Here they come, Flora, Felicity and little Fanny May. _Enter the_ THREE FEZZIWIG _girls with their escorts. Everybody bustles around shaking hands, wishing each other "Merry Christmas."_ FEZZIWIG. And here's the housemaid and her cousin the baker. (_They enter and are greeted by all._) The cook and the milkman, and the lonesome little boy from over the way! And Ebenezer's young lady, Miss Bella. (_They enter and are merrily greeted._) And now, mother, what do you say to a rollicking game of Puss in the Corner. (_They play Puss in the Corner with much loud laughter, clapping hands, running about, etc. The_ FIDDLER _plays._) MRS. FEZZIWIG. Oh, I never was so happy in all my life. This is the real spirit of Christmas. FEZZIWIG (_hangs up a bit of mistletoe_). And here's the mistletoe. (_They form a ring and play a ring game with much noise and confusion._) EBENEZER (_catching_ MRS. FEZZIWIG _under the mistletoe_). I've got ye! (_Kisses her._) MRS. FEZZIWIG. God bless the boy! EBENEZER. And God bless the merry Christmas! FEZZIWIG. And now a dance, my hearties. Yo ho! For the old time Christmas dance. (_They dance a few figures of Sir Roger de Coverly or the Virginia Reel. All are dancing wildly, swinging, etc., with plenty of loud laughter, clapping of hands, etc., as the rear curtains are drawn. Note: Use brilliant lights from R. and L. upon the rear stage._) FIRST SPIRIT. What a small matter to make these silly folks so full of gratitude and happiness. SCROOGE (_astonished_). Small? It was the happiest time in my life. FIRST SPIRIT. And yet your master only spent a few pounds of your mortal money. Three or four, perhaps. And yet he kindled the true spirit of Christmas in all your hearts. SCROOGE. He could have made us miserable, but he made every day we worked for him seem like Christmas. FIRST SPIRIT (_gazes steadily at Scrooge, who becomes uneasy under the look_). What's the matter now? SCROOGE (_trying to appear unconcerned, but failing_). Oh, nothing! FIRST SPIRIT (_gazing at him_). Something, I think. SCROOGE. No, nothing; only this, I wish I could say a word or two to my clerk just now. That's all. Poor fellow. I'm afraid I've been a little hard on him. Poor Bob Cratchit! FIRST SPIRIT. My work is thriving, but my time grows short. Quick, I have another picture for you. _Soft music. The curtains part, showing the scene as before, but only_ EBENEZER _and_ BELLA _are discovered. Soft music plays all through this scene._ BELLA. It matters little to you, very little. Another idol has displaced me, that's all. If it can comfort you and cheer you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve. EBENEZER (_irritated_). What idol has displaced you in my heart? BELLA. An idol of gold. EBENEZER. Well, I must make money. You know that. Poverty is the hardest thing in the world. BELLA. I have seen your nobler instincts fall off one by one. Now nothing remains in your heart but the love of gold. Therefore, I am releasing you from your engagement. (_Offers ring._) EBENEZER. Have I ever sought release? BELLA. In words, no; but in everything else, yes. I am penniless. If you married me, you would probably regret it. So I release you with a heart full of love for the noble man you once were. EBENEZER. But, Bella-- BELLA. You will soon forget me. Your time and your mind will be full of business, seeking after gold. The idol of gold has driven love from your heart, but may you be happy and contented in the life you have chosen. (_Rear curtains are drawn._) FIRST SPIRIT. And are you happy and content in the life you have chosen, Ebenezer Scrooge? SCROOGE. No, a thousand times--no. I threw away her love, the one pure thing in my life, for gold. And now I'm alone, alone. (_Sinks at desk and sobs._) FIRST SPIRIT. I have shown shadows of times that are passed. Have you learned a lesson from the Spirit of Christmas Past? SCROOGE. I have, I have; a bitter, bitter lesson. FIRST SPIRIT. And will you see more? SCROOGE. No, no. Show me no more. Torture me no longer. FIRST SPIRIT. Remember the lesson you have learned. Remember the kindness of your old master. Remember the love of your old sweetheart. Your life is barren and bitter, but there is yet time for repentance. (_Bell tolls twice._) The signal! My hour is past. On the stroke of six my brother, the Spirit of the Christmas Present, will visit you. Remember! Repent! Believe! Farewell, farewell, farewell! FRONT CURTAIN SLOWLY FALLS. STAVE II. _Same scene as Stave I. Lights half up, but candles are not burning. Rear curtains closed._ SCROOGE _is discovered asleep at his desk. The_ SPIRIT _of_ CHRISTMAS PRESENT _sits at R., a red light shining on him. He carries a torch in which a red light burns. The bells toll six times._ SCROOGE _suddenly awakens and gazes at_ SECOND SPIRIT. SECOND SPIRIT. Arise, arise, Ebenezer Scrooge, and learn to know me better. SCROOGE (_frightened_). I don't believe I ever met you before. SECOND SPIRIT. Probably not. I am the Spirit of Christmas. The Ghost of Christmas Present. SCROOGE. The Ghost of Christmas Present? SECOND SPIRIT. I am a brother of the little Spirit of Christmas Past who visited you before. SCROOGE. And are you going to show me all my past misdeeds? SECOND SPIRIT. Not me. I am going to show you your present misdeeds. It is my mission to show you the love and comradeship of Christmas of today. I travel among the common people. My torch is their benediction. If there is a slight quarrel or any misunderstandings on Christmas Day, I simply throw on them the light of my torch. And then they say it is a shame to quarrel on Christmas Day--the Day of Peace and Love. And so it is! God bless it! God bless Christmas Day! SCROOGE. And what do you intend to show me? SECOND SPIRIT. I intend to show you the House of Happiness. SCROOGE. Is it a wonderful palace of gold? SECOND SPIRIT. It is a humble little kitchen. In fact, the kitchen of your poor clerk, Bob Cratchit. Bob, with his fifteen shillings a week--with his wife and six children--with his shabby clothes and his humble, shabby manners--Bob, with his little four-roomed house, and his struggle to keep the wolf from the door. The Ghost of the Christmas Present blesses his abode. Behold! _Bright, cheerful music._ SCROOGE _and_ SECOND SPIRIT _cross to R. The rear curtains open, showing the interior of the Cratchit kitchen. Everything neat, but showing extreme poverty. Fireplace C. rear. Kettle boiling on crane. Table down L.C. with red cloth and lighted lamp. Cupboard up R. Old chairs around stage. Several pots of bright flowers in evidence. A bird in a cage is singing over the mantel._ PETER _discovered watching the potatoes boiling in the kettle at the fireplace. Enter_ MRS. CRATCHIT _and_ BELINDA _from L._ MRS. CRATCHIT. Hurry, Belinda; we must set the table right away. How's the taters, Peter? PETER (_peeks in the kettle_). Boiling, mammy, boiling. MRS. CRATCHIT. Here, carry the lamp over there. BELINDA. Yes, ma'am. (_Puts lamp on cupboard._) MRS. CRATCHIT. And now where's the white table cloth? BELINDA (_getting it from cupboard_). Here it is, mammy. (_They place castor, plates, knives, etc., on table during the following scene._) MRS. CRATCHIT. Whatever has got your precious father, I wonder? He and Tiny Tim's been at the church these three hours. _Enter_ BOB _and_ BETTY _from R. They run down and kiss_ MRS. CRATCHIT. BOB. Oh, mumsy, we saw the goose, we did. We peeked in through the bakery window and we saw the goose, we did. BETTY. And we smelled him, too. And we went inside, we did. And the baker asked us what was wantin'. And Bob said he wanted to know which goose was the Cratchit goose. BOB. And he pointed to the very biggest one, mumsy. Didn't he, Betty? BETTY. And it was all nice and browny on top. And he said it 'ud be ready in 'bout twenty minutes. Didn't he, Bob? BOB. And it was the best looking goose I ever saw, it was. It just made me hungry to see him and to smell him baking. BETTY. And it had sage and onion stuffing, mumsy, didn't it, Bob? MRS. CRATCHIT. I'm sure there never was such a goose before, and I'm sure there never will be such a goose again. How's the 'taters, Peter? PETER (_looks in kettle_). Boilin', mammy, boilin'. BOB. Oh, Peter's got on pa's shirt collar, he has. Peter's got on pa's shirt collar. PETER. If I didn't have to mind these 'taters, I'd show you! MRS. CRATCHIT. I can't think what's keeping your father, and your brother Tiny Tim. And Martha wasn't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour. _Enter_ MARTHA _from R._ MARTHA. Here's Martha, mumsy. BOB (_dragging her down to Mrs. Cratchit_). Here's Martha, mumsy. BETTY. Oh, Martha, there's such a goose! Isn't there, Bob? MRS. CRATCHIT (_hugging and kissing_ MARTHA). Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! (_Takes off her bonnet and shawl._) MARTHA. We'd a deal of work to finish up last night. I was on my feet all day. Oh, why won't people learn to do their Christmas shopping early. If they'd only stop to give a moment's thought to the poor clerks. MRS. CRATCHIT. There, there, my dear, sit ye down. Here's the big chair, Martha. (BOB _has been sitting in the big chair at R., but_ MRS. CRATCHIT _simply turns it forward, letting_ BOB _slip to the floor, and seats_ MARTHA _therein._) Well, never mind, as long as you're home at last, Martha. Draw your chair up to the fire and have a warm. God bless you. How's the 'taters, Pete? PETER (_looking in kettle_). Boilin', mammy, boilin'. MARTHA (_sitting in front of the fire_). Oh, mumsy, ain't this Heavenly? Be it ever so humble there's no place like home. BETTY (_at door R._). Father's coming, father's coming. BOB. Hide yourself, Martha. Here, here. (_Pulls her to L._) BETTY (_helping her_). Hurry up. Hide, hide! (_Exit_ MARTHA _at L._) _Bright music. Enter_ CRATCHIT _carrying_ TINY TIM _on his shoulder._ TINY TIM _carries a little crutch._ CRATCHIT (_down C._). Why, where's our Martha? MRS. CRATCHIT (_down L._). Not coming. CRATCHIT. Not coming? Not coming--on Christmas Day? MARTHA (_rushing in from L._). No, father, it's only a joke. Here I am, father, here I am. (_Rushes into his arms._) BETTY (_taking Tiny Tim_). Come on, Tiny Tim, out to the wash-house. We've got something to show you, we have. Ain't we, Bob? BOB. You bet we have, Tiny Tim. Come and hear the Christmas pudding singing in the wash boiler. Come on! (_Exit_ BOB, _followed by_ BETTY _and_ TINY TIM, _at L._) MRS. CRATCHIT (_taking Cratchit's hat and muffler and hanging them up_). And how did Tiny Tim behave in the church, father? CRATCHIT. As good as gold and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. (_Sits at L. surrounded by all._) He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who it was who made lame beggars walk and blind men see. (_Trembling voice._) Little Tim is growing stronger and more hearty every day. _Enter_ TINY TIM _from L._ TIM. I heard the pudding singing a song in the wash boiler, I did. MRS. CRATCHIT. Everything is ready. Bob, you and Betty run across the street to the baker's and fetch the goose. BOB. Come on, Betty. (_Runs out R. with_ BETTY.) MRS. CRATCHIT. I've got the gravy to heat, right away. Peter, mash the potatoes. Belinda, sweeten up the apple sauce! Martha, the hot plates! (_All bustle around, setting table._ CRATCHIT _with_ TIM, _on his knee, sit before the fire._) BELINDA. We haven't got enough chairs, mumsy. CRATCHIT. This young shaver can sit on my knee. MRS. CRATCHIT. Peter, set up the chairs. _Enter_ BOB _and_ BETTY _from R. bearing a roast goose in a baking pan._ BOB. Here it is, mumsy. BETTY. Here's the goose. (MRS. CRATCHIT _puts it on plate on table._) BELINDA. What a wonderful goose. MARTHA. And how big it is! (_All take seats._) BOB. And don't it smell good! BETTY. Hurray for the Christmas goose. TIM. Hurray! (CRATCHIT _makes signal, all bend heads for a silent grace._) CRATCHIT (_after pronounced pause_). And God bless Christmas Day. TIM. God bless us all, every one. (CRATCHIT _and_ MRS. CRATCHIT _serve the meal. All eat._) CRATCHIT. I've got a situation in my eye for Master Peter. PETER. A situation for me? CRATCHIT. Yes, sir, for you. Full five-and-sixpence weekly. ALL. Oh, Peter! BOB. Peter will be a man of business, won't you, Peter? PETER. What'll I do with all that money? CRATCHIT. Invest it, invest it, my lad. It's a bewildering income. MARTHA. Who do you think was in the shop yesterday? You'll never guess. A countess and a real lord. ALL. Martha! MARTHA. A real, live lord, as fine as silk and just about as tall as Peter here. PETER (_pulls his collar up high and tosses his head_). As big as me? (WAITS _outside sing two verses of Christmas Carol, as before._) CRATCHIT (_goes to door_). Here's a sixpence for you, and God bless you all. WAITS (_outside_). Thankee, sir. Merry Christmas, sir. BELINDA. And now the pudding. BETTY. Oh, suppose it should break in turning it out. MARTHA. Or suppose it isn't done enough. BOB. Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and stolen it while we were in here eating the goose. MRS. CRATCHIT. Nonsense. I'll get the Christmas pudding. (_Exits._) BOB (_very much excited_). Oh, I can smell it, I can. I smell the pudding. _Enter_ MRS. CRATCHIT _bearing dish of pudding, decked with holly, and blazing._ CRATCHIT. Oh, it's a wonder, mother, it's a wonder. BETTY. It looks like a little speckled cannon-ball. BOB. But just wait till you taste it; that's all. (_It is served._) CRATCHIT (_rises_). I have a toast. Mr. Scrooge! I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast. MRS. CRATCHIT (_indignantly_). The founder of the feast indeed! I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it. CRATCHIT (_remonstrating gently_). My dear, the children! Christmas Day. MRS. CRATCHIT. He's an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you do. CRATCHIT (_mildly_). My dear, Christmas Day! MRS. CRATCHIT. Then I'll drink his health, for your sake and the Day's, not for his. Long life to him! A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! He'll be very merry and happy, I've no doubt. CRATCHIT. And now a Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us. ALL (_rising_). A very Merry Christmas. TIM. And God bless us every one! (_The tableau curtains are slowly drawn._) SCROOGE. Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live. SECOND SPIRIT. I see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner, and a little crutch without an owner. If these shadows remained unaltered by the future, the child will die. SCROOGE. No, no, kind Spirit! Say he will be spared. SECOND SPIRIT. If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Your very words, Scrooge. Decrease the surplus population. (SCROOGE _hangs his head in shame._) Man, if man you be in heart, forbear that wicked cant. Will you decide what men shall live, and what men shall die? It may be that in the sight of Heaven you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. SCROOGE. Forgive me, forgive me. SECOND SPIRIT. You have seen the spirit of Christmas bless this poor dwelling. They were not a handsome family, they were not well dressed; their clothes were scanty and their shoes far from being water-proof--but they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the Christmas time. They are my children. Have you learned your lesson? (_Chimes ring._) My hour is spent. SCROOGE. I have learned the lesson, Spirit of Christmas. I have seen happiness, in spite of poverty. A happiness that all my gold cannot buy. I have seen the Christmas spirit. Forgive me that I ever dared to utter a word against Christmas. Forgive me! Forgive me! (_The chimes continue ringing, the_ SPIRIT _glides out._ SCROOGE _kneels in prayer, muttering, "Forgive me! Forgive me!"_) CURTAIN. STAVE III. _Same scene as before, the rear curtains drawn together._ SCROOGE _is discovered seated at his desk, his head buried in his hands. The_ THIRD SPIRIT _stands at C. with green, ghastly light on him from R. This is the only light on the stage. The bells toll six._ SCROOGE (_awakens_). I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. THIRD SPIRIT (_inclines head_). SCROOGE. You are going to show me the shadows of things that are to happen in the future? THIRD SPIRIT (_inclines head_). SCROOGE. I fear you more than any I have yet seen. But I know you are working for my welfare, so I will see your visions with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me? THIRD SPIRIT (_points downward with R. hand_). SCROOGE. No word for me. Well, have you anything to show me? THIRD SPIRIT (_points to rear stage. The curtains part. Rear stage is draped in white sheets, with bare trees at R. and L. A grave with carved headstone is at C. Blue lights on this scene. Snow falls. Bells heard tolling in the distance._) SCROOGE. A churchyard! THIRD SPIRIT (_goes to rear stage, points to tombstone._) SCROOGE. Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point, answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they the shadows of things that May be, only? THIRD SPIRIT (_points to stone_). SCROOGE (_creeps tremblingly toward it, moving very slowly, bends over, reads the name, screams_). Ebenezer Scrooge! My tombstone, my grave! No, Spirit, no, no! (_Rushes to desk, sinks in chair._) I am not the man I was. I am not past all hope. I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. Save me, save me! (_The rear curtains are slowly closed_) SCROOGE (_rising_). I will keep Christmas in the past, the present and the future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. Heaven be praised for this Christmas warning. (_Laughing._) I don't know what to do. I'm as light as a feather, I'm as happy as an angel, I'm as merry as a schoolboy. A Merry Christmas to everybody. A happy New Year to all the world. Hip, hurrah! (_Christmas chimes heard outside. Waits singing in the distance._) WAITS (_singing louder, music, page 169_): Christ was born on Christmas Day, Wreathe the holly, twine the bay, Light and Life and Joy is He, The Babe, the Son, The Holy One Of Mary. SCROOGE (_rushes to the door_). Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas. God bless ye! (_Flings them a handful of coins._) FIRST WAIT. Thankee, sir. SCROOGE (_grabs him and brings him down C._). What day is this, my merry lad? WAIT. Hey? SCROOGE. What day is this my lad? WAIT (_loudly_). Today! Why, Christmas Day! SCROOGE. Do you know the grocer's in the next street? WAIT. I should hope I did. SCROOGE. Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey, the big prize turkey? WAIT. What, the one as big as me? SCROOGE. Yes, my buck. WAIT. It's hanging there now. SCROOGE. Is it? Go and buy it. WAIT. Aw, go on! SCROOGE. No, no; I'm in earnest. Go and buy it and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may tell 'em where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown. WAIT. Watch me. (_Rushes out._) SCROOGE. What a fine little fellow. See him run. I'll send the turkey to Bob Cratchit's. He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. He should be here by now. _Enter_ CRATCHIT _from R._ CRATCHIT. Morning, sir. (_Takes off cap and muffler, goes to desk, starts to work._) SCROOGE (_at desk_). What do you mean by coming here at this time of day? CRATCHIT. I'm very sorry, sir. Very, very sorry. SCROOGE. Sorry? (_Sarcastically._) Yes, you are! Come here! Come here at once! Understand! CRATCHIT (_comes to Scrooge's desk_). If you please, sir-- SCROOGE. I'm not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore (_rises, dances toward_ CRATCHIT, _digs him in ribs_), and therefore I am about to raise your salary. CRATCHIT. Heavens! The master has gone plumb crazy. SCROOGE. I'm going to help you and your family. I'm going to be a Godfather to all of 'em. The two girls and Master Peter, Bob, Betty and to dear Tiny Tim. Home to your family, now. Home to them, Bob Cratchit--and merry Christmas to you and yours. God bless you. _Enter_ FRED _from R._ FRED. Here I am again, uncle. Merry Christmas. SCROOGE (_rushes to him and shakes his hands heartily_). And the same to you, my lad, and many of 'em. I'm going to eat Christmas dinner with you this day. I'm going to honor Christmas in my heart, and keep it every day in the year. I will live in the past, the present and the future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. (_Stands C._, FRED _on his R._, CRATCHIT _on his L. He takes their hands._) Merry Christmas, boys, and God bless us! FRED _and_ CRATCHIT. The same to you, sir. God bless us. (_Rear curtains are drawn back, showing the Cratchit family at the table._ TINY TIM _stands on table._) TIM. God bless us everyone! (_All unite in singing Christmas Carol to--_) SLOW CURTAIN. THE SCENERY. [Illustration] TABLEAUX ON REAR STAGE. No. 1. A room. Barrel up L. for fiddler. Desk at R. Sign on wall "Fezziwig and Company." Garlands of green. No. 2. Ebenezer and Bella. Same scene as No. 1. No. 3. Cratchit's kitchen. Table at C. and home-made fireplace at rear C. are the only essentials, with a few stools or chairs. Fireplace made of a few boards covered with red paper marked like bricks with white chalk or paint. No. 4. White sheets hang at back and sides. Two small evergreen trees nailed in position, white cotton hanging from them. Grave at C. covered with snow. Wooden headstone painted white and small footstone. The headstone may be in the form of a cross or a slab. COSTUMES. SCROOGE--Should be played by a thin man of middle age, if possible. Gray hair. Shabby dark suit. Face lined. No jewelry or colors. If desired to costume the play in the middle Victorian period, Scrooge should wear very tight dark trousers, brown low cut vest, shabby black full-dress coat, soft white shirt, black stock tie, high collar made by taking an ordinary turn-over collar and turning it up. BOB CRATCHIT--Very shabby dark suit. Long white woolen muffler. Old cap. Suit should be the same style as that worn by Scrooge, but much shabbier. Clothing neatly patched. He wears a sprig of mistletoe or holly in Staves 1 and 2. FRED--Bright, cheerful young man of 22. Overcoat and top hat. Ruffled shirt, stock tie and collar as for Scrooge. MISSION LASSIES--Dark skirts, capes, blue poke bonnets with red ribbon across front. THE GHOST OF JACOB MARLEY--Long black robe. Black hood. Chains around waist, with toy money banks on chains. Take a skeleton false face and with gray and black and white grease paint make up your own face like a false face. Or if desired, wear the false face. Speak in low monotone. FIRST SPIRIT--A little girl of 10. Long light hair. White Grecian draperies trimmed with tinsel. Crown of tinsel. SECOND SPIRIT--Man dressed in a red robe, trimmed with sprigs of green pine. White cotton border to represent snow. Cap of white cotton. THIRD SPIRIT--Use same costume and make-up as Marley's Ghost. WAITS--White smocks, ragged trousers. Felt hats twined with red and green ribbon. Carry branches of holly. MR. FEZZIWIG--Low shoes with pasteboard buckles covered with tinfoil. Short black trousers. White stockings. Fancy colonial coat and hat. White colonial wig. A short, stout man of middle age. Always laughing, moving around, etc. MRS. FEZZIWIG--Middle-aged lady in gay colonial tuck-up dress. White colonial wig. EBENEZER and DICK--Two young men in colonial costume. No wigs. THE FIDDLER--White wig and whiskers. Long white smock. Hat trimmed with ribbons. BELLA--Neat colonial costume of pink and white. Hair in curls. THE CRATCHIT FAMILY--Old-fashioned costumes, faded and worn, but bright with cheap lace and gay ribbons. Peter wears a large white collar. HER CHRISTMAS HAT [Illustration: WARREN WILLIAMS KITTY, HIS WIFE MISS MINERVA MOCKRIDGE MAGINNIS GOOGIN EDDIE MRS HONORIA GOOGIN MRS LAURA LACEY HOGAN HARD TIMES ANNIE] HER CHRISTMAS HAT A FARCE IN ONE ACT. CHARACTERS. WARREN WILLIAMS _A Young Architect_ KITTY _His Wife_ MISS MINERVA MOCKRIDGE _From Kankakee_ MAGINNIS GOOGIN _The Janitor of the Apartment_ MRS. HONORIA GOOGIN _His Wife_ EDDIE _The Elevator Boy_ MRS. LAURA LACEY _Kitty's Chum_ HOGAN _A Policeman_ HARD TIMES ANNIE _A Beggar_ * * * * * TIME OF PLAYING--_About Forty-five Minutes._ * * * * * SCENE: _Living room in an apartment house. Furnishings as desired. Several Christmas wreaths adorn the room._ KITTY _is discovered comfortably seated down L. reading a fashion magazine. The door bell at R. rings._ KITTY. Come in. _Enter_ EDDIE, _the colored elevator boy. He carries several Christmas packages._ EDDIE. Yas'm, I'm in. KITTY. Eddie! EDDIE. Yas'm, it's me. I 'clare I's loaded up like a reg'lar old Santa Claus. (_Laughs loudly._) Yas'm, I sure am. KITTY. Anything for us, Eddie? EDDIE. Two packages for you and one for Mr. Williams. Santa Claus is sure liberal to you-all. KITTY (_taking the three packages_). Thank you, Eddie. EDDIE (_briskly_). I don't usually bring up de mail, Mis' Williams, but this is Christmas Day and mos' everybody is anxious to git all dat's comin' to 'em. I knows I is. KITTY. Have you had a merry Christmas, Eddie? EDDIE. No'm, not yet. All I got is a yaller and green striped necktie from (_insert local name_). He's been wearin' it for more'n a year. KITTY (_has opened smaller package_). Oh, it's from Rannie Stewart. (_Takes off tissue paper, disclosing a small bit of white embroidery tied with a huge pink bow._) Mercy! Another pin-cushion cover. That makes six I have already. Cost about twenty cents, and I sent her a perfectly lovely doily embroidered with scarlet forget-me-nots. I'll never send Rannie Stewart another present as long as I live. (_Throws box and wrappings into waste basket._) Pink! And she knows my rooms are in blue and yellow. Eddie! EDDIE. Yas'm. KITTY. Here's a little Christmas present for you. (_Hands it to him._) EDDIE (_reads card on it_). "Merry Christmas to my Darling Kittens." Is dat for me? KITTY. Oh, no; not the card, just the embroidery. EDDIE (_holding it up_). Lawdy, Mis' Williams, what is dis yere? A dust cap? KITTY. It's a cover for a pin-cushion. Isn't it a dear? EDDIE. I hopes you'll excuse me, but honest I hain't got no more use for dat thing dan a pussy cat has for a hot water bottle. KITTY (_opening larger package_). Throw it in the waste basket, Eddie. This is from Warren. I know the handwriting. It looks like a hat. (_Opens box and removes wrappings, disclosing a hideous red and orange hat._) Heavens, what a nightmare! Red and orange and a style four years old. It must have come from the five and ten cent store. Look at the plume! Oh! EDDIE (_admiring it_). Um-um, dat shore am a fine present. Your husband certainly am a man ob taste, he shore am. KITTY (_sarcastically_). Yes, he has wonderful taste, hasn't he? A little bizarre. No, it's more than bizarre; it's baroque. EDDIE. It looks like a hat to me. KITTY. I know what I'll do. (_Wraps it up and puts it back in box._) EDDIE. Dat certainly was a nice present, Mis' Williams. Must have cost a heap of money. KITTY. It probably did. But it isn't my style. And Madame Brunot never exchanges hats. What a shame! I suppose he paid an enormous price for it and I could have satisfied myself with one for half the money. If only men would allow their wives to select their own Christmas presents. _Enter_ LAURA LACEY _from R._ LAURA. Hello, Kittens. I saw your door open and came right in. KITTY (_kisses her_). That's right, Lolly. I was just going over to your apartment. I have a little present for you. LAURA. A present? You dear! (_Kisses her again._) KITTY. Yes. Here! (_Gives her the box containing the hat._) I hope you'll like it. LAURA. A hat? Oh, you darling! (_Kisses her again._) WARREN (_outside L._). Kitty! KITTY (_goes to door at L._). Yes, Warren? WARREN. I can't find my collar button. KITTY. Did you look on the dresser? WARREN. Of course I did. I've looked every place except in the refrigerator. KITTY. I'll be back in a minute, Laura. Excuse me. (_Hurries out L._) LAURA (_opens the box hastily and takes out the hat_). Red and orange! Horrors! And I gave her a cut glass cold-cream jar that I got at the auction. I wouldn't wear this to a dog fight. Eddie! EDDIE. Yas'm. LAURA. You've been a good boy to us all year. I'm going to give you a lovely Christmas present. EDDIE. Is you? LAURA. I'm going to give you this duck of a hat. (_Holds it up._) EDDIE (_delighted_). Dat red and yaller hat? LAURA. Yes. Hurry and put it in the box. I don't want Kitty Williams to know I gave her Christmas present away. (_They put it in box._) EDDIE. Um-um! Dat shore am some Christmas present. Won't ma lady-love be delighted with all dat gorgeousness? I certainly am much obliged to you, Mis' Lacey; I shore am. LAURA. When Kitty comes back tell her I was called to the 'phone. (_Goes to door R._) I'll never give Kitty Williams another present as long as I live. (_Exits R._) _Enter_ WARREN WILLIAMS _from L._ WARREN. Hello, Eddie. Are you acting as Santa Claus? EDDIE (_who has put the hat on floor at rear_). Yas, sah; yas, sah. I's old Santa Claus to most everybody 'cept maself. Looks like old Christmas done passed me by. WARREN (_sees package on table_). Hello, here's a present for me. EDDIE. Yas, sah. I brung it up. WARREN (_opens it_). Cigars! From my wife. (_Looks at box dubiously._) She must have got them at a bargain sale. (_Reads cover._) Santas Odoriferous. (_Passes box to Eddie._) Have a cigar, Eddie. EDDIE. Yas, sah. Thank you, boss. WARREN (_lighting one_). Now, that certainly is a sensible present. So many women don't know how to select a cigar, but Kitty-- EDDIE (_smoking_). Yas, sah. Your wife certainly am a lady ob discernibility. She shore am. WARREN. So many women give their husbands such foolish presents. EDDIE. De lady in Apartment B done give her husband a pearl La Valliere for Christmas. WARREN (_takes cigar from mouth, looks at it a moment, replaces it and smokes furiously_). You like a good cigar, don't you, Eddie? EDDIE (_removes his cigar, looks at it, replaces it_). Yas, sah. I likes a _good_ cigar. WARREN. I tell you these are something like cigars, aren't they? EDDIE. Yas, sah. Dey's sumpin like 'em, boss, but not quite. WARREN (_chokes and then throws cigar in cuspidor_). I don't believe I care to smoke just now. EDDIE (_does the same_). Neither does I, boss; neither does I. WARREN. You wouldn't like a nice box of cigars for a Christmas present, would you, Eddie? EDDIE (_slowly_). No, sah, I don' 'spects I would. Ma lady-love don't like to hab me smoke no cigars, kase she says it contaminates ma presence. Well, I's got to go and deliber de res' ob my Christmas packages. Merry Christmas, boss. (_Exit R., carrying the hat in the box._) _Enter_ KITTY _from L._ KITTY. Warren, I've laid out the costumes in your room. They're too lovely for anything. WARREN. Well, did you get it? KITTY. Get it? WARREN. Your Christmas present. KITTY. Oh, yes, I got it. (_Looks around._) Why, where is Lolly? WARREN. She probably got tired of waiting and went back to her apartment. How did you like the hat? KITTY. It was a dream. You're such a good boy and you have the most wonderful taste in the world. WARREN. Your cigars were just what I wanted. KITTY. Why aren't you smoking one? WARREN. I did. Just one. KITTY. Just one? WARREN (_hastily_). I mean--I only smoke one cigar in the afternoon, you know. But where is your hat? KITTY. I'm going to have it fixed over a little, Warren. Just enough to suit my own individuality, you know. WARREN. Jack Dawson gave his wife a cook stove. KITTY. Speaking of impossible presents, I just got the most horrible pin-cushion cover from Rannie Stewart. I threw it in the waste basket. WARREN. That's what comes of promiscuous giving. I told you how it would be. First I decided not to buy anything at all, but I couldn't resist that hat. Your tickets to the masquerade dinner and ball are the rest of the present. KITTY. But I told Lolly we'd take tickets from her. WARREN. I know. I haven't bought the tickets yet. I meant the money for them was the rest of your present. That and the hat. All my presents are beautiful practical things that every one wants. KITTY. Yes, that's so. You have wonderful taste. WARREN. I didn't even give Eddie anything. KITTY. It doesn't matter. Oh, Warren. (_Sits on arm of his chair._) I'm so glad we're going to have tonight all to ourselves. Aunt Minerva would have spoiled everything. WARREN. Is she so very awful? KITTY. Not awful; just good. Real downright good. And so intellectual. I'm sure she'd never approve of a Christmas masquerade. (_Ring at the bell at R._) KITTY. See who it is. WARREN _admits_ MAGINNIS GOOGIN _from R._ GOOGIN. Merry Christmas, sor. WARREN. The same to you, Googin. GOOGIN. I jest drapped in to see if you naded any more heat or anything like that. My, my, but I've been working hard the day. Sure, to be the janitor of an apartment house is no cinch at all, at all. And paple are not as liberal as they used to be, aven at Christmas time. WARREN. Have a cigar. GOOGIN. Thank ye, sor. (_Smokes one._) KITTY. Warren, you'd better try on your costume. I might have to change something, you know. WARREN. But I-- KITTY. Please. We haven't got much time. It's after four. WARREN (_crosses to left_). All right. (_Exits L._) KITTY. Now, Mr. Googin, I want you to go down stairs and tell your wife to come up. I have a nice little present for her. GOOGIN (_brightening_). Have ye, now? A prisint for Honoria? Sure, it's a kind and thoughtful lady ye are. KITTY. She's at home, isn't she? GOOGIN. She is that. KITTY. Ask her to come up here and wish us a merry Christmas. WARREN _appears at L._ WARREN. Kitty, how does that ruffle thing work? I can't get it around my head at all. I don't know the combination. KITTY. Oh, I must have sewed it together. Can't you get it over your head? WARREN. Not without choking myself. KITTY. Wait a minute. I'll rip it for you. (_Exits L._) WARREN (_gets box of cigars and hands it to Googin_). Here's a little Christmas present, Googin. They're awfully good. I smoked two of them. GOOGIN (_lights one_). Thank ye, sor. WARREN. Don't let my wife see you smoking in here. She doesn't like it. GOOGIN (_chokes, takes cigar from mouth, looks at it_). What kind of a stogie is it, Mr. Williams? WARREN. It's pure Havana. Santas Odoriferous. GOOGIN (_smells it_). It's odoriferous all right, all right. Begorry, it smells like someone had been burnin' the beans. WARREN. That's the way all pure Havanas smell. GOOGIN. I think I'll chop 'em up and smoke 'em in me pipe. Much obliged, sor, and merry Christmas to the both of yeez. Tell yer wife that me and Honoria will be right up. (_Exits R._) _Enter_ KITTY _from L._ KITTY. It's all right now. I left an opening. And I sewed on the last pompon. Warren, don't you think we ought to remember the Googins? WARREN. I do remember them. When people have faces like the Googins one never forgets them. KITTY. He's such a good janitor. Really, I think we ought to make them a little present. WARREN. But I'm busted, Kitty. Those masquerade tickets will take our last cent. KITTY. We might give the Googins some little thing here. (_Looks around._) I have it! WARREN. Yes? KITTY. We'll give them Aunt Minerva's picture. WARREN. Thank goodness. At last we've found a use for Aunt Minerva's picture. Ever since you hung it up there it's haunted me. But the Googins don't want it. KITTY. I'm sure they will. They're frightfully poor and it would just match their furniture, I'm sure. Henceforth Aunt Minerva shall shed her light in the basement. _Enter_ MRS. GOOGIN _from R., followed by_ GOOGIN, _smoking a cigar._ MRS. GOOGIN. A merry Christmas to the both of yeez. (_To_ KITTY.) Me man Maginnis tould me ye wanted to see me. KITTY (_at R._). Yes, indeed; come right in. MRS. GOOGIN. I know what it is, darlin'. Sure it's a bit of a prisint fer me and the childer, now ain't it, Mrs. Williams? (_Smiles._) KITTY (_at R._). What a good guesser you are. MRS. GOOGIN. The Widow O'Toole, her in Apartment C, was after givin' me one of her ould worn-out waists. But I took her down a peg as quick as a wink. I'm a lady, I am, and me mother was a lady before me, and I don't accept cast-off clothes fer Christmas prisints. KITTY. You don't. (_At R.C. near front with_ MRS. GOOGIN.) GOOGIN (_at rear L. with_ WARREN). And nather do I. MRS. GOOGIN. The ould bachelor in Apartment F gave me a fine prisint. I brung it up to show yeez. (_Shows fancy waste basket, tied with ribbon bows._) It's a new bunnet. (_Puts it on her head._) Sure, that's a Christmas prisint that touches me heart. KITTY. I'm going to give you that picture. (_Points to crayon portrait._) MRS. GOOGIN. The picture of the ould lady, is it? KITTY. Yes. It's a lovely frame. MRS. GOOGIN. And it's a nice lookin' ould lady, too. She looks a little like me own mother, who before she was married to a Mulvaney was a McShane. KITTY. Warren, take it down. WARREN. With pleasure. (_Takes picture down._) MRS. GOOGIN (_taking the picture_). Sure, I have no picture of me own mother at all, at all. More's the pity. I'll jist take this picture and then I'll be after tellin' all me frinds that it is a likeness of me mother who was a McShane from County Kilkenny. (_Sits R._) GOOGIN. Would ye decave yer frinds, Honoria? MRS. GOOGIN. A little deception is the spice of life. And besides it looks enough like herself to be her own photygraft. Don't it, Maginnis? GOOGIN. Sure it looks like a chromo to me. MRS. GOOGIN (_angrily_). A chromo, is it? GOOGIN. Yis, or wan of them comic valentines. MRS. GOOGIN. Listen to that now. He says me own mother looks like a chromo and a comic valentine. I'm a lady, I am, and me mother was a lady before me, and if I wasn't a lady, sure I'd break the picture over yer head, Maginnis Googin. Insulted am I and right before me face! (_Weeps._) Oh, wurra, wurra, that me own ould mother, who was a McShane, should live to see that day whin her daughter's own husband would call her a comic valentine. (_Weeps and rocks back and forth._) GOOGIN (_close to her_). I said nawthin' about yer mother, Honoria Googin. I only remarked that the picture resimbled a comic valentine. And it do. And I'll lave it to Mr. Williams whither I'm right or no. MRS. GOOGIN (_rises with dignity, goes to_ KITTY). I thank ye kindly fer yer prisint, Mrs. Williams, and I wish yeez all the compliments of the season. (_Turns to_ GOOGIN _savagely._) As fer you, Maginnis Googin, ather ye beg me mother's pardon fer yer insults, or it's nather bite ner sup ye'll git in my house this night. (_Sails out at R. carrying picture and waste basket._) GOOGIN. Wait a minute. Listen to me, Nora, darlin'. Let me explain. (_Follows her out at R._) WARREN. Well, there goes Aunt Minerva. KITTY. And she sent it to us last Christmas. WARREN. I'm glad she decided not to visit us this year. Money is scarce at the end of the month and she's better off in Kankakee. New York isn't any place for Aunt Minerva on Christmas Day. KITTY. I'm afraid auntie's gait is not quite up to New York in the holiday season. WARREN. I think I'll try on my costume. Are you sure I can get into the ruff now? KITTY. Oh, yes. Wasn't that stupid of me? Just like making a skirt and then sewing up the top of it. (_Exit_ WARREN _at L._) _Enter_ GOOGIN _from R._ GOOGIN. Sure, it's a sad time we're havin' down in the basement. KITTY. What has happened? GOOGIN. Herself has locked the door of the apartment and divil a bit will she open it at all. KITTY. Why, Mr. Googin! GOOGIN. I'm in a pretty pickle now. All me money is locked up in me house with Honoria. You could be doin' me a great favor, if ye would, Mrs. Williams, mum. KITTY. What is it, Mr. Googin? GOOGIN. Go down to the basement and tell me wife to open the door to her lawful wedded husband. KITTY. Why, of course I will. (_Exits R._) GOOGIN (_sits down comfortably and lights a cigar from his box_). Sure, it's a sad Christmas for me, so it is, whin Honoria lets an ould picture come bechune a man and his wife. (_Smokes._) Begorry, I smell something. (_Sniffs._) It's awful. (_Rises._) Some wan is burning some rubber. Maybe I've got too much hate on in the radiators. (_Sniffs._) My, my, what an awful smell. (_Removes cigar and looks at it, smells it, makes horrible grimace._) Oh, ho, so it's you, is it? (_Throws it in cuspidor._) No wonder they call it Santas Odoriferous. If that cigar came from Havana they'd ought to take it back there again and give it a dacent burial. _Enter_ EDDIE _from R. with the hat in box._ EDDIE. Say, Mr. Googin! GOOGIN. What is it, Eddie? EDDIE. Does you want to buy a nice Christmas present for a lady? GOOGIN. Maybe I do. What is it? EDDIE. A nice hat. Right in de latest style. Jes' come home from de millinery store. Mis' Lacey gib it to me for a Christmas present, and I ain't got no use for it. GOOGIN. Begorry, that's a good idea. I'll make peace with me wife. Eddie, I'll trade ye a nice box of cigars for the hat. EDDIE. Is 'em some ob Mistah Williamses cigars? GOOGIN. They are. Santas Odoriferous. EDDIE. Man, man, I wouldn't deprive you ob dem cigars for de world. GOOGIN. Sure it's no depravity at all, at all. EDDIE. I'll sell you de hat for two dollars cash money. GOOGIN. Two dollars, is it? EDDIE. Yas, sah, and it's worth 'bout ten dollars. De lady done say it's worth _more'n_ ten dollars. GOOGIN. I'll take it. (_Takes out old wallet, counts out two dollars in small change and gives it to_ EDDIE.) EDDIE. Yas, sah. Dat's right. GOOGIN. There's yer two dollars. EDDIE. And dere's yer hat. (_Gives him box._) Excuse me, boss. I hears de elevator bell. (_Exits R._) GOOGIN (_opens box and looks at the hat_). Begorry, I've been robbed. Eddie! Ye thavin' nagur, come here. Niver in all the world would me wife wear an orange hat. She hates orange worse ner pizen. _Enter_ KITTY _from R._ GOOGIN _has hat in the box._ KITTY. It's all right, Mr. Googin. I had a long talk with your wife and she's all ready for you. GOOGIN. Ready for me? With a flatiron belike. KITTY. No, no. Her face is wreathed in smiles. She's waiting for you with a real Kilkenny welcome. GOOGIN (_smiles_). Is she now? Sure, Mrs. Williams, mum, it's a grand lady ye are. Excuse me, mum, but this bein' Christmas day, I was wonderin' whether you'd be after accepting a wee bit of a Christmas present from the likes of me? KITTY. Why, Mr. Googin, how very kind and thoughtful. GOOGIN (_hands her the box_). It's here, mum. A fine hat it is. Right out of the millinery store. KITTY. Oh, thank you so much. I'm just crazy to see it. (_Takes it out._) What! (_Stares at it._) GOOGIN. Ain't it a beauty, mum? KITTY (_recovering_). Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Googin. But it is a far too expensive present for you to give me. You'd better give it to your wife. Here, I'll wrap it all up again. GOOGIN. But me wife won't wear orange. KITTY. Tell her to take off the orange and replace it with a green bow. I'll give her a nice green gauze bow. GOOGIN (_smiling_). Will ye now? KITTY. Yes. Take it down to her now. It will please her so much. She'll welcome you with open arms. GOOGIN. I'll do it. (_Takes box._) And I'm much obliged for your trouble, mum. (_Exits R._) KITTY. Warren! WARREN (_outside L._). Yes? KITTY. Are you dressed yet? It's nearly five o'clock. WARREN. Sure. _Enter_ WARREN _from L., wearing white Pierrot costume._ KITTY. Oh, it's a dream. WARREN. I feel like a fool. Say, Kittens, you'd better get into yours. _Enter_ MRS. GOOGIN _from R. with picture._ MRS. GOOGIN (_not seeing Warren_). Sure I had to run up to tell yeez that iverything was all right, Mrs. Williams. And it's a darlin' y' are. KITTY. Oh, I'm so glad. MRS. GOOGIN (_seeing Warren_). Howly snakes of Ireland, what's that? KITTY. That's Warren. MRS. GOOGIN. He gave me such a start. I thought it was wan of them circus clowns got loose, mum. WARREN (_gayly_). Wait till you see me with my paint on. (_Runs out L._) MRS. GOOGIN. Me husband has given me his consint and I can hang up the picture in me drawing-room, and he furthermore says that me mother is a quane and the picture is her perfect likeness. KITTY. Then I'm sure you'll have a very merry Christmas, Mrs. Googin. MRS. GOOGIN. I brought you up a little Christmas gift, mum. KITTY. You did? MRS. GOOGIN (_takes out the hat_). Ain't it a beauty? KITTY. Indeed it is. But really you should keep that for yourself. MRS. GOOGIN. Indade I'll not. I says to Maginnis, says I, "She's trated me like a lady, and I'll trate her like a lady also." So, here's yer Christmas prisint and many happy returns of the day. KITTY. But this is such an expensive present, Mrs. Googin. Really, I-- MRS. GOOGIN (_loftily_). What's ixpense bechune frinds? KITTY. I don't think I ought to accept such a lovely gift. MRS. GOOGIN. Ye'll be hurtin' me feelings if ye don't. I'm a lady, Mrs. Williams, and me mother was a lady before me, and I have very, very sensitive feelings. KITTY (_sighs, then takes hat and box_). Very well, Mrs. Googin. Thank you so much. MRS. GOOGIN. And now I'll be goin' back to the basement. I hope ye have a pleasant time at yer party, mum. KITTY. Thank you, Mrs. Googin. MRS. GOOGIN. Are you goin' to fix yerself up like a circus clown, too? KITTY. Oh, no. I'm to be Pierrette. MRS. GOOGIN. Pierrette, is it? Well, look out ye don't git pinched. Merry Christmas. (_Exit R._) _Enter_ WARREN _from L._ WARREN. Kittens, there's a poor beggar woman out on the back steps. Can't you find something for her? KITTY. No, I haven't a thing. (_Sees hat box._) Oh, yes, I have! Tell her to come in. (_Exit_ WARREN _at L._) Now, I'll be rid of my Christmas hoodoo. (_Puts hat in box._) _Enter_ HARD TIMES ANNIE _from L., weeping loudly._ ANNIE. Oh, oh! On Christmas day! Just to think of it. Oh! (_Wails._) KITTY. What is it, my good woman? What's the matter? ANNIE. Oh, mum, it's starving I am. A poor lone widow with sivin little children huddled up in the straw in a stable. No fire have we, no coal have we, no food have we. And on Christmas day, too. (_Cries._) Could ye let me have a little money, mum? KITTY (_looks in her purse and shows audience that it is empty._) No, I haven't any money. ANNIE. And it's such hard times we're having. With the cost of living so high and me with sivin children. No fire have we, no coal have we, no food have we. KITTY. I'm so sorry for you. ANNIE. Thank ye kindly, mum. And can you help me a little? KITTY. How would you like a nice winter hat? It's perfectly new and has never been worn. It's red and orange. ANNIE. Oh, lady, yer a fallen angel, so yer are, fallen right down from the skies. I'd rather have a nice winter hat than have a bushel of coal. KITTY. There it is. And merry Christmas. ANNIE. Thank you, mum. Has it got flowers on it or feathers? KITTY. Feathers. ANNIE. Oh, thank ye. Yer a fallen angel; indade ye are, mum. KITTY. You'd better go out this way. (_Points to R._) I don't want my husband to see what I've given you. ANNIE. I know how it is, mum. I've had two of 'em meself. But nather one was a circus clown, mum. I suppose that makes 'em bad-tempered. KITTY. Yes, I suppose so. Good-bye. ANNIE (_crosses to door R._). Merry Christmas, mum. And bless ye for what ye have done for me this day. Yer a fallen angel, mum; indeed yer are. (_Exits R._) _Enter_ WARREN _from L._ WARREN. Get rid of her? KITTY. Yes. Gave her some little things. Now I must hurry and dress. How nice you look. I'll be ready in ten minutes. (_Exit L._) (_Ring at bell R._) WARREN (_opens the door, admitting_ LAURA). Hello, Lolly. LAURA. Are you all ready? WARREN. Kittens has just started to dress. Did you get the tickets? LAURA. Yes. Here they are. Jim's waiting for me. WARREN (_takes the two tickets_). Thank you. LAURA. I had an awful time getting the places reserved. WARREN. Ten dollars, aren't they? LAURA. Yes. WARREN. Just a minute, till I get the money. Sit down. Kittens has the money. (_Exit L._) LAURA (_calls after him_). Hurry, please, Warren. WARREN (_outside_). All right. LAURA _crosses to R. and sits. She takes up the fashion magazine and reads a moment. Rises impatiently and walks around the room, showing marked impatience. After a pause_ KITTY _enters from L. wearing a kimono._ KITTY. Laura! LAURA. Yes, dear. KITTY. That hat I gave you! LAURA. The hat? KITTY. Yes, the one I gave you for Christmas. Warren had just given it to me as a present, and as it wasn't becoming to me so I gave it to you. Where is it? LAURA. Why? KITTY. He put ten dollars in it at the millinery shop. It was hidden in the lining. The ten dollars for the tickets. LAURA. Good heavens! KITTY. So that pays you for the tickets, doesn't it? LAURA. But I gave it away. KITTY. Why, Laura! LAURA. It wasn't becoming to me, either. I gave it to Eddie. KITTY (_weakly_). To Eddie? LAURA. Of course I didn't know it had ten dollars hidden in the lining. KITTY. I didn't think you'd treat my present that way. LAURA. Now, Kittens-- KITTY (_angrily_). Gave it to the negro elevator boy. Well, I like that! That hat cost ten dollars. LAURA. I never could have worn it. KITTY. But you shouldn't have given it away. LAURA. Warren gave it to you and you gave it away. KITTY. That's different. LAURA. Shall I explain to Warren? KITTY. No; for goodness sakes, don't do that! I haven't a cent to my name and I can't explain to Warren. How can I tell him I gave his Christmas present away? LAURA. Send for Eddie and make him give you the ten dollars. KITTY. Eddie hasn't got it. LAURA. What did he do with it? KITTY. I don't know. A beggar woman has the hat now. I saw her with it. LAURA. Then she has the ten dollars. KITTY. Laura, you'll have to trust me until the first of the month. LAURA (_coldly_). Oh, very well. It's of no importance. KITTY. Now, Laura-- LAURA (_crosses to door R._). In the future I'd advise you to keep your Christmas presents. I must go now. Jim is waiting for me. KITTY. Lolly-- LAURA. We'll probably see you at the dinner. (_Exit R._) KITTY (_crying_). I'll never give another present away as long as I live. WARREN (_outside L._). Hurry, Kittens; it's almost time to go. KITTY. In a minute. (_Exits L._) _Enter_ EDDIE _from R., followed by_ MISS MINERVA. _She carries the hat in her hand._ MISS M. That will do, boy. Mr. Williams is my nephew. I'll find him. EDDIE. Lawdy, now she's got de hat. (_Exits R._) _Enter_ WARREN _from L._ WARREN (_to_ MISS M.). I beg pardon? MISS M. Heavens! WARREN. What's the matter? MISS M. I thought you were a ghost. WARREN. I am Mr. Williams. MISS M. You are? (Drops everything, runs to him and shakes both his hands heartily.) Don't you know me? WARREN. No; never saw you before in my life. MISS M. I'm your Aunt Minerva. WARREN. Not Aunt Minerva Mockridge from Kankakee? MISS M. (_positively_). Aunt Minerva Mockridge from Kankakee. WARREN. But I thought you said you weren't coming. MISS M. I changed my mind. And I wanted to surprise you and Kitty. WARREN. Well, you did. You've surprised us all right. MISS M. Let me sit down. I've had such an adventure. (Holds up hat.) See what I brought you? WARREN. A hat? MISS M. Yes, what's left of it. WARREN. It looks just like the one I gave Kittens for a Christmas present. MISS M. I got out of the taxi at the corner and was walking along trying to find the house when all of a sudden I heard a great commotion down the street behind me. I turned around and just then a man darted right at me, slapped the hat in my hand and was off like the wind. A crowd of policemen were chasing him. I slipped into the vestibule of a building and luckily it was this house. _Enter_ EDDIE _and_ HOGAN _from R._ EDDIE. You can't come in yere. Not unless you got a search warrant. HOGAN. I saw her run into the vestibule, boy--and I'll find her if I have to search every apartment from piano to ice-box. (_Sees_ MISS M.) There she is now. That woman just came up in the elevator, didn't she? EDDIE. Yassir, boss; dat's de one. HOGAN (_goes to_ MISS M.). Come on with me. I guess I've got you at last. MISS M. What do you mean? WARREN. Officer, this lady is my aunt. I am Mr. Williams, the owner of this apartment. HOGAN (_to_ EDDIE). Is that man the owner of this apartment? EDDIE. Yessir, boss; dat's Mr. Williams. HOGAN. And you say this lady is your aunt? MISS M. Of course I'm his aunt. HOGAN. That'll do you! Keep still or I'll put the bracelets on ye. WARREN. Well, she _said_ she was my aunt. HOGAN. Have ye ever seen her before? WARREN. No, sir. HOGAN (_turns to_ EDDIE _at R._). Ye hear? He thinks she's his aunt and yet he niver seen her before. This woman is a crook. One of the worst in the country. She's old Boston Bell and is wanted in Omaha for highway robbery, in Salt Lake for arson, in Chicago for shoplifting, in Columbus for assault and battery, and in New York for receiving stolen goods. WARREN. And I thought she was my Aunt Minerva. MISS M. (_at L.C._). Warren Williams, are you going to let that man stand there and insult me? Throw him out of your house. HOGAN (_C._). I was standing on me beat when I saw Dopey Daniel snatch a swell hat from a poor old woman. She screams and he hot-foots it down the street with me after him. This dame was standing at the corner. She was working with him. He saw we had him all right, so he slipped the hat to her and she made a getaway up the elevator. Come on, Boston Bell. I've got you with the goods on you. I want that hat for evidence. Now will you come easy or must I use the cuffs? (_Pulls her to door R._) MISS M. (_screams_). Kitty, Kitty! Help, help! _Enter_ KITTY _from R._ KITTY. Aunt Minerva! (_Rushes to her and embraces her._) What is the meaning of all this? AUNT M. (_at R., weeping_). Oh, Kitty, Kitty, I'm arrested. On my first visit to New York. Oh, why did I ever leave Kankakee? KITTY. Warren, make him release her. HOGAN. Are you sure she's your aunt? KITTY. Of course I am. Why, we have her picture. There it is. Oh, no--I'd forgotten. HOGAN. I believe the whole gang of yeez is a bunch of crooks. Yeez look like crooks, all drissed up like clowns and things. KITTY. Eddie, call the janitor. EDDIE. Here he comes now. _Enter_ GOOGIN _from R. with_ MRS. GOOGIN. HOGAN. Maginnis Googin, is it yerself? GOOGIN. What's goin' on here, Hogan. Who's been pinched? HOGAN. This dame is Boston Bell. We got her with the goods. She stole a hat. KITTY. Why, that's my hat. Isn't it, Warren? WARREN. I thought it looked familiar. (_Takes hat._) Yes, that's your hat. (_Takes two five-dollar bills from the lining._) Now, I know it's your hat. KITTY. But where did you get it, Aunt Minerva? MISS M. Some man ran into me in the street and left it in my hand. GOOGIN. Hogan, sure I think you've made a mistake. HOGAN. Do you know these folks, Googin? MRS. GOOGIN. I know them, Officer Hogan. It's the Williamses, and they're both perfect ladies. And I'm a lady, and so was me mother before me. GOOGIN. Hush, Honoria. Ye've been drinkin' too much frozen egg nog. MRS. GOOGIN (_crying_). And the ould lady that ye've pinched, sure I blave it's me ould mother from Kilkenny, Ireland. Oh, Maginnis, they've pinched me ould mother. GOOGIN. It's all a mistake, Hogan. HOGAN (_to_ MISS M.). Ye say a man ran into you in the street and left this hat in your hand? MISS M. Yes, sir. HOGAN (_to_ KITTY). And you say it's your hat? KITTY. Of course it is. WARREN (_goes to_ HOGAN, _gives him a five-dollar bill_). I think that will be all, officer. Merry Christmas. HOGAN. Merry Christmas to all of yeez. (_Exits L., followed by_ EDDIE.) KITTY. Mrs. Googin, this is my aunt, Miss Mockridge from Kankakee. MRS. GOOGIN. Sure, I thought it was me ould mother from Kilkenny. Ye look enough like her to be her own twin sister, ye do. GOOGIN. I came up to inform yeez that the taxi do be waiting. MISS M. Taxi? Are you going out? KITTY (_looks at_ WARREN). Well--er--that is--er we-- WARREN. Yes, er--we thought you weren't coming. MISS M. Where are you going? KITTY. We were going to a masquerade dinner dance, but now that you've come we'll stay at home. GOOGIN (_to_ MISS M.). Ye'd better go to the dance, mum. Ye'll have the time of yer life. Faith, they've nothin' like it in Kankakee. Come on, Honoria. MRS. GOOGIN. All of yeez come down and take tea wid me in the marnin' fer breakfast. Merry New Year and happy Christmas to all. I'm a lady and me mother was a lady before me, and I knows a lady whin I sees her. So I wish yeez all a happy Christmas and many of them. (_Exits R. with_ GOOGIN.) WARREN. Shall I send the taxi away, Kittens? MISS M. I should say not. I'm going to that masquerade ball, if it's the last thing I ever do. That's why I came to New York. (_Takes out purse._) Here's a hundred and twenty dollars. That's enough to see us through until breakfast, isn't it? KITTY. We mustn't keep the taxi waiting. Come on, auntie. We're going to show you the time of your life. MISS M. But I haven't any costume. KITTY (_puts the hat on her head_). There you are. Now you're all fixed. I knew I could make some use of my Christmas hat. Hurry, Warren. (They hurry out R. as curtain falls.) CURTAIN. NOTES ON THE PRODUCTION. This little satire on Christmas giving has been written to provide forty-five minutes of amusement for a holiday audience. The stage settings are very simple, a room with two doors being all that is required. COSTUMES. WARREN--A brisk young business man of about twenty-five. Ordinary winter suit for first entrance. Change to white Pierrot costume with white pumps, white socks, white pajama suit with large black pompons, or discs of black satin, on it. Large stiff ruff of white tulle. Face whitened with grease paint. Black patches. Black satin half-mask in hand. Head covered with close fitting white covering in Pierrot style. KITTY--A bright, vivacious young wife of twenty-two. Afternoon dress at first, but choose one that may be quickly changed. Changed to kimono as indicated in text. On last entrance she wears a Pierrette costume, white pumps, hose, white tulle dress with very full skirts, ankle length. White clown cap. The dress may be trimmed with black satin discs, or pompons, or toy balloons in festoons, as desired. MISS MINERVA--Aged forty-five. Gray hair. Spectacles. Dark traveling cloak and hat. Grip. She discards cloak and hat when Hogan releases her, showing a very gay dress beneath. Faint gray wrinkles of grease paint on face. GOOGIN--Irish janitor. Red wig and whiskers all around face. Face reddened. White grease paint on upper lip. Red eyebrows. Old suit and cardigan jacket. MRS. GOOGIN--Portly lady in gaudy dress of calico. Gray hair, parted. Green bows on costume. Face red and lined with gray grease paint. Use a decided Irish brogue. EDDIE--Negro elevator boy. Face blackened with burnt cork. Uniform much too small for him. Negro wig. LAURA--Afternoon dress for first entrance. No hat, as she lives in the same apartment house. Masquerade costume and opera cloak for last entrance. HOGAN--Irish policeman. Uniform, helmet, billie, etc. ANNIE--Old shoes, very ragged dress, old gray shawl on head. Straggling locks of white hair show beneath shawl. Red patches. Face heavily lined with gray grease paint. Very old and dirty apron. Dances, Drills and Story-Plays By NINA B. LAMKIN _Director of Normal Course in Physical Education at Northwestern School of Oratory and Physical Education, Evanston, Ill._ [Illustration] Fourteen Folk Dances of various countries, suitable for schools, clubs, churches, settlements, etc. Twenty-six simple Æsthetic Dances, as Dances of the Seasons, Flower Dances, Brownies, Fairies, Bluebirds, etc. Twenty-four Drills for every day and holidays, unusual, artistic and worth while. Forty-one Rhythms and twelve Story-Plays to be used with primary ages in every-day recreation, in dramatization and in entertainments. There is something in this book to fit any occasion where such material is desired. For Boy Scouts, Camp Fire Girls, Gymnasium Work, Play Festivals, Field Days, etc. Everything fully described. Suggestive music named and description of costumes given. Contains eight original photographs, half-toned, of various dances. =Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and design in two colors, clear, attractive type. Price, $1.25= =T.S. Denison & Company, Publishers= 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO Merry Monologues By MARY MONCURE PARKER [Illustration] These selections are wholly original and sufficiently varied in character and sentiment to enable the reader to make up a well-rounded program in which high comedy mingles with farce and pathos in a manner suitable for all occasions. Nineteen monologues and nine short poems which are especially adapted to that particular form of entertainment called the pianologue, viz., reading to music. Some of the selections are new but most of them are the pick from the author's wide repertoire, which she has used throughout this country and in England. They bear the stamp of enthusiastic public approval and are now first offered to the public. =Contents:= On the Street Car; The Renaissance of the Kiss; Husbands Is Husbands; Oh, Friend of Mine; George's First Sweetheart; Bobby and the New Baby; Lucile Gets Ready for a Dance; Mandy's Man and Safety First; Maggie McCarthy Goes on a Diet; Mrs. Climber Doesn't Like Notoriety; Lucindy Jones Expects a Legacy; Grown Folks Is so Awful Queer; At the Movies; The Gingie Boy; Ode to a Manikin; Isaacstein's Busy Day; Like Pilgrims to the Appointed Place; Mrs. Bargain Counter Meets a Friend; Mother Mine; Maggie McCarthy Has Her Fortune Told; In Vaudeville; Uncle Jim and the Liniment; The Funny Story; In the Milliner Shop; Mrs. Trubble's Troubles; George's Cousin Willie; When Lucindy Goes to Town; A Question. =Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and design in two colors, clear, attractive type. Price, $1.25= =T.S. Denison & Company, Publishers= 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO Let's Pretend A Book of Children's Plays By LINDSEY BARBEE [Illustration] "Come--let's pretend!" has been the slogan of all childhood. A few gay feathers have transformed an everyday lad into a savage warrior; a sweeping train has given a simple gingham frock the dignity of a court robe; the power of make-believe has changed a bare attic into a gloomy forest or perhaps into a royal palace. These six plays will appeal to the imagination, to the fun-loving nature and to the best ideals of all children. CONTENTS.--The Little Pink Lady (6 Girls); The Ever-Ever Land (16 Boys, 17 Girls); When the Toys Awake (15 Boys, 5 Girls); The Forest of Every Day (5 Boys, 7 Girls); A Christmas Tree Joke (7 Boys, 7 Girls); "If Don't-Believe Is Changed Into Believe" (21 Boys, 15 Girls). Full descriptions for producing; easy to costume and "put on." Clever illustrations showing the appearance of each character. The most charming children's plays ever written. =Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and design in two colors, attractive type.= =Price, $1.25= =T.S. Denison & Company, Publishers= 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO Impromptu Magic, with Patter By GEORGE DE LAWRENCE [Illustration] A supreme collection of clever, off-hand tricks that can be presented with little or no practice, require no sleight-of-hand skill and are independent of any apparatus. The only articles called for are ordinary coins, cards, matches, etc., such as are always at hand. An excellent line of patter, in which humor predominates, is included for each trick and there are numerous illustrations. Among the many clever but easy effects taught may be mentioned the lemon and dollar bill trick without sleight-of-hand, several baffling mind reading effects, card in the pocket, vanishing drinking glass, penetrating match, traveling coins, four-coin trick, coins out of hat, dime and penny trick, swallowing a knife, torn and restored paper napkin, etc. Dr. A.M. Wilson, editor of "The Sphinx," who contributes the introduction, says: "Many books and booklets on patter, numerous works, little and big, on magic, have been published. But not until this work of DeLawrence has there been one that covered both, and with material that anyone of reasonable intelligence could use successfully and satisfactorily. Having read the manuscript I congratulate the author on his wise selection of tricks and on the sensible and appropriate patter." =Attractively bound in art boards, fully illustrated, well printed on good paper.= =Price, $1.00= =T.S. Denison & Company, Publishers= 623 South Wabash Avenue CHICAGO Winning Monologues By LILIAN HOLMES STRACK [Illustration] For contests and public speaking. Eighteen splendid original selections for platform use in book form. The author has successfully portrayed various "types" in their most human and amusing aspects, and presents each monologue in a form that complies with the contest rules generally prevalent. Each of these readings is a real cross-section of life. The humor is essentially human, and not merely witty. Various types of human beings are represented, all in a fashion that has a sure appeal to any audience. The book is invaluable for professional entertainers as well as for contest use. CONTENTS.--Johnny Gets Ready for Company; Aunt Polly at the Rural Aid Society; The Strap-Hangers; Little Maymie Attends the Movies; The Cheerful Laundress; John Tells a Bedtime Story; Aunt Polly Has Callers; Just Mary Louise; Friday Afternoon in Our School; When Edna Telephones; Johnny Does His Home Work; Look Pleasant, Please! Little Maymie Visits the City; In the Dark of the (Honey) Moon; The Punishment of Mary Louise; Practicing Domestic Science, or How Girls Cook; On Contest Night; The Telephone Exchange at Junction Center. =Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and design in two colors, attractive type.= =Price, $1.25= =T.S. Denison & Company, Publishers= 623 South Wabash Avenue CHICAGO 
58546	----	This project is dedicated with love to Emmy's memory. [Transcriber's Note: Obvious printer errors have been corrected without note. This book was published in 1915 and is a product of its time; it contains ethnic and racial stereotypes that modern readers may find offensive.] CHRISTMAS CANDLES _Plays for Boys and Girls_ BY ELSIE HOBART CARTER [Illustration] NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1915 Copyright, 1915, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY Published November, 1915 Printed, November, 1922 PRINTED IN THE U S A BY THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY RAHWAY N J [Illustration: MARIE TELLS THE STORY _The Babushka_, Page 209] To the memory of W.N.H. who loved both plays and players Thanks are due to The Century Company; Mr. Tudor Jenks; Miss K.A. Prichard; Mrs. Mary Wilkins Freeman; the Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company; Colonel Thomas E. Davis; Miss Gertrude Hall; Harper & Brothers; the John Church Company; and the Universalist Publishing House, for permission to use copyrighted material, as particularly acknowledged throughout the book. CONTENTS PAGE SUGGESTIONS FOR PRODUCTION xv I. THE CHRIST-CANDLE. _In Two Scenes_ 1 Seventeen characters: Two, the mother and St. Nicholas, played by adults; seven boys and four girls from six to twelve years; four boys, or three boys and a girl, fourteen to eighteen. Important parts fall to three of the younger children, two boys and one girl, and the Star-Child must be able to sing alone. Setting: 1st. Snow-scene in forest. 2nd. Interior,--a poor hovel. Time of playing: 40 minutes. This play makes use of the old German belief that the Christ-Child returns to earth each Christmas Eve to seek shelter among men. A little waif, lost in the snow, is refused help by the selfishness of happiness, of ill-temper, of poverty, of riches, and is at last received by two little children who take him for the Holy Child indeed. II. TOINETTE AND THE ELVES. _In Two Acts_ 31 Ten characters: Mother's part taken by an adult; three girls and two boys from six to fifteen; four very little boys for elves. Setting: Quaint cottage interior. Time of playing: 30 minutes. Toinette, pretty, dreamy, and self-absorbed, tries the Elves' Christmas-Eve gift of fern seed, to make her invisible, and learns that the little brothers and sisters do not love an impatient and unkind older one. Much grieved, she tries through the year to correct her faults, but is almost afraid to repeat the experiment when the Elves again bring their gift. The friendly Elves urge her, and the result is so happy that Toinette and the Elves have a gay little celebration all by themselves. III. TOM'S PLAN. _In Two Acts_ 53 Nine characters: One adult, for Santa Claus; four boys and four girls from six to fifteen years. Chief part by a boy of eight or nine. Setting: One simple interior. Time of playing: 25 minutes. Tom, hearing that Santa Claus will bring sticks or ashes to children who are bad, can think of no way to test the disturbing statement, except to be as naughty as he knows how. But Santa Claus explains matters. IV. THEIR CHRISTMAS PARTY. _In Two Acts_ 73 Characters: One adult for Santa Claus; five older children, two boys and three girls; two boys and two girls, seven to nine years for the important parts, and a dozen children from four to ten, with no speaking parts. Setting: 1st. A winter street-scene. 2nd. Simple interior. Time of playing: 35 minutes. Dick and Dot, a lonely little brother and sister, decide to share their Christmas with two poor children, while several older friends, hearing the children's wish for a Christmas Party, plan, independently of each other, to arrange for one. The result is a Christmas surprise for everyone. V. THE CHRISTMAS BROWNIE. _In One Act_ 95 Twenty-four characters: Santa Claus; three older children for adults, one boy and two girls; three boys and three girls from five to twelve, the important parts being for two boys of ten; four little boys and two little girls, and eight children who can sing, for the tableaux of the Christmas dream. Setting: Simple interior. Time of playing: 40 minutes. Santa Claus' Brownie allows Ted to help fill the stockings, with a result that perplexes and disturbs their owners, and teaches Ted that it takes thoughtfulness as well as good will to make people happy. The Brownie's especial gift to Ted is a Christmas Dream. VI. A PURITAN CHRISTMAS. _In Two Acts_ 121 Twenty characters: Seven boys and four girls, from five to twelve years; the mother, and other adult Colonists, taken by boys and girls from seventeen to twenty. Setting: One interior, a small cabin in the early days of the Colonies. Time of playing: 45 minutes. The little Puritan family, hearing from their young mother of happy Christmas in Old England, decide on a celebration of their own. The Colonists, surprising them, are very angry, and inclined to severe punishment, until a little Indian boy, who has been befriended by Mistress Delight and her children, shows that, for the sake of her kindness to him, the settlement has been spared a dreaded Indian raid. The peace and good will of Christmas touch the stern hearts of the Puritans, and they end by a friendly sharing of the festival. VII. THE CHRISTMAS MONKS. _In Three Acts_ 149 Twenty-five characters, all but two with speaking parts. Two may double. One adult for the Abbot. Eight older boys, four older girls. Seven boys, five girls, from five to ten years. Setting: 1st. Roadway, outside the Convent walls. 2nd. The Christmas garden. 3rd. Chapel of the Convent. Time of playing: 50 minutes. It is unknown to many people that the Christmas toys grow from seed in the garden of the Christmas Monks. The play relates the adventures of the Prince, Peter, and Peter's little sister, in this wonderful place. VIII. THE SPELL OF CHRISTMAS. _In Two Scenes_ 179 Fourteen characters: Eight boys and six girls, from six to sixteen years. Also a few voices for the singing of the Waits' carol off stage. Setting: Two scenes--Seventeenth Century interiors. Time of playing: 45 minutes. The old belief that at midnight on Christmas Eve the family portraits come to life, step down from their places, and join hands in a stately dance, leads the children to slip out of their beds at an unwonted hour, and so to take a hand in the adventures of their elders, quite beyond their ken. IX. THE BABUSHKA. _A Russian Legend, in One Scene_ 209 Twenty-four characters: One adult, or older girl, able to bring intelligence and sympathy to the part of the mysterious Babushka; two men, or older boys; five boys and four girls, from six to fourteen; and village children, five boys, seven girls. One of the men and one boy, the village fiddlers, should be able to play their violins to accompany the carol. Setting: Interior,--a Russian hovel. Time of playing: 30 minutes. Tells the story of the strange old woman, who, refusing at the Wise Men's call to follow the Star to the manger of the new-born Christ, has ever since in the winter season wandered over the world, seeking in every nursery, in every cradle, for the Holy Child. X. A CANVAS CHRISTMAS. _In Two Acts. For a Boys' Club_ 235 Fourteen characters: Twelve boys, twelve to sixteen; two little boys, six and eight. Setting: One scene, interior of a circus tent. Time of playing: 40 minutes. Two little farm boys who have never seen either a circus or a Christmas tree, creep into the tent just as the discontented men are planning rebellion against their leader. The Christmas spirit of friendliness softens not only the men, but the surly ringmaster, and the strict and severe father of the boys. XI. MINTY-MALVINY'S SANTA CLAUS. _In One Act_ 265 Seven characters: Three adults, two men, one woman; four children, three girls, and one boy, six to ten years. The important part of the pickaninny taken by a girl of ten. Setting: Modern interior. Time of playing: 25 minutes. Minty-Malviny, the little black drudge of an old-time New Orleans boarding-house, falls asleep on the rug of a handsome sitting-room, and waking, takes the owner for Ole Marse Santa Claus himself. Her faith inspires him to play the part. XII. THE HUNDRED. _In One Act_ 283 Six characters: Five women, one little girl of eight or nine, who must be able to carry an important part. Setting: Mrs. Darling's dressing-room. Time of playing: 50 minutes. Mrs. Darling, a charming young widow with a quick temper, has dressed a hundred dolls for an Orphan Asylum. On Christmas Eve, Sally, the kitchen-maid, brings a little East-side friend to see the dolls, one of which is accidentally broken, to the consternation of the household. But Mrs. Darling is not the ogress the servants believe her, and Tibbie goes home happy, with her arms full of dollies. GENERAL NOTES 313 SUGGESTIONS FOR CAROLS 315 ILLUSTRATIONS MARIE TELLS THE STORY. [_The Babushka._] _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE HANS AND GRETEL. [_The Christmas-Candle._] 3 HOLLYBERRY. [_Toinette and the Elves._] 33 THEIR CHRISTMAS PARTY 75 THE BROWNIE. [_The Christmas Brownie._] 97 PRUDENCE. EAGLEFEATHER. [_A Puritan Christmas._] 123 THE PRINCE. PETER AND THE PRINCE. [_The Christmas Monks._] 151 ALLISON. [_The Spell of Christmas._] 181 SUGGESTIONS FOR PRODUCTION These little plays were written for the classes and clubs of a small Sunday-school, where the Christmas celebration consisted of a play to introduce Santa Claus and a Christmas-tree. They are equally suitable for children at home or in day schools, and they have been so used. In most of the plays children greatly enjoy playing the adult parts and do good work in them. But several of the adult rôles call for adult players, because a deeper appreciation of the feeling contained in the story is required than can be given by girls in their teens. Such parts are the Babushka, the Mother in "The Christ-Candle," and the Mother in "Toinette." Partly for the same reason, a man should be chosen for the Abbot in "The Christmas Monks," but also his presence will lend dignity, and much greater orderliness to rehearsals in a play with a large cast. The last two plays, adapted from stories by well-known writers, "Minty-Malviny's Santa Claus" and "The Hundred," were not especially intended for children, but as parlor plays for home production. These two throw heavier work upon a single child than any of the other plays, but though they were made with special children in view, it would not be difficult to find, in any group of children, a little girl who could play "Minty" or "Tibbie" as well as those for whom the parts were first made. The length of the cast in some of the plays need not be daunting, as the principal characters are usually few, the minor ones often having been introduced in answer to the frequent pleading "May _I_ be in the 'show' this year?" Though some of the parts are rather long, none are in the least calculated to strain the actors in any way--children act them with zest and absolute naturalness. Very little children have sometimes done remarkable work in them--the very youngest, a tiny girl of four, cast for "Rosalia" in "The Christmas Monks," played also another part at twenty-four hours' notice, when a little cousin inopportunely came down with measles on Christmas Eve. The two children had studied together, and little "Rosalia" knew "Peggy's" part as well as her own. LIGHTING. No one factor is more important for success in producing children's plays than adequate lighting. No matter how charmingly the setting and costuming may be carried out, no matter how well the children may act their parts, if the audience cannot _see_ them easily, the pains and trouble of the stage force, the best efforts of the children, will be lost. This is an individual problem, each case varying so much from the next that definite directions to fit all cases cannot well be given. But the importance of this one factor can hardly be overestimated. Fortunate indeed is the miniature stage with footlights and upper lights so arranged that red and white bulbs are controlled by different switches, each switch having also a dimmer. Nor are these things so expensive as to be beyond even rather moderate means, especially if included in the original equipment of the stage. It is more often from lack of experience than because of their initial cost that they are omitted. STAGE SETTINGS. Through the same lack of experience or forethought, settings are often provided which are of use in the minimum instead of the maximum number of plays. The simplest cottage interior is more adaptable, and can be used in a greater number of instances than the most attractive of more pronounced "sets." It is therefore invaluable for a small stage, where perhaps but one indoor and one outdoor scene must cover all requirements. All but two of the plays in this volume have been acted upon such a little stage. DELAYS. Another point of real importance is to avoid delays. The director should make every effort to this end by attention to the smallest details beforehand, by preparedness when the time of performance comes, and by perfect control of the stage forces. Lateness in beginning, and long waits between scenes, are tedious to any audience. They do much to dampen enthusiasm and destroy otherwise happy impressions. Care and forethought, practice for those who are to handle scenery, and system in the arrangement of properties and costumes will go a long way towards the elimination of this difficulty. COSTUMES AND PROPERTIES. In giving stage directions and descriptions of costumes, the effort has been towards suggestiveness rather than too great definiteness, and strict adherence to all details is not necessary or intended. It is most important to keep the Christmas spirit of the play from being smothered in the mechanics of production. Setting and costuming may be elaborate or simple, and every director will know his or her own resources. Groups of people interested in such work are apt to accumulate sets of costumes, odd properties, even pieces of furniture, which are convertible to many other uses than those for which they were made. Few things are really impossible to compass if one is set upon them. A friendly janitor will spend his leisure upon stage-carpentry. Friends rise up--or may be sought--who are interested enough to lend their treasures, or to use their talents. One will draw a latticed window which may be pinned or basted upon a bit of plain wall; another will manufacture a scutcheon for the decoration of a medieval hall, or even paint a sea scene before which Alice, the Gryphon, and the Mock-Turtle may disport themselves. MATERIALS. Gifts of old silk gowns, or even scraps of material, can all be utilized in some way. And in this connection, a word must be said as to the value of _real_ things. Use cheese-cloth, cambric, and canton-flannel if you must--a good variety of color may be found in them; canton-flannel is heavy, and hangs well, and up to a certain point they are all effective. But if better things can be had, through gift or loan, it is a matter for rejoicing. Not only because better materials mean softer and richer colors, but because they very greatly improve the _texture_ of the stage picture. This difference in quality makes a very marked difference in beauty of effect. Occasionally it will be found necessary to hire costumes, and, more often, wigs. But all such things as can be made, with help, by the children and their friends, will add just so much to their interest in the performance, and the good they can get from it. MAKE-UP. For plays produced under artificial light, some "make-up" must be used, as otherwise faces are often pale to ghastliness. But for children it should be put on with a very careful and sparing hand, and except in certain character-parts, only a little dry rouge is needed. REHEARSING. Children's plays should not be over-rehearsed. The smoothness and finish which it is right to demand of older players is hardly possible, or even desirable, for them. The charm of their acting lies in its sweet simplicity and freshness, a part of which is almost sure to be lost in any attempt at professional perfection. When they weary of rehearsals, and lose their enjoyment of them, not only are the director's troubles multiplied, but something vital has been lost from the charm of the final performance. As a preliminary to rehearsals the children should be brought together and the cast read to them, so that each child may know just which part he or she is to act, and the play then read to them by someone thoroughly in sympathy both with its story and with the children themselves. In this way they most quickly catch the spirit of the play, and are at once full of interest and ready with their own suggestions. Then the parts may be given out, and the play read again, each child reading his or her own part. Mistakes of pronunciation and emphasis are thus guarded against, and the children are ready to begin learning their parts. In the case of school plays, where the whole group can meet daily, more than one such preliminary reading and discussion should be held. If it is a possible thing, rehearse from the beginning on the stage where the play is to be given, having scenery arranged and properties of some sort on hand, in order that lines and action may be impressed on the children's minds together, not learned as distinct and separate things. Put into practice early whatever music is to be used. Finally, don't let the rehearsals at any time descend to the level of mere _drill_. The director must enjoy them with the children, establishing a happy co-operation which makes the whole work a joy from beginning to end. They will share the spirit of adventure in the matter of obtaining or contriving the most difficult things in the way of costumes, scenery, and properties. Their inventiveness will be quickened, their hands will grow skillful, and their triumphant enjoyment of success in these preliminary labors will stimulate them to greater success in the acting of the story. In this, they will be quick to appreciate hints--frequently to offer them--as to the best ways of expressing the meaning and spirit of the play, and work with them becomes an inspiration to all alike. With such whole-hearted co-operation, nothing is impossible of attainment, and the pleasure of the work more than repays ungrudging lavishment of time, labor, patience, and love. THE CHRIST-CANDLE A CHRISTMAS PLAY IN TWO SCENES CHARACTERS MOTHER MADELON } Who live in the little black hut HANS } in the woods. GRETEL } FRIEDEL, whom the Christ-Child sent. OLD MARTA } RICH JOHANN } Who would not share their Christmas. CROSS JACOB } WOODCUTTER } THE STAR CHILD, who brought a Christmas message. FRITZ } HEINRICH } OSCAR } To whom the good St. Nicholas always KARL } comes. JAN } BARBARA } KATRINA } THE GOOD ST. NICHOLAS. [Illustration: HANS AND GRETEL] THE CHRIST-CANDLE SCENE I _Christmas Eve, in the forest near_ MOTHER MADELON'S _cottage. The ground is covered with snow and the little evergreens all about are weighted down with it. Enter_ FRITZ (_L._) _with his brothers and sisters, laden with holly boughs and evergreens. The boys drag a sled with a small evergreen tree on it. As they come they sing "Softly the Echoes Come and Go."_[1] [Footnote 1: _Hosanna_, p. 122. New Church Board of Publication, 3 West 29th St., New York.] FRITZ. Stop here and rest, Heinrich. This is too big a load for the little ones. BARBARA. Yes, Karl is all out of breath, and little Jan can hardly keep up. HEINRICH [_dropping the sled rope_]. I'm not tired. I'm going to run back to the holly trees to get a few more sprays. [_Exit._] OSCAR [_who has been measuring the tree with his arm._] Fritz, do you think the good St. Nicholas can cover such a big tree as this? KARL. It's pretty big. It's bigger than me--or Katrina--I guess it's bigger than Fritz or Barbara or Heinrich. KATRINA. I think it's bigger than the one St. Nicholas filled for us last year. JAN. But then, you see, we are bigger children than we were last year. FRITZ. But the tree is almost big enough to hold you on the top branches, kleiner Bruder, if the good St. Nicholas wanted to put you there. See! [_He and_ BARBARA _help_ JAN _on top of the load. Enter_ HEINRICH _excitedly._] HEINRICH. Fritz, Fritz! And, Barbara, and all of you! Listen to what I've seen. I was running over to the holly trees, you know, when I tripped on a bit of grape-vine, and rolled over in the snow. [_Brushes snow from his clothes._] And when I sat up there was the queerest little black cottage right there. I do believe it just came up out of the ground like a house in a fairy-book. FRITZ. Oh no, it didn't, Heinrich, it's always been there! I've seen it many a time. HEINRICH. I don't believe it! Why didn't I ever see it then? BARBARA. Oh, never mind that! Tell us some more about the house. HEINRICH. I crept up, and looked in at the window, for, of course, I thought there might be brownies, or gnomes, or kobolds there, and I saw---- CHILDREN [_breathlessly_]. What? Oh, what? HEINRICH. A poor woman and two little children---- CHILDREN [_disappointed_]. O-o-h! FRITZ. That all? HEINRICH. Just wait! They looked so poor and hungry--there wasn't a thing on the table but a dry little loaf of bread--and only a few little sticks on the fire. KATRINA. Oh, it makes me so sorry. HEINRICH [_shaking his head wisely_]. That's not the worst of it. When I got to the window the two children were standing by the mother's chair, looking up in her face and asking her something. I couldn't hear what they said, but she shook her head oh, so sadly, and said: "No, my little ones, the good St. Nicholas will not find his way to us this Christmas." That's what she said! [_Silent consternation._] FRITZ. What? What did you say, Heinrich? BARBARA. It couldn't be so! KARL. St. Nicholas! OSCAR. Not find his way everywhere! KATRINA. Not give them any beautiful Tannenbaum! FRITZ. Oh, I don't believe it! You didn't hear right! HEINRICH. I did. And I do believe it! You would if you had seen how sorry they looked. FRITZ. Well, but--well, I don't see--well, Heinrich, it isn't so hard to find. He _must_ come surely. HEINRICH. No, he isn't coming. The poor woman said so and she must know. [_Sitting down on sled._] BARBARA. Yes, she must know. Father and Mother always see the good saint first, you know, and tell him whether we've been naughty or good. They always know whether he is coming or not. KATRINA. But he always _does_ come to us. OSCAR. Brother Fritz, Mother says the good St. Nicholas loves to give presents to little children. Wouldn't he be sorry if there was a house anywhere in the _world_ that he didn't know about? KARL. Brother Fritz, couldn't _we_ show him the way? FRITZ [_claps him on the shoulder_]. Well spoken, Karl, my man. We'll tell St. Nicholas all about it as soon as he comes to us, and then show him the way to Heinrich's little black hut. BARBARA. And if he shouldn't have enough to go around, he always brings us so much that we can spare some of our things for them. FRITZ. Yes, he puts enough for two trees on our tree. Come, Oscar and Karl, get hold of the rope! Barbara, you take Katrina's hand. BARBARA. Trot along in front, Jan! Come, then, let's get home as fast as we can. HEINRICH. All together now! Get up, horses, pull the load home! [_Exeunt (R.), singing as before. Enter_ FRIEDEL _(L.), before the sound of their voices has died away, slowly and wearily. Limps to side and peers through the trees after the children, then to the back, then to the left again, like one who has lost his way. Stops in the center looking doubtfully after the children once more. Enter the woodcutter (L.), axe over his shoulder, whistling as he hurries home._ FRIEDEL _silently holds out his cap, but the man shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, and passes on._ FRIEDEL _goes slowly to a tree and sits on a log or mound beside it. Blows on his fingers, tries to pull his rags more closely around him, and leans his head dejectedly on his hands. Lifts his head suddenly to watch_ MARTA, _who approaches (L.), hobbling under a bunch of fagots._] MARTA. Ach, my old bones! Ach, this heavy bundle! Will ever old Marta get home? [FRIEDEL _silently holds out his cap._ MARTA. What's this! What's this! What's this! Was ever heard tell of such insolence? As if Old Marta wasn't poor enough herself, without giving to every beggar who chooses to ask! The little good-for-nothing sees how I stagger under my own load and yet asks me to help him! [_Moves on._] FRIEDEL [_softly_]. I would help you carry them. MARTA [_pausing_]. Help me! Help me! and lose half the sticks I have worked so hard to gather on the way! [_Goes on._] Help me, he says. When I want help I'll not ask the beggars that come out of the streets of the town just a purpose to lie in wait for a poor old crone like me. [_Exit (R.) mumbling._] That I'll not! That I'll not. FRIEDEL [_looking after her_]. Why does she think I would drop the sticks? I would be _so_ careful. I wonder why. I almost think she was afraid of me. Of _me_! [_Enter_ CROSS JACOB _(L.)._ FRIEDEL [_timidly_]. Please--please, sir, could you tell me the way back to the town? And oh, couldn't you let me come to your fire a little while to warm myself? CROSS JACOB. Go away with you! It's as much as ever my wife will do to let me warm myself at my fire. She's got nine boys of her own to fill up my house and drive me away. Get away with you! [_Shakes his fist threateningly._ FRIEDEL _recoils._] Go home to your own fire! [_Exit (R.)._] FRIEDEL. Oh, if I only had one! [_Enter_ RICH JOHANN _(L.). Pauses to light his pipe._ FRIEDEL [_speaking timidly and hurriedly_]. Oh, sir! Oh, good, _kind_ sir! don't you want a little boy to help you in your house? JOHANN [_looks him over_]. What's your name, boy? FRIEDEL. Friedel, sir! JOHANN. Friedel what! FRIEDEL. Just Friedel, sir! JOHANN. Umph! "Just Friedel." And who's Friedel, I'd like to know. FRIEDEL. I don't think I just know myself, sir! But, oh, sir! [_clasps his hands tightly_], please let me work for you. I would pick up wood for you, and build fires, and run errands. I would work _so_ hard and be _so_ faithful! JOHANN [_throwing back his shoulders and putting his hands in his pockets_]. And who do you think I am, boy, that you presume to want to work in my house? To work for me, Rich Johann, who has many servants in his house, to carry out his commands and do his work and run his errands? Umph! Do you think I could have one servant about me clothed in such rags as yours? [FRIEDEL _hangs his head._] No, no! my servants wear fine clothes and brass buttons [_takes a puff at his pipe_], yes, indeed, brass buttons. No, no! Rich Johann lives in a very different style--a very different style, indeed. [_Exit (R.), his nose very much in the air._] FRIEDEL. Nobody will take me in. I have walked so far, so far, I can't go back to the town. [_Throws himself down on mound (R. Center)._] The snow feels almost warm, the wind is so cold. [_Points up._] I can see a star up there through the trees. It twinkles and twinkles as if it was laughing. I do believe it is! Sometimes I think the stars must be children with little candles in their hands. I wish I could see---- I wish---- [_He falls back asleep. Enter the little_ STAR CHILD _(back Center) from behind the fir trees. Sings._] [Music: THE CHRIST CHILD[2]] [Footnote 2: From _The Nursery_, Vol. 27 (1880).] WM. TAUBERT. Over all the starlight clear, While the world is sleeping, Sits the Christ Child ever dear, Nightly watch is keeping. Safe the starry host He tends, As his sheepfold shining, Cares for us and slumber sends, All to rest resigning, Sweetly sleep then, do not fear; Look with love before thee, From the golden starlight clear, Bends the Christ Child o'er thee, Bends the Christ Child o'er thee. [_Exit backwards slowly._ FRIEDEL _suddenly raises himself, stretching out his hand after her._ CURTAIN SCENE II _Christmas Eve in_ MOTHER MADELON'S _cottage. Open fireplace[3] at the Right, door (R.) and window (L.) at the back. Snow scene at back, shows through window and door when opened. Small table by the window with half a loaf of bread and one or two cracked plates and cups. A stool, a small chair, and by the fire a box._ MOTHER MADELON _sits (L.) at a spinning wheel. The children stand beside her_, GRETEL _rubbing her eyes with her two little fists_, HANS _with his hands behind him._ [Footnote 3: See note on Fireplace, p. 313.] HANS [_bravely_]. But, Mother, the good saint never missed us before. Are you sure he isn't coming? GRETEL. What makes you so sure, Mother, dear? MOTHER. Yes, my little ones, I am afraid it is true. [_More brightly._] You know, he has so very much to do. Just think how many little children he must go to see every year! Someone must always be left out. Perhaps it is our turn now. We can wait until next year. Perhaps he will come then. HANS [_rubbing his eyes_]. Oh, dear, I wish to-morrow wouldn't come at all. MOTHER. Oh, Hans, don't say that. Think how happy we can be. Even if St. Nicholas doesn't come, to-morrow is still the bright, beautiful Christmas Day, when everyone in the world is happy, and we shall hear the chimes ringing, and see people going about wishing each other "Merry Christmas." And then we have each other. I have my little big daughter who helps me wipe the dishes and put the plates away and my big right-hand man who is going to work so hard for me pretty soon. HANS. Yes, Mother, but I can help you now, right away. Let me do something for you right now! GRETEL. Me too, Mother, me too! MOTHER. Very well! You shall hold this yarn for me, while Gretel winds it. [_Puts the yarn on_ HANS' _hands._ HANS _sits on box_, GRETEL _on stool winding._ MOTHER _turns spinning wheel and sings "Bending O'er a Cradle Low."_] [Music: BENDING O'ER A CRADLE LOW[4]] [Footnote 4: Copyright, 1893, by the John Church Company. Used by permission.] (A CHRISTMAS SONG) LYDIA AVERY COONLEY. GEORGE F. ROOT. 1. Bending o'er a cradle low Sang a mother long ago, "This is Christ the Holy Child." Shepherds, wise men, angels smiled; "What care I for palace walls; What care I for kingly halls! In my arms the King of kings Listens while the angel sings. Peace on earth, good will for aye, Hail the blessed Christmas Day! Hail the blessed Christmas Day!" 2. Echoing down the ages long Comes the herald angel's song, Still do shepherds heed the voice, Wise men listen and rejoice; While to greet the King of kings Earth her noblest offerings brings. And the blessed Christ is born In each heart on Christmas morn. Sing, then, peace, good will for aye, Hail the blessed Christmas Day! Hail the blessed Christmas Day! HANS. Gretel, I believe St. Nicholas _will_ come anyway, I just believe he will. [GRETEL _gives the yarn to her mother_, HANS _remains sitting on the box._] When we aren't thinking about it he'll just walk right in--I'll show you how. [_Jumps up and runs out of the door._] Now, I'm St. Nicholas. [_Comes in again, speaking in a loud and pompous tone._] How do you do, little Miss Gretel,--how are you little--no, big Hans! [_Shakes hands with_ GRETEL _and with an imaginary_ HANS.] Well, Mother Madelon, have these children been very good indeed? MOTHER. Yes, good saint, I couldn't ask for two better, dearer children, or any that I love half so well. HANS [_in his own voice_]. Oh, Mother, do you truly think so? GRETEL. Then, Hans, if we've been good children, I 'most _know_ St. Nicholas will come. HANS [_dancing to look out of door_]. Oh, he will! He will! Mother, give me something to do so I won't keep thinking about it. GRETEL. Oh, Hans, let's have a story! HANS. Oh, yes, Mother, please tell us a story. MOTHER. Bring your little stools, then I will tell you a Christmas story. GRETEL [_coaxingly_]. Mother, don't you think it is too dark to spin? Let me sit in your lap. MOTHER. You funny little fairy! [_Takes her on her lap._ HANS _brings a stool and sits at his_ MOTHER'S _feet nursing his knee._] MOTHER. Once upon a time, many, many years ago, it happened that a little child was wandering all alone through the streets of a great busy town. It was Christmas Eve, and wherever the child looked he saw shining lights and hurrying happy people. His coat was all too thin, and his little feet and hands were bare and frostbitten. The sharp ice on the ground cut his feet as he walked, and the cold wind tossed his soft hair back from his forehead. But he hardly seemed to feel the cold, for everywhere he was watching the eager, happy faces that hastened by. He looked up into a window and saw a beautiful, wonderful tree, covered with little candles and glittering balls, and all about the tree were gathered merry, laughing children. It seemed as if those happy little ones would be glad to have another little boy amongst them, and the child went quietly up the steps and tapped at the door. But the tall man who opened it said crossly, "Go away. I can't let you in here." So the child went sorrowfully down the steps and wandered on again. As he went along the street many more houses were full of light and happiness, and wherever he saw the candle-covered Christmas trees with their cluster of gay child-faces, he tapped softly at the door, or looked wistfully in at the window. But everywhere the same answer was given him. "You must go on. We can't take you in." Some people looked sorry when they said this, but most of them hardly glanced at him at all before they shut the great doors to keep out the cold wind. At last he came to the very last house--a poor little cottage with just one window. But he could see the light streaming out of it, and wearily made his way to the door. In this little house was a Mother and two little children---- HANS. Just like us! MOTHER. And at one side of the room was a cradle---- GRETEL. But we haven't got any baby! MOTHER. When the little girl heard the soft tapping at the door she said: "Shall I open it, Mother?" And the mother said, "Yes, indeed, we mustn't let anyone stay out in the cold on the beautiful Christmas Eve." So the child opened the door and led in the little, shivering stranger. The mother took him on her lap and rubbed his frozen hands, and folded her warm arms about him. And the children begged him to stay with them always. Then the Mother told them the wonderful beautiful story of the first Christmas, and how the shining angels came to the poor shepherds in the field and sang "Glory to God in the Highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men." And how the shepherds went to find the dear baby in the manger, and the wise men were led by a glorious star to find Him, too. And while she was talking to them the room seemed filled with a strange, soft light that grew lovelier and brighter every moment, until the children, wondering, turned to their mother to ask what it meant. And then they saw that the Child was gone. But the mother said: "Children, I think we have had the real little Christ-Child with us to-night." And after that men used to say that the Christ-Child sometimes came again on Christmas Eve to wander from door to door asking for shelter and love. And sometimes men drive Him away, and He can find no place to rest. But in some homes He is given a glad and loving welcome. GRETEL. Oh, Mother, I wish, I _wish_ He would come here, to us! HANS [_looking to the window_]. But, Mother, it is all dark--there is no light in the window for Him! Mother, we've got a little piece of a candle. Mayn't I put it in the cup that's broken and light it? MOTHER. Yes, my little son. [HANS _jumps on the box and reaches a bit of candle from the mantel. Fastens it in the cup and lights it._ GRETEL _watching anxiously. Then together they put it in the window and sing "The Christ-Candle."_ [Music: THE CHRIST-CANDLE[5]] [Footnote 5: By permission of the Universalist Publishing House.] KATE L. BROWN. ELIZABETH U. EMERSON. 1. Little taper set to-night, Throw afar thy tiny light, Up and down the darksome street, Guide the tender wand'ring feet Of the darling Christ Child sweet. 2. He is coming through the snow As He came so long ago, When the stars set o'er the hill, When the town is dark and still, Comes to do the Father's will. 3. Little taper, spread thy ray Make His pathway light as day, Let some door be open wide For this guest of Christmas-tide, Dearer than all else beside. 4. Little Christ Child come to me, Let my heart Thy shelter be. Such a home Thou wilt not scorn, So the bells of Christmas morn Glad shall ring, "A Christ is born." NOTE: The air "Hearts and Flowers" can also be used for this song. GRETEL. Oh, do you think the little Christ-Child can see it now, Mother? MOTHER. Yes, my darling. He can. And whether He comes wandering through the snowy forests or not, He loves to know that little children think of Him and try to please Him. HANS. Gretel, I'm going out to see if the light shows outside. [_Goes out of the door and peers in at the window._ GRETEL _keeps the door open a crack to watch him._] HANS [_comes in and bends over the fire to warm his hands_]. It sparkles on the snow just the way the moonlight does, and it's ever so much brighter than the stars. Do you believe it is as bright as the star of Bethlehem? GRETEL. Oh no! It couldn't be like that! There was never another star that shone like _that_. HANS. Let me put another stick on the fire, Mother. If the little Christ-Child comes He will be so cold. [_Puts on one or two sticks._] GRETEL. Oh, Hans, I'm afraid He will be hungry, too. Let's toast a piece of our loaf for Him. HANS. Yes, let me toast it. GRETEL. And I'll cut it. [_Both clatter to the table, where_ GRETEL _cuts a piece of bread, and fastening it on a stick gives it to_ HANS, _who seats himself on a stool before the fire._ GRETEL _stands beside him._ FRIEDEL _appears at the window and leans his face against it, watching._] GRETEL. Oh, Hans, be careful, be careful, you're burning it! HANS. No, I'm not, but I'm toasting my face. GRETEL. Let me hold it awhile. [_They change places._ HANS _stands with hands on hips and feet apart watching her. The_ MOTHER _sees_ FRIEDEL _and rises, beckoning to him._ FRIEDEL _leaves the window, and goes to the door, where he taps softly._] GRETEL. Oh, Hans! He's come! He's come! [GRETEL _drops fork and both fly to the door, throwing it wide open, and standing back. An instant's pause, then_ FRIEDEL _looks from one to the other and stretches out his hands._] GRETEL [_shyly taking his hand_]. We--we--we were waiting for you. Come in. HANS. We're glad you've come. GRETEL. Mother. Mother, his hands are like ice. [_Leads him to the fire._ HANS _shuts the door and comes to watch. The_ MOTHER _comes forward._] MOTHER. Sit here, little one, and let me warm the poor cold hands. [_Seats_ FRIEDEL _on a stool close to the fire, and bending over him chafes his hands._ HANS _and_ GRETEL _draw away, casting furtive glances at him._] HANS. Do you believe it _is_ the Christ-Child, Gretel? GRETEL [_slowly_]. I--I don't know. HANS [_decidedly_]. I do. It _must_ be. We put the candle there for Him--and then He came. And you made toast for Him--where _is_ His toast, Gretel? GRETEL. Oh, Hans! I _dropped_ it when I went to the door! HANS [_hurries to pick it up_]. Never mind. It didn't hurt it a bit. GRETEL [_takes it and brushes it_]. He won't care. Mother's hearth isn't a bit dusty. [_Both go to_ FRIEDEL.] GRETEL [_timidly offering him the toast_]. Hans and I thought you would be hungry, and so we made you some toast. FRIEDEL. Oh, I am, I am. [_Takes a bite and turns to them._] I haven't had anything to eat since--since--Oh, I can't remember! When was it? [_Puts his hand to his head._] MOTHER [_drawing him gently to lean against her_]. There, never mind. Eat now. [GRETEL _and_ HANS _draw away again._ HANS. Are you _sure_ it is the Christ-Child, Gretel? GRETEL. I don't know. But I think--I think if it was, His face would be all shining. MOTHER. Where is your home, my son? And what is your name? Why were you wandering all alone this bitter night? FRIEDEL. I am Friedel. Just Friedel. Not anything else. And I haven't any home. I wish I had. A home is what I was looking for. I thought perhaps someone would take me in, and let me work to pay for keeping me. But nobody wants a boy, somehow, nobody. [_Drops his head in his hands._] MOTHER [_stroking his head_]. You shall never say that again, my son. While we have still our little hut, you shall live with us, and be an elder brother to my little ones. HANS. You hear that, Gretel? It isn't the Christ-Child, after all. [_Rubs his fists in his eyes._] GRETEL. Oh, but Hans, I believe the Christ-Child would like this almost as much. I mean He would like our putting the candle in the window, and making the toast and everything for this poor little boy, almost as much as if it was really for Him. Because it's His little boy, you know. [_The chimes begin._ HANS. Really and truly? GRETEL. Yes, I'm _sure_! Perhaps the Christ-Child sent him to us. Oh, Hans, listen! The chimes are beginning to ring. [_Both run to the window to listen. After a moment voices in the distance begin singing "Oh, Happy Night."_] [Music: OH, HAPPY NIGHT[6]] [Footnote 6: Courtesy of Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.] Music written for "Wide Awake" Words by M.E.B. By LOUIS C. ELSON. 1. Oh, happy night! that brings the morn To dawn above the Lord new-born, And bids the angels sing again Their message to the sons of men, We hail thee! We hail thee! 2. Oh, happy star! whose radiance sweet Did guide the wise men's eager feet, To seek the way unknown, untried, That led them to the manger's side, We hail thee! We hail thee! 3. Oh, happy manger! that hath known This precious burden as thine own, Beyond all gifts the world doth hold Of pomp and pow'r and gems and gold, We hail thee! We hail thee! 4. Oh, happy day! that gave to men The Babe Divine of Bethlehem, The King of Kings the undefiled In semblance of a little child, We hail thee! We hail thee! 5. Oh, happy Babe! whose wondrous eyes Still hold the light of Paradise, Look down in blessing from above While, Prince of Peace and Lord of Love, We hail thee! We hail thee! (Sung by a single voice, several joining in at "We hail thee!") GRETEL [_at the end of the first verse_]. Oh, Mother dear, do you hear the singing? [_Another verse is sung._ FRIEDEL [_wonderingly_]. What is it? Angels? [_At the end of the song_ FRITZ _and others are seen passing the window._ HANS _and_ GRETEL _rush to their_ MOTHER. GRETEL. Oh, Mother! He's coming! He's coming! HANS. Yes, he is! I saw him! MOTHER [_startled_]. Who is coming, my children? [_The door is flung open and the children rush in_, ST. NICHOLAS _standing at the door._ HANS _and_ GRETEL. St. Nicholas! St. Nicholas! ST. NICHOLAS. Yes, old St. Nicholas again. Mother Madelon, may I come in? MOTHER. May you come in? Ask the little ones here! [HANS _and_ GRETEL _run to draw him in._ FRITZ. You see, Mother Madelon, our Heinrich heard you say the good saint couldn't find you this year---- BARBARA. So we hurried right home---- HEINRICH. And as soon as he came we told him about you---- FRITZ. And begged him to let us show him the way! JAN. And of course, he came! KARL _and_ OSCAR. Yes, of course! MOTHER. It was very thoughtful of you, little friends. HANS _and_ GRETEL. Thank you, thank you all so much! GRETEL. Oh, good saint, we were _so_ afraid you wouldn't come. HANS. Mother _said_ you couldn't find us. ST. NICHOLAS. And I doubt if I could have found you, if it hadn't been for that little gleaming candle that you put in the window to light my way. GRETEL [_holding his hand_]. Oh, but, St. Nicholas, we ought to tell you that we didn't put the candle there for you. KATRINA. Why, who was it for? GRETEL [_softly_]. It was for the Christ-Child. We thought perhaps He would be out in the snow and cold--and we were so warm and happy! ST. NICHOLAS. Let me tell you, little Gretel, though the Christ-Child did not come, it is just as true that He sent me to you as it is that I was led here by the clear shining of the Christ-Candle. CURTAIN NOTES ON COSTUME AND SETTING The parts of the Mother and St. Nicholas should be played by adults: other adult parts taken by young people sixteen to eighteen. MOTHER MADELON. Plain dark dress, white kerchief, white peasant's cap. HANS. (Eight years old.) White shirt, bright-colored vest, full blue trousers, red stockings. Toboggan cap. GRETEL. (Six years.) Full white waist, black bodice, red skirt, or dark skirt and red stockings. White peasant's cap. Both children may wear wooden shoes. FRIEDEL. (Boy of nine.) Very ragged coat and trousers. Bare feet. No hat. (Should be a thin little fellow whose appearance may give the touch of pathos.) OLD MARTA. (May be taken by a boy, if preferred.) Poorly dressed, in old shawl and hood, carrying a bundle of fagots. Face deeply wrinkled and lined, with an ill-tempered expression. RICH JOHANN. Velvet coat, flowered vest, full knee-breeches, shoes with silver buckles. Broad-brimmed felt hat. Silver-headed cane. Is very pompous. CROSS JACOB. Rough farm clothes, heavy boots. WOODCUTTER. Fur cap, warm gloves, high boots. Carries an ax. Is young, wholesome, rosy with work, and happy. STAR CHILD. (Child of seven or eight, who can sing.) White gown, hanging straight from neck to ground, with flowing sleeves. Carries a gold wand with a star on the end, and wears a star on the forehead. If taken by a boy, he should wear a short white sleeveless tunic, white stockings, and sandals. FRITZ and his sisters and brothers, children from twelve years down to six, are dressed in ordinary outdoor winter costumes, with as much as possible of bright color about them. ST. NICHOLAS differs somewhat from the accepted idea of Santa Claus, being dignified, benign, and kindly, rather than lively and jolly. Costume about the same,--long coat, high boots, fur cap, flowing white beard. NOTE FOR SNOW SCENE. If not feasible to have a winter scene for the back drop, cover the back wall with white, and fasten drooping branches of evergreen at sides, to suggest the limbs of trees just out of sight. The wings may be treated in the same way,--or screens, if given in home or schoolroom. Cover the floor with white, piling with cushions beneath in some places to give an irregular surface, and to make the bank (R. Center), where Friedel lies down. Four or five evergreen trees will make an effective forest, and if quite small, they should be raised to different heights, and banked about with white. Leave opening between them (Back Center), in which the Star Child should appear, coming and going very silently and slowly. Cotton snow upon the little trees and "diamond-dust" over all, help to make this a very pretty scene. For chimes, play the music of the carol "Oh, Happy Night" on a xylophone, behind the scenes. TOINETTE AND THE ELVES IN TWO ACTS CHARACTERS MOTHER. TOINETTE, girl of twelve or fourteen. MARIE, girl of eleven. JEANNETTE, little girl of five or six. PIERRE } MARC } Boys of ten or eleven. The Elves: HOLLYBERRY } MISTLETOE } EVERGREEN } Little boys of five or six. ICICLE } [Illustration: HOLLYBERRY] TOINETTE AND THE ELVES From the story by Susan Coolidge, _St. Nicholas_ for January, 1876. ACT I TIME: _Christmas Eve._ SCENE: _The kitchen of a peasant cottage. Open fireplace[7] (R.) with large pot, hung from a crane, or standing directly upon the logs. On the shelf above, small bowls and spoons. Beside fireplace, a narrow exit leading to_ TOINETTE'S _room: opposite, door to other rooms. Outside door, R. Back. L. window. Down stage L. a low table with small chairs, where the children sit for their supper, used later by the Elves. Before the fire, a large old-fashioned wooden rocker._ [Footnote 7: See note on Fireplace, p. 313.] MOTHER _bends over sewing, near window, from time to time glancing at_ TOINETTE, _who sits dreamily gazing into the fire._ MOTHER. Toinette! [TOINETTE, _absorbed in thought, apparently hears nothing._] Toinette! Bless the child, is she asleep? Toinette! TOINETTE [_absently_]. Yes, Mother. MOTHER. Come, Toinette, it is time to brush the hearth and set the kettle on to boil. TOINETTE [_without moving_]. Yes'm, in a minute. MOTHER [_sharply_]. Toinette, the dusk is coming. It is nearly supper-time, and the candle must be lit. Come, brush the floor quickly, child. TOINETTE [_flinging impatiently out of her chair_]. I hate to work! [_Sweeps slowly and absently, stopping to lean on her broom. Enter_ MARIE _and_ JEANNETTE, _with sewing and book, and sit down on low chairs._] MARIE. Toinette, will you show me how to fasten this off? TOINETTE [_who has been leaning on her broom, begins suddenly to sweep_]. No, I won't. I'm busy sweeping. MARIE. Oh, I didn't know you were busy. TOINETTE. What are your eyes for? Don't you see me sweeping? MARIE. Well, you were standing still, and I just thought---- TOINETTE [_sweeping furiously_]. You're always "just thinking" things. JEANNETTE. I'm hungry, Mother. MOTHER. Are you, dear? TOINETTE [_crossly, leaning on her broom_]. She's always hungry. I never saw such a little pig. MARIE [_putting her arms indignantly around_ JEANNETTE]. No, she isn't at all. You're very unkind, Toinette. MOTHER. Hush, children. Don't quarrel. [_Shakes her head sadly and looks perplexed._] [_Enter_ PIERRE _and_ MARC, _the latter with knife and bits of wood._ MARC _sits down against the fireplace, whittling._ PIERRE _lies at full length before the fire._ JEANNETTE. Will you tell us a story, Toinette? MARIE [_gently_]. Sh, dear, Toinette's busy, but I wish she would. She can tell such lovely fairy stories when she likes to. And this is Christmas Eve, Jeannette. Perhaps the fairies are out, looking for good children. Fairies are always helping St. Nicholas; Toinette says so. I wish she would get done sweeping. JEANNETTE. When you get done, can't you tell just one story, Toinette? TOINETTE. Oh, it's so hard to keep thinking up stories all the time. There now, Marc, you horrid boy, just see how you've scattered chips all over my clean floor. And, Pierre, your old shoes are just as dirty as they can be. What's the use of my sweeping, Mother, when the boys are so careless? MOTHER. Try to remember to brush your shoes next time, Pierre. And, Marc, it's better not to bring the whittling into the house. TOINETTE. I should think as much. PIERRE [_getting up_]. I'm sorry I forgot, Mother. Come along, Marc, we'll go out in the woodshed. MARC [_giving the chips a brush towards the fireplace with his cap and then following_ PIERRE]. It's pretty cold in the woodshed. [_Looking resentfully at_ TOINETTE.] I'd rather be cold than get scolded all the time. [_Exeunt boys._] MOTHER [_rises, lights candle, puts saucepan over the fire_]. Now, Toinette, I have other work to do. Finish brushing up [TOINETTE _puts down broom_], and set the table. The porridge is over the fire and will be done soon. If you would put your mind on it, daughter, and work quickly, you would get done quickly, and the work would not seem so hard. [_Exit._] TOINETTE [_seizes a tablecloth and approaches the table_]. Work quickly! Marie, how ever can I set the table with you and Jeannette in the way, I'd like to know? MARIE. We'll go in Mother's room, Toinette. [_Takes_ JEANNETTE _by the hand. Exeunt._] TOINETTE [_covering table and slapping bowls and spoons pettishly down upon it_]. Work quickly! Don't I work and work all the time? And I'm never done. The work seems hard because it _is_ hard, that's why. Oh, if we weren't so poor, and didn't have to work so hard! [_Relaxes her efforts and stands before the fire, dish in hand._] And if we could have beautiful Christmas presents to-morrow, instead of just--anything. [_A very gentle knock at the door._] Oh, what was that? [_Opens._] The boys must be playing tricks on me. [_Knocks again._] Surely, there is someone there. [_Opens door and steps outside._ HOLLYBERRY _slips in behind her and hides behind the door. Re-enter_ TOINETTE.] It must be the fairies, I think. [_Stands looking out._] This is Christmas Eve and of course it's the right time for good fairies to be about. How I wish I could see one! HOLLYBERRY. Do you, Toinette? Just open your eyes and you will, then. TOINETTE [_jumping, rubs her eyes and looks about_]. Where? Oh, where? [HOLLYBERRY _comes from behind the door and makes a low bow._ TOINETTE [_clasping her hands with delight_]. Oh, are you really a fairy? HOLLYBERRY [_hands on hips_]. Yes, I think I'm a pretty real sort of a fairy. We elves have heard you talking about us and you always tell what's true, so we like you. TOINETTE. Oh, I'm so glad, because I _love_ fairies. The children do too, and they are always teasing me to tell them fairy tales. HOLLYBERRY. I am the leader of the band of elves. My name is Hollyberry, and I've come with a message to you. I told you the elves and fairies all like you. So we are going to give you a Christmas present. TOINETTE. Oh, oh! how kind you are. HOLLYBERRY [_arms folded, nodding his head_]. Yes, we are. Very kind. But people don't always think so. Toinette, how would you like to be invisible? TOINETTE. Invisible? Oh, do you mean to go around wherever I like without being seen? Oh, what fun! HOLLYBERRY. That's exactly what I mean. _We_ can do it, at any time, because we know how. But mortals like you can only do it on Christmas Eve, and then only when we help them. TOINETTE. Do you mean you are going to show me how? HOLLYBERRY. That's it. There are two things you must do. First you must put fern seed in your shoes. TOINETTE. Fern seed? Why, I didn't even know ferns had seeds. I never saw any. HOLLYBERRY. Of course not. The elves take very good care of that. TOINETTE. Where shall I get any? HOLLYBERRY. I'll attend to that. The second thing is to put on the Cloak of Darkness. TOINETTE. The Cloak of Darkness! What is that? HOLLYBERRY. Don't be impatient, Toinette. [_Waves his holly wand and snaps his fingers above his head. The door opens and the other elves enter, carrying between them the gray cloak and a tiny bag._] ELVES [_kneeling before_ TOINETTE _and presenting bag and cloak_]. Hail, Toinette! HOLLYBERRY [_touching the kneeling elves as he names them_]. Evergreen and Mistletoe, present the magic Cloak of Darkness. Icicle, yield the fairy fern seed. Now, Toinette, put a pinch of fern seed in each shoe, wrap the cloak around you, and _then_,--well, nobody but an elf can find you. MISTLETOE. The charm is only for to-night. HOLLYBERRY. And if you get tired of it before bedtime---- EVERGREEN. Take off the cloak---- ICICLE. And empty your shoes---- HOLLYBERRY. And, presto! Toinette is herself again. Now, farewell. [_All bow low and go to door._] ICICLE. Good-by. MISTLETOE. We'll take care of the cloak when you're done with it. EVERGREEN. We hope you'll like our Christmas present. [_Exeunt elves, laughing mischievously._ TOINETTE [_looking after them_]. What cunning little fellows! Oh, what fun. [_Examines cloak._] I'll put it on right away. [_Exit (R.)._] [_Enter_ MOTHER _(L.), going at once to the fire._ MOTHER. Why, where is Toinette? The porridge is almost boiling over. Come, children,--Marie, Jeannette, boys. Supper is ready. [_Enter children and take their places at table._ MOTHER _fills bowls from saucepan while they talk._ MOTHER [_calls_]. Toinette, come to supper, daughter. [_Enter_ TOINETTE _in cloak. All are unconscious of her presence._ MOTHER [_giving bread to children, who eat hungrily_]. Where can Toinette be? Boys, have you seen her? MARC. No, Mother, she lets us alone when we keep out of her way. MOTHER. For shame, Marc. Pierre, go call her,--she may be in her room. [PIERRE _crosses the room, almost bumping into_ TOINETTE, _who stands in the way._] PIERRE [_at door_]. Toinette! Toinette! We're at supper. [_A moment's silence._ TOINETTE _giggles._] She isn't here, Mother. MARIE. I'm sure I heard her laughing. MOTHER. Listen. [TOINETTE _covers her mouth to stifle a laugh._ PIERRE _sits down again and eats._] TOINETTE [_aside_]. This is such fun. But I'm hungry,--how am I going to get anything to eat? [_Goes close to the table and, watching her chance, slips_ MARC'S _bread off the table and eats._] MARC. Where's my bread? You took it, Pierre. PIERRE. I did not. Here's my own. MARIE. You must have dropped it on the floor. MARC [_looking under chair_]. No, I didn't. MARIE. Well, you ate it, then. MARC. I never. [TOINETTE _laughs silently._] MOTHER. Here's another piece. Never mind where that is gone. I only wish Toinette had it. [TOINETTE _nearly chokes._] The child must have gone out. I will go to the gate and look down the road. [_Exit._] JEANNETTE. Poor Toinette's all gone. MARC. Perhaps a bear has eaten her up. PIERRE. If he has, I mean to ask Mother if I can't have her room. MARIE. Marc, don't talk so, you'll frighten Jeannette. MARC. Well, perhaps it's true. MARIE. Well, you know you'd be sorry if it was. PIERRE. I wouldn't be very sorry. MARIE [_horrified_]. Oh, you bad boy. PIERRE. Well, of course I don't want her to be _hurt_. MARC. But we wouldn't care much if she didn't come back. MARIE. Boys, how can you be so naughty? PIERRE. But, Marie, Toinette never does a thing but scold us when she's around. MARIE. She tells us _beautiful_ fairy stories sometimes. MARC. That's just it--"sometimes." You don't catch her doing it unless she wants to. PIERRE. And she's just a regular old spoil-sport. MARC. Oh, bother about Toinette. She'll come back a good deal sooner than we want her. Can't you talk about anything else? MARIE [_doubtfully_]. Well, it is pleasanter when she isn't here, I know. PIERRE. Of course it is. MARIE. But I hope she's having a good time somewhere else. [_Throughout this conversation_ TOINETTE _listens, horrified at first, then angry, then distressed; at one moment about to exclaim, then starting forward to strike one of the boys, and at last covering her face with her hands and crying. Enter_ MOTHER. MOTHER [_anxiously_]. Not a trace can I see of her. Children, have you eaten your porridge? Marie, take Jeannette to bed. [_Exeunt_ MARIE _and_ JEANNETTE.] Boys, go out and cut some wood for our Christmas fire. [_Exeunt boys._] There will be no Christmas in this house unless Toinette comes back soon. [_Sits down in the rocker to warm herself._] Dear, dear, she is a good girl, and a clever girl, but she is a sore puzzle to me. What can make her so thoughtless and careless and full of discontent? Why, even little Marie is a greater help to me than she is. [_Exit_ TOINETTE _in great distress._ MOTHER _sits in silence. Enter_ TOINETTE _without cloak, throwing herself on her knees at her mother's feet._ TOINETTE. Oh, Mother, Mother! [_Buries her face in her mother's lap._] MOTHER [_trying to raise her_]. Toinette, my child! Where have you been all this time? TOINETTE [_with great excitement, half crying_]. Oh, I've been here--right here--all the time, only you couldn't see me. MOTHER. Toinette! TOINETTE. Yes, Mother, it's all true. I'll tell you. A fairy came and lent me the Cloak of Darkness--and--and--I thought it would be such fun, but it was horrid. And then the children--they said such cruel things. Mother, don't they love me at all? MOTHER. Mercy, mercy, what is all this about? Fairies--cloak of darkness--the child must have a fever. [_Feels_ TOINETTE'S _forehead and takes her hand as if to count her pulse._] TOINETTE. No, no! I'm not sick at all. But, Mother, don't you love me? MOTHER [_puts her arm about_ TOINETTE]. Love you, my child? Mother _always_ loves you. TOINETTE. But you said I didn't help you. Oh, I wish the fairy had never given me the cloak. MOTHER. Fairies again! [_Anxiously._] I must put the child to bed at once. Stay by the fire, Toinette. I will get your bed ready. [_Rises, leaving_ TOINETTE _seated on the floor by chair. Exit_ MOTHER.] TOINETTE [_slowly_]. Mother thinks I dreamed it--or that I'm sick. But I'm not. It's all true, it's all true. [_Covers her face with her hands._] How could the children be so unkind?... But perhaps I'm not always kind to the children. The boys are so provoking--but then I needn't scold them even if they are. And Marie must care a little, for she hoped I was happy somewhere. Happy! How can I be happy? [_Gazes at the fire._] Perhaps if I began now, and tried and tried every day, I could be kinder--to the children--and then they would love me more--and I could try to help Mother--and then she needn't be so tired all the time---- And surely, then I would be happy. [_Brightly, facing audience, hands clasped on one knee._] Yes, that's just what I'll do. And now, perhaps I can help Mother this very minute---- I'll take the candle up to her. [_Jumps up, takes candle from table, pauses in center of the stage._] It is Christmas--I do think that if I begin to-morrow to try to be kind, I will surely succeed. Because Christmas is the very best and happiest day in all the whole year. It was on Christmas Day the angels first sang about Peace on earth, good will to men. CURTAIN ACT II TIME: _One year later. Christmas Eve._ SCENE: _Curtain rises showing_ TOINETTE _and_ MARIE _seated, sewing_; JEANNETTE _sits upon the floor, leaning against_ TOINETTE'S _knee_; MARC _leans over the back of her chair_; PIERRE _sits in the big chair rocking and looking on. All are singing a Christmas carol. Enter_ MOTHER, _pausing a moment in doorway to watch and smile at the group._ MOTHER. Come, chickabiddies, it is time to stop work. MARIE [_going to_ MOTHER]. Oh, Mother, must we stop now? Toinette was just going to tell us the Christmas story about the Shepherds and the Star in the East. MOTHER. It is supper-time now, and Toinette must set the table. [_Exit._] PIERRE. And after supper comes bedtime. Oh, dear. TOINETTE [_cheerfully folding her work_]. Never mind, Pierre, I'll tell it to you to-morrow. MARC. That'll be Christmas day, Toinette. I wish you could tell it on Christmas Eve. TOINETTE. Oh, I think I can tell it better on Christmas day, Marc. Now we all have something to do,--let's get to work. Who will fetch water for me to-night? MARC _and_ PIERRE [_springing for the pitcher_]. I will, I will. MARC. It's my turn, Pierre. PIERRE. No, you nearly always get water for Toinette. I'm going to. TOINETTE. Let Pierre get the water, Marc, and you go and cut the wood. MARC _and_ PIERRE. All right, Toinette. [_Exeunt._] MARIE. What can we do for you, Toinette, dear? TOINETTE. Nothing just now, I think. [TOINETTE _is spreading the cloth and setting the bowls and spoons._] JEANNETTE. But _we_ want to help, too, dear Toinette. [_Clings to her skirt._] TOINETTE. I'll tell you what. I'd rather send my two little helpers in to see what they can do for poor busy Mother. She needs them more than I do. [_Exit_ JEANNETTE.] MARIE [_following_]. Won't that be helping you too, Toinette? TOINETTE. Yes, dear. [_Exit_ MARIE.] How good the children are to-night! I do think they are the best brothers and sisters a girl ever had. [_Lighting the candle._] And I think they love me more than they ever used to. Oh, I'm so glad! [_Tap at the door._] There is someone knocking. [_Goes to the door._] HOLLYBERRY [_bowing low_]. How do you do, Toinette? A Merry Christmas to you. TOINETTE. Oh, how wonderful. It's Hollyberry again, and I was just thinking about you. Won't you come in? HOLLYBERRY. Just for a moment. [_Enter_ HOLLYBERRY. TOINETTE _closes the door._] I've brought you a Christmas present, Toinette. [_Holds out cloak and fern-seed bag._] TOINETTE [_retreating, hands behind her_]. Oh, no, no, no! I know what those are, and I don't want them. Oh! Hollyberry, they made me so unhappy last year. HOLLYBERRY. You didn't like the elves' gift, then? TOINETTE. Oh, it was horrid--I _hated_ it. HOLLYBERRY [_severely_]. Do you call that being grateful? TOINETTE [_confused_]. Oh, no--I mean, yes--that is, it was very kind of you--but I didn't like it. Oh, dear! HOLLYBERRY [_kindly_]. Never mind, Toinette, I'm only teasing you now. And I advise you to take the fern seed. You will like it better this year, I'm sure. TOINETTE [_anxiously_]. Truly? HOLLYBERRY. Truly. [TOINETTE _takes bag and cloak._] And if you like it we are going to ask a favor of you. We want you to make us some fern-seed broth. TOINETTE. Fern-seed broth? HOLLYBERRY. Yes, elves are very fond of it, but they don't get any very often, because it has to be made over a fire, and you see we're afraid of fire. We're so little and light, we might be blown in and burned up. TOINETTE. But how shall I make it? HOLLYBERRY. It's very easy. We'll show you how. And now, good-by. We'll come in by and by when the children are in bed. [_Exit with a bow._] TOINETTE [_looking gravely at cloak and bag_]. Oh, do I dare use them? I have tried to be kinder--I know the children love me more---- Yes, I will. [_Runs out. Boys singing carol in the distance. Enter boys singing, with pitcher and wood. Enter_ MOTHER, MARIE, _and_ JEANNETTE.] MOTHER. Why, the supper is all ready, but where is that busy bee of ours, Toinette? [_Goes to door as if to call._] PIERRE [_catches her arm_]. Oh, Mother, wait a moment; don't call her yet! You know we've made her some Christmas gifts, and we want to put them on her plate and surprise her. MOTHER. Run and get them. MARC [_under his breath_]. Hurry, quick, everybody. [_Exit children in haste._ MOTHER _takes saucepan from fire and fills bowls. Enter children singing carol, each bearing a homemade gift. They place the presents about_ TOINETTE'S _place, and all take their places at the table, sitting with folded hands until hymn is ended. During the singing_ TOINETTE _enters, dressed in cloak, and stands near door (R.), her hands clasped in pleasure at the sight._ MARC [_looking towards the door_]. Oh, I wish Toinette would hurry. MARIE. Won't she be surprised? PIERRE. And won't she _look_ jolly surprised, too? I love to see Toinette when she's surprised. Her eyes get so big and shiny, and she just stares. MARC. Andrew, the blacksmith's son, thinks his sister is prettier than our Toinette, but _I_ don't. PIERRE [_in great scorn_]. Aw! I should think not. Our Toinette is just the prettiest girl in the village. MARIE. And the very nicest, too! MOTHER [_smiling_]. And Toinette is Mother's right hand. We all love Toinette! Don't we? TOINETTE [_softly_]. Oh, the dear little things! I can't wait a minute longer. [_Exit quickly._] CHILDREN [_calling_]. Toinette! Toinette! [_Enter_ TOINETTE _without cloak. Shows great surprise._] CHILDREN. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Toinette! TOINETTE. Oh, oh! what do I see? [_Sits down in her place._] Oh, did you make these lovely things, children? PIERRE. Yes, mademoiselle, we did! MARC. Every one of them. MARIE. Nobody helped us. JEANNETTE. All for you, Toinette, all for you! [_Leaves her chair and throws her arms around_ TOINETTE.] TOINETTE [_kissing her_]. Oh, thank you, thank you! How _beautifully_ these are made. [_Looks them over one at a time._] How good everyone is. I'm so happy I don't know what to do. PIERRE. And to-morrow's Christmas! Hurrah! MOTHER. Yes, dear, but if you don't go to bed and to sleep, Christmas won't come. [_Takes_ JEANNETTE _by the hand._] We will leave you to finish, Toinette. CHILDREN. Good-night, Toinette! TOINETTE. Good-night, everyone! [MARIE _and_ JEANNETTE _throw their arms about_ TOINETTE.] MARIE. Good-night again, dear Toinette! [_Exeunt all but_ TOINETTE, _who clears the table, shakes off crumbs, and sets fresh bowls and spoons. The children are heard singing carol. When all is ready and the song is done_, TOINETTE _goes to outer door and looks out. After a moment the elves rush in._] ELVES. Here we are, Toinette, here we are! HOLLYBERRY. Now let's proceed to business. Where is the saucepan, Toinette! Icicle, give me the honey-dew; Mistletoe, you have the fern seed. [TOINETTE _produces the saucepan and the elves crowd around her and hand her the articles named. The honey-dew is supposed to be in a jar--or pitcher--or anything curious or unusual in appearance; the fern seed in a quaint box._ HOLLYBERRY. Now, Evergreen, give me the holly stick she must stir it with. [TOINETTE _puts it on the fire, the elves watching with great interest._ HOLLYBERRY. It's very simple, but it must be made with great care. MISTLETOE. You must always stir it the same way! EVERGREEN. Or else it will curdle. ICICLE. And you must _never_ let it scorch! [TOINETTE _bends over fire, stirring broth. A very gay waltz in very quick time is played softly outside, and the four elves dance and tumble about, coming up one at a time to peep over_ TOINETTE'S _shoulder. They show great fear of the fire, however._ TOINETTE. Now, little Elves, the feast is ready! ELVES. Oh, joy! Oh, joy! [_All seat themselves at table_, TOINETTE _pours out broth, and they eat. Music continues_, TOINETTE _refills bowls, and elves drink from them, tipping their heads far back and making grotesque motions. Music grows fainter. Elves rise and bow to_ TOINETTE.] ELVES. Thank you, Toinette! Thank you! EVERGREEN. We've had a merry feast. MISTLETOE. And fairies are never ungrateful. ICICLE. When you need us, you'll find us ready. [EVERGREEN, MISTLETOE, _and_ ICICLE _go outside and stand about door._ HOLLYBERRY _remains within._ TOINETTE. But I haven't thanked you at all! HOLLYBERRY. No need of that, Toinette. [_He brushes door-post with his holly wand._] Be lucky, house! We are the luck-bringers, and we have feasted here! [_Touches_ TOINETTE _on the head and hands._] Be lucky, Toinette! Good temper, and kindness, and unselfishness are the very best good luck, after all. Now, good-by! ELVES. Good-by, good-by! Merry Christmas to all! [_Exeunt._ TOINETTE _closes the door and goes slowly to hearth, where she sits down on floor, resting her arm on a chair and her head on her hand._ TOINETTE [_softly_]. The fairies have been here, and they have taught me a lesson.... After all, it isn't the fairies who make the children love me, or me love the children.... I think--yes, I'm sure--that it is Christmas that makes us all love each other! [_Her head drops, and she falls asleep. The children's voices are heard, singing, very softly and distinctly, the last verse of the carol_: "Thank God on Christmas morning! Thank God, O children dear." CURTAIN NOTES ON COSTUME AND SETTING The children are dressed in peasant costumes, the girls in bright skirts and stockings, white guimpes, black velvet bodices, and Normandy caps; the boys in full trousers, bright stockings, vests of green or blue, fastening in the back, white shirts with full sleeves, and toboggan caps. Toinette wears shoes with buckles; the others may wear the same, or sabots. MOTHER. Plain dark dress, with full skirt; kerchief on her shoulders, and a white cap. The magic "Cloak of Darkness" brought by the Elves for Toinette, is a long cape, with hood attached, made of light gray canton flannel. The Fern-seed Bag may be made of a bit of the same material, or of the colors of Hollyberry's costume. The Elves wear harlequin costumes in two shades of the same color, with tall pointed hoods, and long shoes with toes turned up. Gilt bells on all points of collar, jacket, and hood. See illustration. Sateen is perhaps the best material for these little suits, as it comes in a great variety of rich shades, but cheaper goods may be found. HOLLYBERRY. Dark red and scarlet. He carries a holly branch in lieu of a wand. MISTLETOE. Brown and yellow. In Act II he carries an odd box supposed to be full of fern seed. EVERGREEN. Dark and light green. In Act II he produces the holly stick for stirring the broth. ICICLE. Dark and light blue. In Act II he carries a small jar or pitcher,--something curious or unusual in appearance,--which is supposed to contain the honey-dew. Instead of the gilt bells, the points of these suits may be trimmed with bits of holly, mistletoe, evergreen, and glass icicles, as indicated by the names. In setting the stage, it is effective to make small windows, with diamond-shaped panes, and white sash-curtains, placing small pots of scarlet geraniums on the sills. The song is "Good News on Christmas Morning," from _St. Nicholas Songs_ (Century Company). Where music is indicated through the play, any part of the carol is sung, except the last verse, which is used only once, just before the last curtain. For the Elves' dance, the Pizzicato from the ballet "Sylvia" by Delibes, Dvorak's "Humoresque," or a waltz, very lightly played, may be used. TOM'S PLAN IN TWO ACTS CHARACTERS FATHER WRIGHT. MOTHER WRIGHT. PHIL } DAISY } CHARLIE } The little Wrights. TOM } DOT } SARAH, the nurse. SANTA CLAUS. TOM'S PLAN ACT I TIME: _Christmas Eve._ SCENE: _Nursery or sitting-room, children sitting about, each working upon a Christmas gift. Nurse at one side with her work-basket. All singing a Christmas carol._[8] [Footnote 8: See note on Carols, p. 315.] DAISY. I just can't believe that to-morrow really will be Christmas!... What do you think of that for a book-mark? [_Holds it up._] Don't you suppose Papa will be pleased? PHIL [_driving a last nail into a bootjack_]. Papa says he can't get his new boots off. If he can't do it now, with this, I'm sure he never will be able to. Isn't that fine? SARAH. Sure, Master Phil, he'll be wantin' a new house to kape that big thing in! DAISY. Now, Sarah, you mustn't say that! You know Papa always likes the things we make for him. DOT [_crossing to_ SARAH]. Sarah, please fasten my thread.... Now, my spectacle-wiper is done. Oh, boys, don't you wish it was to-morrow morning! TOM. You bet! I'm going to do Papa's knife up in a great big bundle, so he'll think it's a pair of slippers or a book, anyway, and see how surprised he'll be. CHARLIE [_clapping his hands_]. What fun! Say, Tom, don't you wish we could _see_ Santa Claus? PHIL. Let's try and stay awake all night. DOT. No! you bad boys! Santa Claus doesn't like to have children see him when he comes to put things in the stockings. DAISY. No, of course he doesn't. And, besides, Mamma has a better way. She told me to ask you all whether you would rather hang your stockings this year, or get Santa Claus to come and bring us a tree. CHARLIE. Oh, jolly! But how is Santa Claus going to know in time? PHIL. That's what I'd like to know. DAISY. I asked Papa that, and he said, Oh, he guessed he could telegraph. TOM. Then do let's have him come here! CHILDREN. Oh, yes, let's! DOT. I want to thank him for my dolly's bed that he brought last year. DAISY. Well, I'll go tell Mamma. [_Exit._] SARAH. Ye'd all better come down and wrap up yer things now. PHIL. All right. Come along. [_Exeunt all but_ TOM.] TOM. I'll be along in a minute. [_Looks up chimney._] I'm so glad Santa Claus is coming this year. [_Crosses to front of stage and sits astride a small chair with its back to audience._] There are so many things I want to know about him. I'm just going to count. [_Checks off on his fingers._] First, I want to know where he lives. Daisy says he lives at the North Pole, and she's got a picture of his house, with icicles and snow all over it. But then he always brings us oranges and bananas and nuts and figs, and I know _they_ don't grow at the North Pole. I wish I could find out. Next, what he feeds the reindeer on. Next, how he ever gets all the things into the sleigh. How fast the reindeer can go. And whether they ever get balky. He'd be late all the time if they did. Horses do, but perhaps reindeer are different. But the one thing I'd rather know than all the others put together, is just this: Sarah _said_, the other day when I took a bite out of one of her hot pies, that Santa Claus [_very slowly and impressively_] would put a whip in my stocking! Now I wonder if he would do that? [_Thinks awhile, then shakes his head._] No, no! I don't believe he would. He's always smiling in his pictures, and he looks so jolly. And then, if anybody wanted to spend all his time giving presents, like Santa Claus, I don't believe he would ever put ashes or whips in anybody's stocking, just because he forgot the pie was for company.... Oh, dear! I wish I did know. [_Jumps up suddenly, puts one knee on the chair, and holds on to the back with both hands._] Oh! Oh! I've got such a splendid plan! It'll be easy enough to find out, after all. I don't really want anything for Christmas this year ... 'cept maybe a sled, and ... well, I guess Phil will let me coast on his sled. Now, I'm going to be just as cross, _as cross as a bear_, to-night and _see_ if Santa Claus will give me a whip. I don't care--I know he won't! Anyway, Mamma never lets anybody whip me--only Papa--and if Santa Claus wants me whipped he'll have to give the whip to Papa. There! I hear somebody coming. I'm just going to begin right off. CHARLIE [_calling, without_]. Tom, Tom! Aren't you coming to wrap up your things? TOM [_very crossly_]. No! CHARLIE [_much surprised_]. _Why_ not? TOM. Don't want to. [_Chuckles._] He sounded rather surprised. I guess they won't know what to make of it. It'll be such fun! [_Sits astride chair again._] Here comes somebody else. I won't look around. [_Puts his head down on his arms. Enter_ DOT.] DOT. Tom! TOM. What do you want? DOT [_timidly_]. What's the matter, Tom? TOM. Ain't nothing the matter. DOT [_aside_]. Oh, dear! Tom, do you want me to wrap up the knife for you? TOM. Can if you want to. Here. [_Takes it from his pocket and hands it to her without looking up._] DOT [_aside_]. What can be the matter? We can't any of us be happy if Tom isn't. [_Exit, putting her handkerchief to her eyes._] TOM [_looking after her_]. 'Tisn't so much fun as I thought. [_Puts his head down. Enter_ SARAH.] SARAH [_hands on hips, looking at_ TOM]. Well, what 'ud be the trouble here? [_Goes about, putting things to rights. Dusts chair, giving_ TOM _a brush._] TOM [_hits out at her_]. Go 'way! SARAH. Oh, is that yerself? TOM. Yes, it's meself. SARAH. Well, what's the matter wid yerself? TOM. Never you mind what! [_The other children run in._] DAISY. Oh, Sarah, Sarah, give us our coats, quick! Papa says he'll take us along Fourth Street, to see the shop windows lighted up! CHARLIE. Do hurry, Sarah! DAISY. I can't find my mittens! DOT [_softly, nudging_ PHIL]. Phil, tell Tom to come. PHIL. Come along, Tom, and be quick! TOM. Won't. PHIL. You _won't_? CHARLIE. Why not? TOM. Don't want to. CHARLIE. Well, then, don't! Come on, Dot! [_Takes her by the arm, and leads her out._ PHIL _and_ DAISY _look at_ TOM.] DAISY. Please come, Tom. TOM. I tell you I won't. DAISY. We'll have such fun. TOM. Well, you can have it for all me. PHIL. See here, Tom, don't be a donkey! Come along! [_Takes him by the arm._] TOM [_shakes him off_]. Get out! DAISY. Well, I suppose we'll have to go without him. Papa is waiting. [_They start._] Phil, what is the matter with Tom? PHIL. I don't know. Dot said he was cross---- [_Exeunt._ SARAH. Ye'd betther remember what I was a-tellin' ye, Master Tom. Ye gettin' ready for the stick? TOM. You be still and clear out, Sarah! SARAH. Oh, I'm a-goin'--I'm a-goin'! Shall I tell Santa Claus to make it out of rattan, Master Tom? TOM. Go on out, I say! [_Chases her out._] Well, it's some fun to be cross to Sarah, but I really don't like to be cross to Dot and the others. Oh, dear! I wish I didn't have to. [_Sees_ SARAH'S _dust-cloth, which he rolls into a wad and tucks into a cap lying on one of the chairs._] He-he! that'll fix her. Now she can't find it. [_Enter_ SARAH. TOM _sits down by the fire, holding his knee._] What do you want? SARAH. Oh, my clearin'-up's not done yet! I declare, if I've redd up this room once, I've done it forty times this day. [_Straightens things, then looks for her duster._ TOM _watches slyly._] Did I take that cloth downstairs wid me? Sure, I know I didn't. Where did I put it, then? 'Tain't here annywheres. Maybe that little squirrel hid it. Seen my duster, Tom? TOM. No, I don't see your duster. SARAH. Did I ax ye if ye saw it now? I said, have ye sane it? TOM. And I said I didn't see it. SARAH. Well, ye little fox, I know yer tricks, and I'll find it yet. Them as hides, finds, but sometimes other folks can find, too, when they know who did the hiding. Ah! what did I tell ye! I've got it at last. I knew ye put it somewheres. Now I can get my work done. TOM. Well, don't you bother me. SARAH [_stands with hands on hips, looking at_ TOM, _who scowls at her_]. If I were you, I wouldn't scowl like that, Master Tom; yer furhead might stay that way. TOM. If I were you, I wouldn't either. SARAH. Ye don't look a bit pretty, Master Tom. TOM. You don't have to look at me. SARAH. See, this is what ye look like. [_Makes a face and hunches up her shoulders._ TOM _refuses to look._] Do ye think that's rale handsome? [_Aside._] Well, since I can't t'ase ye into a good humor, I'll go on down. [_Exit._ TOM. I did want to laugh at her awfully. If she comes in again, I think I'll just have to. [_Enter_ DAISY _and_ PHIL. DAISY. We didn't go far, because it was so late. Phil, did you ever see anything so perfectly grand as that last window? [_Taking off things._] PHIL. Never! Don't I wish I had that air-rifle! DAISY. I'd rather have the doll's piano than anything else. [_Enter_ SARAH _with_ DOT _and_ CHARLIE. SARAH _takes children's coats, etc._ SARAH. Here, give me yer coats. Now just sit down and get warm for a minute, and then ye've got to go to bed. Yer Ma said so. DAISY. Let's sing while we're here. We don't know our new carol very well. [_All begin to sing a carol._ TOM _claps, stamps, whistles, and bangs his chair up and down, to put them out. They stop._] CHARLIE. See here, Tom, if you don't want to sing, you don't have to, but you shan't stop us! SARAH. No, sir! That ye shall not. Ye can't stay here makin' disturbances, so just be off with ye to bed. [_Pushes him out. Children sing a carol, and curtain falls during last verse._] CURTAIN ACT II TIME: _Christmas morning._ SCENE: _Sitting-room with open fire [back Center] in fireplace through which_ SANTA CLAUS _may enter._ FATHER _and_ MOTHER _sitting by fire_, FATHER _with paper_, MOTHER _sewing._ PHIL _and_ CHARLIE _in one corner [R. Front], reading together._ DAISY _and_ DOT _[L. Front] with dolls._ DAISY. And I caught Mamma! I hid behind the door, and jumped out and shouted "Merry Christmas!" before she saw me at all. DOT [_leaning towards_ DAISY]. Daisy, let's say it to Santa Claus. DAISY. Oh, do you suppose he would like it? DOT. Why not? DAISY. Yes, I guess he would. Dear Santa Claus, nobody ever thinks of saying "Merry Christmas" to him. DOT. Poor man! Well, Daisy, his little boys and girls might say it to him. DAISY. Oh, Dot! He hasn't any little boys and girls to say it. Don't you know he's an old man, oh, hundreds of years old? And if he ever did have any little boys and girls, they're all grown up by this time. DOT. Maybe he's got some grandchildren. DAISY. No, I don't believe he has, for then why do they let him do all the work? Nobody ever fills stockings but Santa Claus. DOT. Poor Santa Claus! He must get very tired. DAISY. I wonder ... I wonder who keeps house for Santa Claus? DOT. Maybe nobody does. DAISY. Oh, yes! He must have somebody to make his fires, and cook his meals, and darn his socks. DOT. Why, he doesn't wear socks. Don't you know, he's all dressed in fur in the pictures. But perhaps fur wears out and has to be mended. I'd like to help her do it. DAISY. Perhaps she's a real cross, ugly woman, and scolds him when he stays out too long filling stockings, and doesn't give him enough sugar in his tea, and never lets him have but one cup! DOT [_shaking her head_]. Poor Santa Claus! Aren't you sorry for him, Daisy? I am. [DAISY _nods._] Daisy, if he hasn't any little children, I don't suppose anybody ever gives him any Christmas presents? DAISY [_pityingly_]. No, I don't suppose anyone ever does. DOT [_excitedly_]. Oh, Daisy, let's _us_ give him a present this year! DAISY. Oh, how splendid! Of course we will. But what do you think he would like? DOT. Let's think. He travels all the time. Perhaps he would like a comb and brush case. DAISY. Dot! You don't suppose he can ever comb out all that hair! It's a great deal too thick and snarly. He doesn't use a comb and brush. DOT. Well, I'll give him my new purse. DAISY. Santa Claus doesn't need a pocketbook to carry money--he doesn't buy things. DOT. But he might come to a toll-gate on the road, sometime. DAISY. All right. And I'll give him my silk muffler, for I'm afraid his housekeeper doesn't give him enough warm clothes. Come, let's get them. [_Exeunt._] CHARLIE. What's this picture about, Phil? PHIL. That's where Santa Claus is coming down our chimney. CHARLIE. I wonder why he likes to come down chimneys? I'd have a latchkey, and come in at the front door. PHIL. Everybody doesn't have a front door just like ours, Charlie. His key wouldn't fit all the doors. CHARLIE. But I'd have a magic key, that did. When Papa shaves, and puts that white stuff all over his face, he looks just like Santa Claus, but he wouldn't look like him long if he put his head up the chimney. Santa Claus must get very dirty,--perhaps he looks like the chimney-sweep. PHIL. Oh, no, he doesn't. You'll see how he looks pretty soon. Come along, let's try our new sleds. [_Exeunt._ MOTHER. My dear, I want to speak to you. [FATHER _drops paper._] Sarah tells me that Tom has been very naughty and cross. He wouldn't do as she told him, and was disagreeable to the other children. FATHER. Tom! Why, he's the best-tempered chicken I've got. MOTHER. I believe you think so just because he's named after you. But he is really dreadfully provoking sometimes, and I don't know what to do with him now. FATHER. Oh, ho! You've given up in despair, and want to fall back on me? MOTHER. Not at all. But I'd like your advice. Would you pay no attention to it, or would you take him to task for his naughtiness? FATHER. Mary, I always told you you couldn't manage the boys. You are too gentle and yielding. You are never strict enough. You ought to be firm, my dear! MOTHER. Firm like yourself? Oh, Tom, who was it that wouldn't punish the boys when they played truant, and pretended to know nothing about it when they went in swimming unbeknownst? FATHER. Oh, well, Mary, you couldn't expect me to be hard on them for the very things I did myself! MOTHER. I knew I couldn't, so I attended to them myself. But I'll just send Tom in here, and let you try your luck with him. [_Exit._] FATHER. Try my luck, indeed! I flatter myself that I'll soon bring him around. [_Stands before fire. Enter_ TOM, _very slowly, hands in pockets._] Good-morning, Tom. [_Very pleasantly._] TOM [_mutters_]. Morning. FATHER. That is no way to speak, my son. Good-morning, Tom. TOM [_a little louder_]. Morning. FATHER. See here, Tom, we can't have this. Your mother says you haven't been very good. TOM. Don't care. FATHER. Thomas, that is not a respectful way to speak to your father. What do you mean by it, sir? [_No answer._] Do you mean to tell me? [TOM _is silent, and stands looking down and kicking the leg of a chair._] Go upstairs and stay there until I send for you. [_Exit_ TOM.] This is most extraordinary! What can have got into the child? [_Enter_ MOTHER. FATHER. Ah, here's Mary again. MOTHER. Well, what did you say? FATHER. I--a--I scolded him. MOTHER. What did he say? FATHER. He said--well--in fact, he didn't say anything. MOTHER. Wouldn't, you mean. Did you punish him? FATHER. Punish him? No, I didn't punish him. Come, now, Mary, you don't mean to say you want me to punish him on Christmas morning? I really couldn't do that. MOTHER. Oh, no, I don't want you to punish him. FATHER. Well, my dear, on the whole, I think perhaps _you'd_ better talk to him. I'll send him down. [_Exit._ MOTHER. I didn't think Tom could do much with that boy when he was contrary. [_Enter_ TOM.] Well, Tom, dear, don't you want to come and sit with Mamma a little while? TOM [_rather doubtfully_]. Ye-es. MOTHER. Here is your little chair all ready. [TOM _sits down with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands._] Sarah has told me something that makes me sorry. She said that you were naughty last night? Is that so? TOM [_reluctantly_]. Yes, I was cross. MOTHER. She said you were cross again this morning. TOM. Yes, I was naughty this morning, too. MOTHER. Oh-h-h, Tommy! I'm so sorry to have my little boy so naughty on Christmas Day. Don't you think that when people want to be happy and glad, everyone ought to be good and pleasant, too? TOM [_the words drawn out against his will_]. Yes, I think so. MOTHER. And then there is the beautiful story of that wonderful first Christmas. Don't you think people were very happy on that Day? And you know we always think of that on Christmas, now. TOM. Oh, yes, I do too. MOTHER [_reproachfully_]. Then, Tom, how _could_ you be so naughty? TOM. Well, Mamma, do you think it's so _dread_fully naughty to be cross? MOTHER. It is not so naughty as some things you might do, but it is making other people unhappy, and don't you think that is pretty bad? TOM. Well, Mamma, if a fellow didn't _feel_ cross at all, but had a very good reason for _being_ cross, would that be naughty? MOTHER. I don't think there can be any good reason for being cross. TOM. I do. MOTHER. What is it? TOM. It's a secret. It's a _very_ good reason. I'm sorry it's naughty. I didn't think it was. But _I'm not sorry I did it_. MOTHER. Oh, Tommy, it makes me feel badly to hear you talk so. I'll leave you here, and let you think it over. Perhaps you'll feel pleasanter after awhile. You can call me when you do. TOM [_leaving his little chair for a big one_]. I'm sorry they all think I'm so bad, and I'm really very tired of being cross, but I _must_ find out about Santa Claus, for if he's the kind of man that would bring anybody ashes or whips on Christmas, I don't believe I'll like him at all! [_Jingling of bells in chimney._] What's that? [_Louder bells._] I do believe he's coming now! [_Jumps up._] Oh, dear! where are the others? I wish they would come! I--I--I guess I'm just a _little bit_ afraid! [_Gets behind his chair. Enter_ SANTA CLAUS _through the fireplace._] SANTA CLAUS. That's a fine wide chimney! [_Stoops to look up it._] Why doesn't everybody keep a chimney like that for my special use? [_Comes front._] I'm sure when I only come once a year, I ought to have some attention paid to my wants! TOM [_faintly_]. Santa Claus! SANTA CLAUS. Hello! What's this? Where are you, anyway? [_Looks about, then over chair, and sees_ TOM.] What! Hiding from me? Come out at once, and tell me what's the matter with you. TOM [_coming out_]. Santa Claus, have you got the whip and ashes? SANTA CLAUS. Whip and ashes! Bless me, what's the boy talking about? Whip? I left my sleigh whip on the roof, if that's what you mean, and I never carry _ashes_ around with me. What are you driving at? Hey? TOM. Sarah said you gave whips to bad boys, and I've been very naughty--oh, dreadfully naughty! SANTA CLAUS. Naughty? Dear, dear! I'm sorry to hear that! And on Christmas, too! What a pity! When you knew I was coming? Dear, dear, dear! TOM. _Have_ you got the whip, then? SANTA CLAUS. No, no! I never give anybody whips--excepting toy ones, with a whistle in the end, like this---- [_gives_ TOM _one_] ----and Sarah was just teasing you. I'll have to see Sarah about that. I won't have anybody telling stories about me. But, dear, dear, it makes me unhappy to think you could be so naughty. Why did you do it? TOM [_looks around cautiously_]. Don't tell anybody, Santa Claus, but I was naughty on purpose, just to see if you would give me a whip. SANTA CLAUS. Well, that's a joke! Don't you know enough to see that you ought to have waited to ask me, instead of running such a risk? TOM [_remorsefully_]. Sure enough! I could have done that! And now I've gone and made them all feel sorry, just for nothing. [_Enter_ FATHER _and_ MOTHER. FATHER. Well, well, here's Santa Claus! I haven't seen you for a long time. How do you do, sir, how do you do? [_They shake hands._] MOTHER [_at door_]. Children! Children! Come here! [_Enter children._ CHILDREN. Oh, Santa Claus! Santa Claus! DAISY _and_ DOT. Merry Christmas, Santa Claus! DAISY. We've got some presents for you, Santa Claus. Dot and I thought nobody would remember to give you anything, so we wanted to. [_Giving presents._] SANTA CLAUS. Well, really, my dears, these are very nice. Bless your little hearts, nobody has remembered me for some time, and that's a fact! Mr. Wright, how have these children been behaving themselves? Can I give them the nice things I have brought for them? FATHER. Yes, sir! I'm happy to say, they have been very good, very good, indeed. Oh---- [_aside_] ----now I'm forgetting that rascal, Tom! [_To_ SANTA CLAUS.] That is--they've all been good except one--and he--a--well---- MOTHER [_looking at_ TOM]. He is sorry now, I hope, Santa Claus, and will try not to do so any more. SANTA CLAUS. Oh! Ha-ha! you're talking about this fellow, are you? [_Puts his hand on_ TOM'S _shoulder and draws him forward._] Well, he's just been explaining to me that it was all a mistake---- FATHER [_sternly_]. I hope he has not been trying to hide his misdoings from you, Santa Claus. SANTA CLAUS. Not at all, sir, not at all. He confessed like a man. But there is this about it that you didn't know. Somebody told him that I put whips in the stockings of naughty children. Well, he naturally thought I was to be distrusted--shocking way to malign me, wasn't it?--and of course he wanted to find out. So what did he do to test me but _try_ to be naughty--acted it out to perfection, I've no doubt. Pretty severe on his brothers and sisters and parents, wasn't it? [SANTA CLAUS _and_ FATHER _laugh._] MOTHER. Why, Tommy, it's a pity you didn't just come to me and ask about it. It would have saved so much trouble. Why didn't you do that? TOM. I never once thought of that way, Mamma! SANTA CLAUS. Well, my son, your thinking-cap is the only cap you don't have to take off in the house, so remember to keep it on, next time. Mr. Wright, I'm sure he feels sorry enough about his mistake to justify me in giving him his full share of presents. Come, children, look and see what I've got for you. I brought it last night, to have it all ready, and I think it ought to hold enough for all, don't you? [_Curtains at side of stage fall, and disclose the Tree._[9] _General distribution of presents follows._ [Footnote 9: See note on Tree, p. 314, and on Tree-songs, p. 315.] NOTES ON COSTUME AND SETTING For this play, ordinary costume is all that is required. Adult parts are taken by two girls and a boy, of fourteen or fifteen, and these, of course, need something especial, but little girls can easily borrow their equipment from mothers or sisters. Father Wright should wear a mustache and, if desired, a beard. For Santa Claus costume, see note, p. 313. See note on fireplace, p. 313. THEIR CHRISTMAS PARTY IN TWO ACTS CHARACTERS FATHER BROWNE. MOTHER BROWNE. AUNT JENNIE. DICK } DOT } The little Brownes. (Eight and six years old.) MARY, the nurse. JOHN, the man. JIM } A newsboy and his sister, both ragged. (About POLLY } the age of Dick and Dot.) THE FIVE LITTLE BLAIRS. THE TWO LITTLE GRAYS. SALLIE LEE. COOK'S SISTER'S CHILDREN. _And_ SANTA CLAUS. [Illustration: THEIR CHRISTMAS PARTY] THEIR CHRISTMAS PARTY ACT I TIME: _Afternoon of the 24th of December._ SCENE: _A street corner on a snowy day. Barrels and boxes in front of a small grocery store. Enter_ DICK _and_ DOT, _well wrapped up, dragging a sled._ DICK. Whew! that's a dandy coast, but it's pretty hard work pulling up. DOT. Let's sit down a minute and rest. [_They draw sled to left of stage and sit down side by side on it._] I'm so tired. Oh, Dick, I thought we were going to run over that poor gray cat, didn't you? DICK [_nodding_]. It's lucky for her that she knew how to jump. The Comet would have hit her sure! This rope needs tying tighter. [_Goes to front of sled and kneels down, fixing rope._] DOT [_looking around_]. It's so nice and quiet here. No big boys ever coast on this street. Big boys always bump into you. DICK [_shaking his mitten at her_]. Now, Dot, that's just the very reason I don't like it. You don't know how much more fun it would be to have just lots and lots of boys on this track all the time, climbing up and whizzing down. I bet none of them could beat this old sled. DOT [_doubtfully_]. Maybe it would be nice, but, Dick, I think it's such fun to have just us two. DICK. That's just because you're a girl and don't know. Come along, let's try the hill again. Shall we go over the bump? DOT. No, I'm afraid. Let's start down here. [_Exeunt._ [_Enter from Left_, JIM _and_ POLLY. JIM. If you're very cold, Sister, we can go home right off now, but I've got four papers left, and I want awful bad to sell 'em, every one, so's I can take the money to Granny. POLLY. No, I'm not so dreadful cold, Jim. And, 'sides, maybe Granny's not got home yet from work, and then you know we'd just have to sit on the doorstep and wait. JIM. We'll stay right here. Folks will be going home soon, and lots of men pass this corner. Here's a nice box to sit on; I don't believe the store man will mind. You sit on that side, so, Polly, and I'll sit here, so, for the wind's blowing this way, and if I sit here it will hit me first, and I can keep it off o' you. [_They sit back to back on the box._] POLLY. Oh, Jim, I'm afraid you'll be cold. JIM. Oh, no, I won't. [_Two men cross stage arm in arm._] Here's your Times, Star, Evening Post. Last edition. [_Men shake their heads._] [_Looking after men._] Pshaw! Well, maybe the next feller'll want one. [_To_ POLLY.] See, Polly, I can't be cold, I just stuff my hands in my pockets---- [_His hand comes through._] No, that's the wrong place. I just stuff my hands in my pockets like this, and then I kick my heels like this. [_Kicks on box with his heels._] That's very warming. And then I whistle. [_Whistles lively tune._] If you just whistle you don't have time to think about the wind, see! POLLY [_drums with her heels and tries to whistle_]. But it hurts to kick your heels, and I can't whistle. JIM. I'll tell you what. Let's try singing. Perhaps that's just as warming. Let's sing Granny's Christmas song. [_They sing a verse of "God rest ye, merry gentlemen," or some other old-world carol._] POLLY. Jim, is to-morrow Christmas? JIM [_gloomily_]. Yes, to-morrow's Christmas. [_Aside._] And if somebody don't buy these papers pretty soon, I won't have enough pennies to get [_counts on his fingers_] that penny paper doll; nor the penny washtub, nor the jumping Jack, nor the paint box, 'cause that's three cents. [_Enter man._] Here's your evenin' paper, sir! [_Man stops and takes one. Exit._] [_Enter_ DICK _and_ DOT, _cross stage, and sit down as before._ DOT. Wasn't that a nice coast, Dick? DICK [_absently_]. Yes. [_Rests his chin in his hands and elbows on his knees._] Dot, I do wish we lived in an orphan asylum. DOT [_jumps_]. Oh-h! Why, Dicky Browne, you wouldn't have any papa nor mamma nor Aunt Jennie, nor anybody, nor anybody. DICK. But just think what lots of brothers and sisters we'd have. DOT. Well, you're all the brothers I want; 'nd I wouldn't give up Papa and Mamma for all the sisters in the world; so now. DICK. Well, neither would I, but can't you see how much nicer times we would have if there was a lot of us, on holidays especially? DOT. Well, I think we have an awfully good time, anyway. You said you liked Thanksgiving. DICK. That was because of the dinner part. When we tried to play games and dance afterwards, what did we do? We played Hide the Thimble, and if I hid it there was only you to look, and of course you couldn't help finding it first. We had to play Going to Jerusalem with just one chair, and the two of us went around and around and around till we felt like the "Little Rid Hin" in John's story. I declare there aren't enough of us to play Puss-in-the-corner. Two children can't have any fun. [_Puts his head down on his arms._] DOT [_sighs_]. That's so. DICK [_lifts up his head suddenly_]. And I'd just like to know what's the fun of coasting when you haven't anything to shout "clear the track" at, but ash barrels, and hens and cats that you can't run over anyway. I wish there were forty-'leven boys on the track this minute. DOT. Well, I don't care about the track, but brothers and sisters are nice to play with. Wouldn't it be nice if there were two of you and two of me? DICK. Two of us! I wish there were six of each of us. I wish I could go and live with the Ruggles's, in your story about the "Birds' Christmas Carol." There were nine of them and they only got washed about once a year. And folks weren't always saying, "Land! where did you get them dirty hands?" DOT. That would be fun! We could play just as untidy games---- DICK. Don't talk about it, it makes me cross. [_Folds his arms, crosses his feet, and whistles something sad._ DOT _gets out her handkerchief and spreads it in her lap._] JIM [_softly_]. I say, Polly, that boy's got an awful nice sled. POLLY. Just look at his sister's muff. [_Enter man._] JIM [_shouts_]. Buy a paper, sir! [_Man takes paper._] [DOT _turns and sees children, looks away, then back again, turns to_ DICK. DOT. Dicky, are you sure you are warm enough? DICK. Warm enough! How could I be cold with a great big coat like this one? I feel like a polar bear. [_Walks up and down to show size of his coat, then sits down._ DOT _turns and sees the children's ragged shoes._] DOT. But are your feet warm? DICK. Of course, with boots on. DOT [_sees_ POLLY _examining holes in her mittens_]. But aren't there any holes in your mittens? DICK. In my spick-span new mittens that Aunt Jennie made me? [_Holds them up._] Dot, you're crazy! [_Catches her looking at the children; looks himself, and then walks around the sled to sit facing_ JIM _and_ POLLY. DOT _does the same. All four stare in silence._] Hullo! JIM. Hullo, yourself! DICK. Are you the boy that my papa gets his papers of? JIM. Don't know. [DOT _walks decidedly over to_ POLLY. DOT. Let me feel your hands. They're just like ice; I knew it. Put them right in here with mine. [_Kneels in front of_ POLLY _and puts her hands in muff._ DICK _moves sled close to_ JIM _and sits astride of it._] DICK. Have you sold all your papers? JIM. No, I've got two left. DICK. Isn't it lots of fun to sell papers and earn money? JIM. I don't know,--not this kind of weather. DICK. I think it would be fun. I wouldn't want to sell 'em on Christmas. Do you have to work on Christmas day? JIM. Not if I don't want to. I did go out last Christmas, but nobody much came along. I suppose they stayed at home to keep warm. DOT. No, I guess Santa Claus was coming to see their little children, and they wanted to see him too. [_To_ POLLY.] What do you want Santa Claus to bring you? POLLY. Santa Claus hasn't ever been to our house. DOT. What, hasn't ever been to your house! DICK. Haven't you ever seen him? JIM. No, she never saw him, but I saw a stuffed Santa Claus in a window once. DICK. Why, he comes to our house every single year. DOT. I thought he went to everybody's houses in this world. JIM [_leaning toward_ DICK _and speaking low_]. I get Polly presents when I get enough money. DICK. But doesn't Santa Claus fill your stockings? JIM. No, and he never goes to Nicky Smith's house, nor Eddy Warren's, nor Jakey White's. They told me so. Here comes another man. Post, sir? [_Man shakes his head._] POLLY. Jim got me some candy last Christmas, and Granny gave me a doll, only its head came off the next day. JIM. That's an awful nice sled. DICK. Haven't you got any sled? JIM. No, but I coast on a board sometimes. DICK. I'll let you try Comet. Don't you want to take Polly down? DOT. Oh, yes, go; we'll take care of the papers. DICK. Let's change places; we'll sell papers and you coast. And you must take our coats too. [_Pulls off his things_, DOT _following his example._] Because the wind just whistles right through you, I tell you, when you go down that hill. DOT. Oh, yes. JIM. We're much obliged for the sled, but we can't take your things; you'll be cold. DICK. No, we won't, and you must. [_Helps him on with his own coat._] You see, you're cold now, and you won't have a good coast if you're not warm. Give me your cap. Here, take my mittens. Dot, take Polly's shawl. DOT. Now, we'll sit right down here. Dick, you hold the papers. JIM. Are you all fixed? DICK _and_ DOT. Oh, beautifully. Oh, thank you. [JIM _and_ POLLY _go off._ DICK [_calling_]. Put Polly on behind. DOT. Mind the bump at the curbstone. DICK. Oh, Dot, isn't this fun? DOT. Yes, lots. Have you got the papers? DICK. Yes, there are only two left to sell. DOT. Let me get close up behind you, the way Polly did. Now you must drum with your heels, and whistle like Jim. [DICK _does so._] DICK. Here comes somebody. Now I'm going to call. Here's your evening papers, last edition! [_Enter two men, stop and buy a paper._ FIRST MAN [_looking back_]. That's a queer-looking newsboy. Somehow he looks like a rich child. SECOND MAN [_pulling him off_]. I can't see but the little scamp is ragged enough. Some of these newsboys aren't so poverty-stricken as they make out, anyway. Come along. [_Exeunt._] DICK. I've seen that man somewhere. DOT. I think he's been to see Papa. Wouldn't it be fun if Papa came along and bought a paper of you? DICK. And didn't know me. What a circus! Wish he would. DOT. There come Jim and Polly. Wave your paper at them. DICK [_waving_]. Hurrah, Jim, I sold a paper. [_Enter_ JIM _and_ POLLY. JIM. Good for you. It was fine! POLLY. It was just grand! DICK. Try it again. We like this, don't we, Dot? DOT. Yes. Don't you want to go again, Polly? JIM. Are you warm enough? honest Injun? DOT. Yes, go on. JIM. All right. [_Exeunt._] DICK. I knew Jim would think Comet was a boss sled. Don't you think Jim would be a nice brother, Dot? DOT. Yes, if he washed his face. Polly would be nice for a sister, too. DICK. We could all write letters to Santa Claus together. [_Drums with heels and whistles._] Dot [_after a pause, rubbing her nose_]. Well, if Santa Claus's nose ever feels like mine, it's no wonder it's red. DICK [_squirming_]. Somehow, it's colder than I thought it was. The thermometer must be down to zero. DOT. I'm sure it's nineteen below. I--I think a fire would feel real nice. DICK. I'll take you home when they come up again. I'm not very cold. I wonder if Jim ever flops his arms like a street car driver. Maybe that would make him warm. Try it, Dot. [_Both beat themselves with their arms._] DOT. I don't believe anything would make me warm. DICK [_turning anxiously_]. Dot, do you want my handkerchief? DOT. Oh, no, I'm not going to cry. DICK. Well, I'm glad, for it's in my pocket that Jim's got on. [_Enter man._ MAN. Got a Times, boy? DICK. Yes, sir, last one. [_Exit man. Enter_ JIM _and_ POLLY.] Sold the last paper, Jim. Here's the money. We've got to go home now. [_Changing coats._] Jim, I think it's very queer about Santa Claus. Is your house hard to find? JIM. No, it's just right down this street, there on Friendship Alley. We're awfully much obliged for the ride. The Comet's a beauty. POLLY. I never was on a sled before. DOT. Weren't you? We'll let you have ours again, sometime. DICK _and_ DOT. Good-night. [_Exeunt._] JIM. That's an awfully nice little chap, Polly. POLLY. Why, Jim, he's 'most as big as you are. JIM. Oh, well, he's little somehow. I take care of you and that makes me big. Let's go home to Granny. [_Takes her hand. Exeunt, singing another verse of their carol._] CURTAIN ACT II TIME: _Christmas morning._ SCENE: _Sitting-room, with large old-fashioned fireplace[10] [back Center]. Toys scattered about. A small blackboard to left of fireplace._ DICK _and_ DOT _sitting in little chairs._ DICK, _with a knife, whittling._ DOT, _with a doll. Both wear sprigs of holly._ [Footnote 10: See note on Fireplace, p. 313.] DOT. Everybody has given us such lovely presents. It couldn't be nicer, could it, Dick? DICK [_sighing_]. I think it could be just a little nicer. It would be nicer if we had a lot of brothers and sisters to help us play with the soldiers and the blocks and the dolls and everything. Oh, I wish--I wish that just for this one day I could have a whole _roomful_ of children to play with. DOT. I'm afraid Jim and Polly aren't having as nice a Christmas as ours. DICK [_shutting his knife_]. So am I. I don't think Friendship Alley's a very nice place to have to live. DOT. I wish they could have a Christmas like ours. I'd like to give them some things. Anyway, I'd like to show them our presents. DICK [_jumping up_]. Let's! DOT. When? DICK. Now, right off. And, Dot, don't you know they said they had never seen Santa Claus, either. It's 'most time for him to come. Let's go and bring them over to see him. DOT. All right. He'll give them something, too. DICK. We'll hide them so as to surprise everybody. DOT. Will Papa and Mamma like it? DICK. Of course they will. Papa always likes our surprises, and Mamma will, I know, because it would make her feel so sorry if she knew there was anybody in the world that wasn't happy on Christmas. She says that's the happiest day in the year, and everybody ought to be happy. So we won't make her sorry by telling her about it. We'll just make them happy too. DOT. We can have them take off their things in the nursery, and then Jim can wash his face. [_Exeunt. Enter_ FATHER, _with paper which he throws on table._ FATHER. Well, the children seem to have grown tired of their new things already. I don't see what has come over that boy lately. He talks of nothing but big families. I suppose the sight of the five little Blair children across the way is tantalizing, and it certainly is lonely for the two little duds with nobody but grown-ups in the house. Their efforts to be a large party in themselves, to play games, on Thanksgiving day, were really laughable, but they were pathetic, too. If Julia had thought of it, we might have had a little Christmas party for them. It's a good deal of trouble for Santa Claus to climb down a chimney for just two children. [_Looks at his watch._] The old gentleman ought to be here in about half an hour. I wonder if it's too late to get some children now? Mr. Blair might lend me his youngsters for an hour or so. It would be such a nice surprise for the children. I could hide them somewhere, and at a given signal have them come out. I'll just step across the way and see. [_Exit_ FATHER. _Enter_ AUNT JENNIE. AUNT. What a dreadful state the children have left this room in. That blessed boy! I knew he couldn't wait to try his new knife. His father would insist on giving it to him, though I'm sure it's dangerous. Here are his chips all over the floor, and Dot has had Dolly dressed and undressed a dozen times at least. [_Sits down by fire, laughing indulgently._] The way those children have been talking the last few days is a puzzle! I can't think what started them. I never had but one brother myself, and I'm sure I was quite happy. What they want with ten brothers and sisters is beyond me. A dozen children in the house would be more than their father and Julia and I could stand, to say nothing of nurse and John. The two alone can think of quite enough mischief to drive the household crazy. I suppose our having so many friends when we were children made a difference. We never used to be alone at Christmas. After all, on holidays it would be forlorn. Too bad we didn't think of having a party. There are so many children who would think it a treat to come, too, who have no tree or Santa Claus at home. That little girl of Ellen Lee's must be all alone to-day. [_Gets up decidedly._] I declare I'll just put on my hat and coat and go around there now and get her. It'll be such a nice surprise for the children. [_Exit in haste. Enter_ MOTHER. _Takes up doll, and sits down thoughtfully before the fire, rearranging doll's dress._ MOTHER. Dolly, you'd be surprised if you knew how badly I'm feeling! I think I've been a very stupid, unrealizing sort of a mother, not to plan something to make the children have a really _merry_ Christmas, as well as a happy one. It would have been so easy to have a little party of children here. Oh, Dolly, you know all about it better than I do myself, for didn't I just hear Dot confiding in you, and whispering in this little ear under your curls how she wished you were a real live sister to play with her? Now you see how I feel! Don't you see that if she had a hundred dolls, of wax or china or rags, she would still have a stupid Christmas? I haven't a doubt that you mean well, and you do fill a very large corner in a little girl's heart--I haven't got over my fondness for your race yet. [_Kisses the doll's curls._] But you certainly are a trifle obstinate about responding to friendly advances. Poor children, it's so easy to give you pleasure! [_Lets doll fall in her lap._] I might have had a nice, jolly, little ... well, it's too late now. [_Sighs, then looks at her watch._] No! I don't believe it is, after all. I still have time to go for little Jerry Gray and his sister. They are just the ones! The children love surprises so. I'll hurry---- [_Exit in haste. Enter_ MARY _and_ JOHN. _While they talk together they put the room to rights._ MARY. Well, it do beat all, how thim children can make a room look like so many pigs and chickens had been running through. JOHN. Thrue for you, an' it does. MARY. An' what fer need they be wishin' there was tin of thim to mess the house up worse? JOHN. An' did they do that, thin? MARY. Sure they did. "Mary," says Dicky to me, "don't you wish that I was five little b'ys and Dot was five little girls? We do, we're so lonesome." JOHN. An' that's what I heard them sayin' as I was a-carryin' up coal this morning. "I wish I had a whole room full of brothers and sisters," says Dick. Faix! I wish I could give him some of mine, then. I've enough to spare. MARY. 'Tis sort of lonesome like, now, ain't it, John? [_Hands on hips._] JOHN [_hands on hips_]. Yes, it is that. I wonder---- Say, Mary, me darlin', them three children of cook's sister's ain't going to have much Christmas. Why can't you and me smuggle them up here to the cupboard on the stairs, and when we comes up to help wid th' tree, we'll just give the word and they'll pop out and say, Merry Christmas. It'll be sort o' cheerful like, and Mistress is that kind-hearted she ain't going to care. MARY. John, you have the brains of a elephant. I'll go right down and fetch 'em now. [_Exit._] JOHN. Poor children! They shall have some fun, that they shall. [_Re-enter_ MARY _with children._ MARY. Well, would you look at 'em, John? Cook she dressed 'em all up in green ribbons, bless their hearts. Says I, "Sure to-day's not St. Patrick's day." "Well," says she, "what's fittin' one holiday is fittin' the next. It's a good color anyhow. Them's their best clothes." So I never touched 'em. I've told 'em about it, John. Now, just go right up in here, children. JOHN. And when we say "Broomsticks!" out you bounces and shouts, "Merry Christmas!" Now, Mary, we've redd up, we'll just go below stairs. [_Exeunt._] [_Enter_ DICK _and_ DOT _with_ JIM _and_ POLLY. DOT. We're so glad you came, because we want to show you our things. DICK. And now you can see Santa Claus. JIM _and_ POLLY. Oh-h-hh! We never saw nothin' like this before. DICK. And I'm going to put my new necktie on you, because we want to be all dressed up for Santa Claus. DOT _and_ DICK. We've got on holly because it's Christmas. POLLY. I've got on my clean apron. Will I do? DOT. 'Course you will; I don't believe Santa Claus cares. DICK. Here are my soldiers. DOT. And this is my dolly. DICK. And just look at my knife. DOT. Where's my pincushion? DICK. Oh, see our blackboard. Don't you want to draw on it, Jim? JIM. I don't know how to draw. DICK. Oh, make a man; it's very easy to make a man. [_Demonstrating._] You just make his stomach and his head, and then put on the arms and legs. DOT. See our books. DICK. This is my new history. It's got a picture of Mr. Columbus finding the red Indians. DOT. Oh, I hear somebody coming. You must hide straight off. DICK. In the chimney is the best place. Jim, you go on this side and Polly on that. And look out for the fire. Remember when we say "Sleds!" you must come out. DOT. Now. [FATHER _puts his head in at the door._ FATHER. Oh, children, are you there? Don't you think you'd better go and have your hands and faces washed? Santa Claus likes clean faces, you know. DICK _and_ DOT. Yes, sir, right off. [_Exeunt._] [_Enter_ FATHER _with five little Blairs._ FATHER. Now, children, quick, run right into the library here, and when I say "Holly!" you must run out and say, "Merry Christmas!" [_Exit_ FATHER. _Enter_ AUNT _with_ SALLY LEE. AUNT. Sally, the best place for you to hide is here on the floor behind the blackboard. There, no one can see you. Now, when I say "Evergreen!" you must come out as we planned. [_Exit_ AUNT. _Enter_ MOTHER _with two little Grays._ MOTHER. Come right here, dears, behind this curtain. You won't have to wait long. And when I say "Mistletoe!" run out. I'll go and find Dick and Dot. [_Exit._ [_Enter_ DICK _and_ DOT _and place two low chairs by the fireplace. Both put their heads into the chimney._ DICK _and_ DOT. Are you all right? JIM. Yes, if we don't have to stay too long. POLLY. It's very nice and warm here. [_Enter_ FATHER, MOTHER, AUNT, _and_ MARY _and_ JOHN, _who stand by the door._ FATHER. Children, what are you doing? [_Children come out confused._] MOTHER. Were you looking for Santa Claus? AUNT. Couldn't you wait for him? DICK. It's a whole year since we've seen him. FATHER. I wonder if he's changed any. DOT. Oh, I hope not. FATHER. We all love Santa Claus, don't we? He makes us think of so many pleasant things. He always reminds me of---- FATHER. Holly! } } MOTHER. Mistletoe! } } AUNT. Evergreen! } } All children [_rushing out_]: DICK } Sleds! } "Merry Christmas, Merry DOT } } Christmas, Merry Christmas!" } JOHN } Broomsticks! } MARY } } DICK _and_ DOT. Hurrah, hurrah! We're going to have a Christmas party, after all! FATHER. I never was so surprised in all my life. MOTHER. Nor the rest of us, either. CHILDREN. Goody, goody! Santa Claus is coming! FATHER. Three cheers for Santa Claus. All together! ALL. Rah! Rah! Rah! MOTHER. Santa Claus likes to have children quiet sometimes. It's almost time for him to come now. I know he loves music. Suppose we all sit down right where we are and sing. What shall we sing? DOT. Let's sing---- [_All sing a Christmas carol._ FATHER. Listen, do you hear anything? [_Silence._] CHILDREN. No, no! FATHER. Well, let's sing something about Santa Claus, and see if that will bring him. [_They sing a Santa Claus song._] [_Enter_ SANTA CLAUS _through fireplace. Children all jump up and gather around him._ SANTA CLAUS. Whew! What a large party! Do you think my pack will hold out for so many? CHILDREN [_dancing excitedly_]. Yes! Yes! DICK. Santa Claus, before you begin, I want to ask you a question. Here are Jim and Polly, and they have always wanted to see you, but you never went to their house, nor gave them any presents, and they say they know some more poor people that you never go to see. We thought you went everywhere and gave everybody presents! Why didn't you ever give anything to Jim and Polly? We don't think that's quite fair, Santa Claus! SANTA CLAUS. I know, and I think I can explain to you. [_Recites._] 'Tis true, my child, I can't but say I have a very curious way Of bringing presents to girls and boys Who have least need of pretty toys, And giving books, and dolls, and rings, To those who already have such things. 'Tis done for a very curious reason, Suggested by the Christmas season. Should I make my gifts to those who need, 'Twould become a time of general greed, When all would think, "What shall we get?" "What shall we give?" they would quite forget. So when I send my gifts to-day, 'Tis a hint "You have plenty to give away." And then I leave some poor ones out, That the richer may find, as they look about, Their opportunities close at hand, In every corner of the land. My token to those who in plenty live Is a gentle reminder, meaning, GIVE.[11] [Footnote 11: Quoted from _St. Nicholas_, by courtesy of Tudor Jenks and The Century Company.] CHILDREN. Oh, yes, we see, and we'll try to remember. SANTA CLAUS. That's right. Now, can't we have another song? I like to hear you singing. Let's have.... [_Carol, and distribution of presents._[12] [Footnote 12: See note on Tree, p. 314, and on Carols, p. 315.] NOTES ON COSTUME AND SCENERY Ordinary costumes. Santa Claus (see note on costume, p. 313) should be taken by a man, but the other adult parts are for boys and girls from fourteen to eighteen. Two or three older boys enact the homeward-bound pedestrians who merely cross the stage in Act I, and Father Browne and John, in coats and hats, may be among these. The groups of children who come in at the end range from the very smallest up to ten years. If scenery is available, place grocery store in first scene, at the back, and keep the children well in the center. In changing the scene, time can be gained by setting the first scene in front of the interior, as very little space is needed for the first act. If scenery is not to be used, set grocery store less conspicuously [_Right_], using screens and placing boxes and barrels before them. THE CHRISTMAS BROWNIE IN ONE ACT CHARACTERS FATHER BIRD. MOTHER BIRD. KITTY } { About twelve years old. TED } { Boy of ten. MARJORIE } The little Birds { Eight years old. ROBIN } { Boy of seven. LITTLE ROSE } { Little girl of six. NURSE MAGGIE. THE CHRISTMAS BROWNIE. (Boy of ten.) _And_ SANTA CLAUS. CHARACTERS IN TED'S DREAM (Series of tableaux at back of stage) I. Jack Horner. II. Mrs. Santa Claus. III. When Santa was Young. IV. "Merry Christmas." (Little boy.) V. "No Christmas." (Little boy and girl.) VI. The Christmas Waits. (Four boys and four girls from six to twelve years, who can sing.) The other children in the "Dream" should not be over eight years old. [Illustration: THE BROWNIE] THE CHRISTMAS BROWNIE TIME: _Christmas Eve. The story begins at tea-time in the nursery, and ends on Christmas morning, the night being bridged over by_ TED'S _dream._ SCENE: _Nursery, with fireplace,[13] across corner [Right], nursery pictures on the walls, and toys scattered about. The children seated on little chairs around a low table [L.], having just finished their tea_--TED _at one end_, KITTY _opposite him_, MARJORIE _and_ ROSE _on one side [facing the audience], and_ ROBIN _with his chair half turned away from the table. Curtain rises, showing the children singing a Christmas song, while the nurse goes in and out with a tray, clearing the table. The little girls sit with hands folded_, KITTY _sometimes helping the nurse, and the boys lounge comfortably in their chairs. When the song is ended_, TED _leans his elbows on the table._ [Footnote 13: See note on Fireplace, p. 313.] Any Christmas song will do. "Oh, Ring, Glad Bells" (from _Songs and Games for Little Ones_[14]) is a very good one. [Footnote 14: See note on Carols, p. 315.] KITTY. Oh, I do wish Papa and Mamma would get done their supper and come up here! MARJORIE. Seems to me it takes twice as long to eat supper in the dining-room as it does up here in the nursery! TED. Grown folks are so slow about it! ROBIN. Guess they have more to eat, too. NURSE. No, indeed, Master Robin, it's because they're polite and don't eat so fast! MARJORIE. We do gobble just like Thanksgiving turkeys! KITTY. Rosy-posy never does. [_Patting little_ ROSE.] TED. Pooh! Rosebud doesn't eat more'n a bite, anyway! ROSE. Maggie, please untie my bib. TED. I'll do it for you. [_Jumps up and unties it. The others take theirs off, and the nurse carries them all away._] KITTY. Oh, I'm so excited! I don't believe I can sleep a wink. MARJORIE. Don't you wish to-morrow would come quick? BOYS. You bet! MARJORIE. Santa Claus! KITTY. Christmas Tree! ROBIN. Sleds! TED. Candy! ROBIN. Big drums! BOYS [_drumming with fists on table_]. B-r-r-rum! B-r-rum! Brum! Brum! Brum! KITTY [_covering her ears_]. Mercy! what a racket! Do be quiet, boys! ROSE [_shaking her finger_]. Santa Claus'll hear you 'way up at the North Pole! TED. I hope he's started on his travels before this, or he won't get here for a week. ROBIN. Wouldn't you like to ride with him in his old sleigh, though? TED. And help him fill the stockings! MARJORIE. I don't think I'd like going down chimneys much. KITTY. What a good chimney-sweep Santa Claus must make. ROBIN [_going to look up chimney_]. Oh, isn't it 'most time to hang up the stockings? [_Comes to stand beside_ MARJORIE.] KITTY. Maggie has gone to get them, I think. ROSE. But, Sister, how will Santa Claus know which is which? KITTY. He'll know yours the minute he sees it, Pet. ROSE. Will he? TED. Sure! ROBIN. Oh, I say, Ted, wouldn't it be a joke if he got 'em all mixed up, and put my things in Marjorie's stocking, and yours in Kitty's! KITTY. He won't. He's such a wise old fellow that he always knows, somehow. MARJORIE. Well, I should think it would be lots easier if we marked them! It must be dreadfully hard for him to remember. TED. I'll tell you what! S'posing we write a list of the things we want him to bring, too? ROBIN. Good for you, Ted. Then he won't have to remember all the letters we've been writing him. MARJORIE. Give us some paper, quick, Kitty! KITTY [_gets paper and pencils from mantel_, TED _helping her_]. If Santa Claus has to remember all the letters all the children in the world write him every year, shouldn't you think his head must ache? [_Divides paper among children. All sit at table and write._] TED. Put your name at the top. MARJORIE. And the thing you want most, next. ROSE [_to_ KITTY]. Will Santa Claus mind if I print mine? KITTY. No, indeed. He likes printing. [_All write busily for a few moments._ ROBIN. I'm done. Look at that! [_Holds it up._] KITTY. My! what a long list! ROSE. Oh-h-h! Santa Claus'll think you're greedy! ROBIN. I don't expect him to give me all those things. That's just so he can choose. KITTY. Here come Papa and Mamma. Now, Ted, go get the stockings. [_Exit_ TED. _Enter_ FATHER _and_ MOTHER, _children crowding around them._ KITTY. Mamma, we've made lists---- ROBIN. Of the things we want---- KITTY. And we're going to pin them on our stockings---- MARJORIE. Because we thought we ought to save poor Santa Claus all the trouble we could. MOTHER. What thoughtful children! I'm sure Santa Claus will appreciate it. ROBIN. Now, sit down and write your lists, quick! FATHER [_laughing_]. Santa Claus will be frightened by such an array of wants. [FATHER _and_ MOTHER _sit down and write._] FATHER. Do you think his pack will hold out? ROBIN [_with scorn_]. 'Course it will! That pack hasn't any bottom at all. MARJORIE _and_ ROSE [_taking hands and dancing_]. Oh, goody! goody! goody! [_Enter_ TED, _with_ MAGGIE, _who gives stockings to the children and helps them to pin on the lists._ FATHER. I don't see my sock anywhere. This surely isn't mine! [_Holds up a long stocking._] MARJORIE. Oh, Papa, it would be too mean to hang up one of your horrid little ones! ROBIN. No, sir! TED. Socks are no good on Christmas Eve. We've got one of Mamma's for you. FATHER [_laughing_]. Oh, I see. Very well. But it's lucky they're to be marked. Santa Claus would never in the world recognize this one. MOTHER [_to_ ROBIN, _who is stretching his stocking as much as possible_]. Robin, what are you doing? ROBIN. Just making it bigger. Now, come along. Papa's on the first hook. [_All go to fireplace and hang stockings_, NURSE _helping_ ROSE. _All stand back to gaze._] KITTY. Don't they make a fine show? BOYS. Hurrah! Hurrah! [_Children all clap._] MOTHER. Softly, children! [_To_ NURSE.] Maggie, they will never go to sleep if they are so excited! [_To children._] Sit down here a little while and sing some of your Christmas songs before you go to bed. KITTY. Oh, no, Mamma, let Rosebud sing her song for us, and we'll be quiet. MOTHER. Very well, dear. TED. Let her stand on the table, so everybody can hear. Come, Rosy! [TED _and_ KITTY _help her up._ FATHER _stands by fire_, MARJORIE _with her arm about_ MOTHER, NURSE _in door_, KITTY _sits on a corner of the table_, ROBIN _in a chair_, TED _leaning over the back of it._ ROSE _sings, "In another land and time." (From "Songs for Little Children.")[15] When the song is ended_, MOTHER _comes forward, kisses_ ROSE, _and lifts her down._] [Footnote 15: See p. 315.] MOTHER. Now, Maggie, take her to bed. [NURSE _leads her out._] FATHER. Yes, it's high time you all went. Good-night, all of you! CHILDREN. Good-night, Papa! Good-night, Mamma! ROBIN [_runs to fireplace, and bends over, shouting_]. Good-night, Santa Claus! FATHER. Now, scamper, every one of you! [_Chases them out_, MOTHER _follows. Stage darkened somewhat. Enter the_ BROWNIE _suddenly, through fireplace. Stands (Center) for a moment, finger on lips, then rushes to door, peeps out, comes back, looks under table, and then, as if satisfied, goes to stockings, and stands examining them, feet wide apart, and hands on hips. Comes to_ FATHER'S, _measures it with his hands, then lifts it by the toe, and points to it, grinning. Doubles up with laughter. Suddenly puts his hand to his ear, and bends over, listening. Rushes to door, runs back, and vanishes in chimney. Enter_ TED.] TED [_softly_]. I just can't go to bed yet. Robin went to sleep the very minute he got into bed. Don't see how he could. Maggie thinks I'm all nicely tucked in, and she's gone downstairs. [_Goes to fireplace and looks up chimney._] I do wish I could catch Santa Claus. No signs of him yet, and I don't hear the sleigh-bells. I think I'll just sit down and wait. [_Crosses to his own chair, and sits facing audience, with one elbow on table._] I believe I could give Santa Claus a few pointers, anyway. [BROWNIE _puts his head out of fireplace, and then shows himself entirely, gradually creeping nearer and nearer_ TED, _as if irresistibly drawn by his remarks._] He does give people pretty much what they ask for, but [_slowly_] if he just stopped a minute to think about it, he'd find out what silly things they do think they want, sometimes. But [_sighs_] he's getting so old that he doesn't find it out at all. [BROWNIE, _behind him, raises his hands in horror, then shakes his fist at_ TED.] I really think it would be a good thing for Santa Claus to choose one person in each family to help him out,--with the planning, anyway, if he doesn't like to have anyone else fill the stockings. S'posing he chose me! I could help him a lot! [BROWNIE _springs excitedly on the table, and bends over_ TED, _shaking his fist in his face._] TED [_jumps up, and stands off a little way_]. Wow! Wha--wha---- Who are you? BROWNIE [_folds his arms and looks contemptuously down on_ TED]. _Who_ is this impertinent snip of a boy who dares to insinuate that my master, Santa Claus, is too old and decrepit to do his work any longer? TED. Indeed, indeed, I didn't say that! BROWNIE [_wrathfully_]. What did you say, then? It sounded very much like it. [_Shakes his head fiercely._] TED. I--I--I just said--that I think he makes mistakes sometimes. BROWNIE [_sitting down cross-legged on the table_]. Very well, we'll just have this matter settled at once. Sit down, now, and let me hear what you have to say. [TED _backs away from his chair._] No, that won't do. Sit down, I tell you. [TED _reluctantly obeys, pulling his chair to a safe distance, and sitting astride of it._] Now then, young sir, will you tell me what complaints you have to register against your last year's stocking? Wasn't everything in it that you asked for? TED [_anxious to appease_]. Oh, yes! and more, too! BROWNIE. And wasn't everything in it in perfect order? Was anything broken? TED [_emphatically_]. No! Everything was just out of sight! BROWNIE. And weren't all the cracks stuffed tight with candy and nuts and raisins? TED. I should say they were! BROWNIE. Then I'd like to know the meaning of this discontent! You twentieth-century boys are a set of ungrateful young scamps, who get the best of everything, and then complain of it, and break it up in three days' time. Santa Claus is spoiling you, _I_ say! Boys a hundred years ago were thankful for the slates and schoolbooks we gave them, and the girls were happy enough over corncob dolls. Now you must have steam-engines, and motors, and automobiles, and dolls that walk and talk, and are so full of cogs and wheels that no real flesh-and-blood little girl could love them at all. I tell you, in all my thousand years of existence, I have never met anything so grasping as the modern children! [_Talks so loud and gesticulates so wildly that_ TED _backs away again._] TED [_meekly_]. Please, Mr.--Mr. Brownie, I didn't mean that! Honest Injun, I didn't! BROWNIE. Well, then, explain yourself! TED. I--I--I was just thinking that people ask Santa Claus for such f-foolish things that it's a wonder he gives them anything at all. BROWNIE. Foolish! I should think they were! TED. And if there was anybody that could tell Santa Claus about it, it would save him a lot of trouble. BROWNIE. And you think you could manage things better, do you? TED. I didn't say that,--I said I would like to help. BROWNIE [_scratches his nose, scowling very hard_]. See here. Suppose I let you try. Santa Claus is unusually busy to-night, and is sending a great number of his Brownies out to fill stockings. I was to look out for this house, among several hundred others, and I--a--well, I have a fancy that I should enjoy letting you help. TED. Oh, _will_ you, really? BROWNIE [_jumping off table_]. Yes, I have about made up my mind to let you into the secrets of the business. You can learn a few things, I think. TED. Good for you! Thank you, ever so much. BROWNIE. Never mind. Wait till to-morrow before you thank me. [_Grins meaningly._] Now, let's be quick about this--the time is getting short. We'll just go over these lists together, and you can tell me what improvements to make. [_They go to the first stocking._] TED. Shall I get you a paper to write things down, so you won't forget? BROWNIE [_shouts angrily_]. Forget! TED. Yes, I thought maybe since you're so old---- BROWNIE. That shows all you know about it! Of course there's some excuse for _your_ forgetting, since your memory is only ten years long, but _mine's_ a thousand years long, and I never forget anything! Come, read me this list. TED [_reading_]. "Encyclopedia Britannica." Now Papa can't possibly want that, because he knows all about everything already. And besides, I heard Mamma say she hadn't a bit of room for any more books. "New knife." He did say his old one was dull, but it's altogether too sharp for Robin and me to use, and that's sharp enough for anybody! "New pocketbook." Why, he said the other day he hadn't any money to put into it, so I don't see what good that'll do him. "Key ring." If he has that, he'll put _all_ the keys on it, and there won't be any for Robin and me to drop lead through. [_Turns to the_ BROWNIE.] So, you see, there isn't a thing that he really wants on that list. BROWNIE. Oh, certainly not! TED. Now, Mamma's. "Half a dozen new bibs." Bibs! They don't belong on her list. She can't have that! "Little rocking-chair." Now, if she has a _little_ rocking-chair, there won't be any room for us on the arms of it,--that wouldn't do at all. "A rose vase." All her vases are broken now, and if she had another, Maggie'd just smash it, too, so what's the use in giving it to her? [_Turns to list._] What's all this at the bottom? "Most of all, five _good_ boys and girls to live with till next Christmas"! Jiminy Christopher, how _can_ she want five more? BROWNIE [_significantly_]. She didn't say "_more_." TED [_claps his hand over his mouth_]. Oh!... P'r'aps she didn't mean that! P'r'aps she meant _us_! [_Stares thoughtfully before him._] BROWNIE. Hurry up! Look at this one. TED. That's Kitty's. Let's see. "A boy doll and a girl doll." Now, don't you think Kitty's altogether too big for dolls? I suppose _little_ girls must have dolls, but they're terribly silly things. "Half a Dozen Girls." That's nothing but an old girl's book. Give her stories about fights and Indians and bears to read to us. "Paper dolls." There it is again. "Napkin ring." Now, that's the only sensible thing she's got down.... This one's mine. I won't stop to read that, because I only put down the things I've _got_ to have. Let's see if I can read Robin's. [_Puzzles over it._] BROWNIE [_reading_ TED'S _list_]. "Boxing-gloves. Baseball. Roller-coaster. Skates. Boots. Marbles." TED. Oh, now I see what it is. "Rubber boots." He doesn't need those. I'm going to have some new ones, and my others aren't much too big for him. "Marbles." He's got more marbles now 'n' any boy I know. "Top. Kite"--this isn't the time of year for those things. Never mind, I'll tell you what he wants in a minute. Now, Margie. "Dolls" again. She's got three dozen if she's got one! "Music-box." Pshaw! they just go and smash right away. "Paints." She'd paint up all the chairs and tables in the house and nobody would like it a bit. "Little stove"--that might be nice,--but I'm afraid she'd burn herself. You see, _she_ hasn't got anything good on her list, either. Now, Rose comes last of all. [_Looks at_ ROSE'S _list a moment._] Well, I guess Rosebud ought to have everything she's asked for. [_Turns to_ BROWNIE, _and the two walk away from the fire._] Now, didn't I tell you how it was? People want such silly things! Now, I'll tell you what to bring instead. [_Puts his arm across_ BROWNIE'S _shoulder, and whispers in his ear, pointing to one stocking after another._] ... Now, I guess that's all. It was awfully good of you to let me help, and I know they'll all be pleased. [_Walks around table, sits with his back to audience. Stretches his arms above his head, and yawns aloud._] I really believe I could go to sleep now. [_Drops his head on his hands._ BROWNIE _waves his wand above_ TED, _who gradually sinks down, head on arms, fast asleep._] BROWNIE. Now I guess he's in for a good night's sleep. Little scamp! He ought to have some kind of a trick played on him, but Santa Claus forbids any pranks on Christmas Eve. [_Crosses to fireplace._] What _shall_ I do about these stockings, anyway? These poor children are going to be dreadfully disappointed to-morrow if I keep my promise to that scallywag, Ted. Perhaps I'd better telephone Santa Claus about it. [_Takes up the toe of a stocking and speaks through it, moving it from mouth to ear as he speaks or listens._] Hello! Hello, there! North Pole! Please connect me with Santa Claus.... Hello, is that you, Santa? I want to consult you about some doubtful business.... Yes, sir, Mr. Bird's house.... His boy is making a dreadful mess with these stockings.... He wants them all filled with presents for himself.... What's that you say? Let him try it?... Be a good lesson for him?... All right, sir! Thank you. Any trouble with icebergs? No?... That's good.... All right, good-by! [_Drops stocking._] Well, I must see it through, then, I suppose. [_Takes down the stockings and carries them into the chimney two at a time. When the last is carried out, he brings them back in the same order, filled. To avoid delay, a double set is prepared, the_ BROWNIE _leaving the empty ones and bringing the full ones instead._] Well, he's pretty generous to himself, anyway. And he thinks it's all for their good! [_Walks over and stands looking at_ TED.] I'll just say good-night to you, now, young man.... No! before I go, I believe I'll give you a few Christmas dreams. [_Waves his wand and walks slowly to back of stage. Scene darkened, lights thrown on secondary stage, where the curtains part and reveal tableaux as the_ BROWNIE'S _song calls for them.[16] He stands at back, unseen. Raise curtain before the end of verse describing picture._] [Footnote 16: See note, p. 119.] BROWNIE'S SONG Air: "Fly, Little Birds."[17] [Footnote 17: "Songs and Games for Little Ones" (p. 89). See Suggestions for Carols, p. 315.] Come, Christmas dreams, from Fairyland! Come, at the beckoning of my wand. 'Tis Christmas Eve, so bring with you Bright holly-berries and mistletoe, too. I. Now first we have, all full of glee, A youth well known to you and me. His fondest hopes have now become Reality--he's found a plum! Tableau: Jack Horner. II. Dear Santa Claus we've always known, But Mrs. Santa, full of fun, Helps her good husband every year, Or else he'd never get done, I fear. Tableau: Mrs. Santa Claus. III. When Santa Claus was young and gay, And full of fun, like boys to-day, He learned that youth's the key to joy, And so, you see, he's still a boy. Tableau: When Santa Claus was young. IV. This little lad, with happy smile, Of toys and candies has a pile. Good Santa filled his stocking, so-- A Merry Christmas he has, I know. Tableau: "Merry Christmas." V. But there are children not far away, Who scarce know the meaning of Christmas Day. O share with these, ye whose plenteous store Can fill a dozen homes or more. Tableau: "No Christmas." VI. The Christmas Waits, in times of old, Sang carols sweet, though the night was cold, And wandered thus, from door to door, Till morning dawned, in days of yore. Tableau: The Christmas Waits. [_The curtain does not rise until the verse is ended, then shows empty stage. The_ WAITS _begin their carol behind the scenes, marching single file till the first couple is opposite the opening, when they turn, join hands, and enter two by two. The march of the_ WAITS _may be as simple or as elaborate as desired, or as the size of the stage permits. Or they may walk to the footlights, and stand there during a part of their song. The smallest couple should, of course, lead. The stage, darkened for the earlier tableaux, should be made bright for this march. At the end of the march, the_ WAITS _pass out as they entered, and the back curtain is dropped._][18] [Footnote 18: Carol used by Waits: "Noël! Noël! the Christ is born" (p. 62, "Songs and Games for Little Ones"). No better marching song can be found. See Suggestions for Carols, p. 315.] [_The_ BROWNIE _comes forward and stands by_ TED, _tapping him with the wand._ BROWNIE. Merry Christmas, Ted! It has come at last! [_Rushes away and vanishes in chimney._] TED [_sits up, stretches, yawns, rubs his eyes, and looks around_]. Why! I do believe I've slept here all night! [_Sits on table._] And, my! maybe you think I haven't been dreaming! Guess I'll go see what time it is. [_Goes to door, turns, and sees stockings._] Jiminy Christmas, just look at those stockings! [_Exit._] [_Enter_ NURSE _with duster. Sees stockings._ NURSE. Well, well! did I ever! Santa Claus has been pretty good to them this year. MARJORIE [_without, calling_]. Maggie! Maggie! Mamma says we may have our stockings right off now. Please bring them to us, quick! NURSE. That I will, Miss Margie, fast as ever I can! [_Lifts them down._] Crammed full, I declare! and heavy!--heavy as that good-for-nothing Bridget's cake! [_Exit_ NURSE. _Enter_ BROWNIE, _cautiously following her to door._ BROWNIE [_peeping out_]. I've got to see the end of this experiment! [_Flies back to chimney and hides._] [_Enter_ NURSE. NURSE [_dusting_]. Old Santa Claus is mighty good to these children. Fills up stockings like those, and then comes himself and brings a tree on top of all that. They must be pets of his. [_Enter_ TED _dejectedly, sits down, and drops his head on his arms._ NURSE. Dear, dear! whatever is the matter, Master Ted? TED [_darkly_]. Oh, go downstairs, Maggie, and you'll see! NURSE. Mercy on us! what's happened? [_Shakes him._] TED. Oh, dear, oh, dear! the children don't like their stockings! NURSE. What's that you say? TED [_very despairingly_]. Oh, go away! Go downstairs, and you'll see. NURSE [_in tragic tones_]. Such a thing never happened in this blessed house before! [_Rushes out._] TED [_sitting up_]. Oh, dear, what shall I do about it? It's just dreadful, and it's all my fault. [BROWNIE _pokes his head out._] They don't want my things, either, or I'd be glad to give them all I got. [_Puts his head down again. Enter_ KITTY, MARJORIE, _and_ ROBIN, _disconsolately. Girls sit by fire_, ROBIN _at table._] ROBIN. Well, Kitty, do you think Santa Claus couldn't _read_ our letters? KITTY. I don't know _what_ to think! MARJORIE. Well, how could he make such dreadful mistakes? ROBIN [_rubbing his eyes_]. Didn't bring one single thing I asked for--didn't bring a thing but books and puzzles! KITTY [_elbows on knees and chin in hands_]. Brought me a box of fishing tackle--and I just _hate_ to fish! MARJORIE [_putting handkerchief to eyes_]. He gave me big rubber boots--and I don't _like_ to wade in the brook--I'm afraid of _snakes_! [TED, _in the depths of woe, slips to the floor and rests his head on his chair._ ROBIN. Don't see why Ted feels so badly--Santa Claus gave him everything he asked for! KITTY. Yes, and Rosy's stocking was all right. I'm glad she got what she wanted--bless her little heart! MARJORIE [_suddenly_]. Oh, Kitty, what shall we do when Santa Clans comes and asks us how we liked them? KITTY. I don't care--I _can't_ thank him for those horrid old fish-hooks! ROBIN [_with decision_]. I'm just going to tell him he can take his puzzles and give them to some other boy! [_Enter_ FATHER _and_ MOTHER, _sharing the general gloom._ FATHER [_in a puzzled tone_]. It's the most singular thing! MOTHER. I never heard of Santa Claus making a mistake before. FATHER. Two empty cigar boxes in my stocking! TED [_aside, dismally_]. Those were for Robin and me to make lanterns of! FATHER. I'm sure I don't know who wants those! MOTHER. And a roll of the muslin I make sails of for the boys' boats, in my stocking! With some old rags! TED [_aside again_]. Kite-tails! FATHER. Well, Santa Claus has certainly lost his mind! MOTHER. Well, he'll be here very soon, and perhaps we shall find out what these queer presents mean. [_Looks at her watch._] Come, children, you must get your faces washed, and look as bright as you can for him. FATHER. Perhaps, after all, it's just some joke of his. [_Exeunt all but_ TED. TED [_jumping up_]. I know! I'll see Santa Claus first, and _beg_ him to take back these things---- [_Runs to fireplace, calling softly._] Oh, Santa Claus! Santa Claus! _do_ hurry! [_Sleigh bells in distance._] Oh, Santa Claus! SANTA CLAUS [_up chimney_]. Who's that I hear calling me? TED. It's me--me--me! Ted Bird! Oh, _please_ hurry! SANTA CLAUS. Yes, yes! But this chimney's such a tight squeeze! [_Loud jingling._] TED. Oh, please be quiet! Please don't make such a noise! [_Enter_ SANTA CLAUS, _through fireplace, bowing low to_ TED. SANTA CLAUS. Not make a noise? I'd just like to know who has a better right to make a noise than I? TED. Oh, yes, I know, but I _must_ speak to you before the others come in! [_Pulls up a chair, stands on it, and puts his arm across_ SANTA CLAUS' _shoulders._] SANTA CLAUS. What's all this secrecy about? TED. It's just this, Santa Claus. The Brownie let me help him last night, and I told him such nice things to put in the stockings, and now nobody likes them, and everything's in a terrible muddle! SANTA CLAUS. Oho! So you've been finding out that it isn't so easy, after all, to give people what they want, have you? TED. But, Santa Claus, I truly thought they would like it, and now it's just dreadful! What shall I do? If you'll only give them what they _do_ want, you can take back all my things! I wish you would! Don't you think you could, just for this once? [ROSE _runs in._] ROSE. Oh, Santa Claus! Santa Claus! [_Exit, calling._] Come, Papa, come, Mamma, here's Santa Claus! Robin! Marjorie! Kitty! [_Enter all. The older children hang back_, ROSE _runs to_ SANTA CLAUS _and stands by him._] FATHER [_shaking hands with_ SANTA CLAUS]. How do you do, sir, how do you do? MOTHER. We're very glad to see you again, Santa Claus. [_Motions others to come_, NURSE _also urging them in pantomime._] SANTA CLAUS [_patting_ ROSE'S _head, and looking at other children_]. I hear there are some children here who weren't pleased with what I brought them. How's this? [_Children turn away, and hang their heads in embarrassment._] SANTA CLAUS [_to_ FATHER]. What does this mean? Can you explain it, Mr. Bird? FATHER. Well--a--you see, the stockings really weren't filled after your usual thoughtful manner. SANTA CLAUS [_bursts into a loud laugh, at which the children turn in injured astonishment_]. Well, well! That's a good joke! KITTY [_in an injured tone_]. We didn't think it was a joke at all, Santa Claus. SANTA CLAUS. Well, my dear, you will when I tell you about it. You see, I had a new helper, last night, and it wasn't to be expected that one so new to the business wouldn't make some mistakes. Well, this one made a good many,---- [_to_ TED] didn't he? TED [_dolefully_]. I should think he did! He didn't do anything else at all! SANTA CLAUS. But when he found out about it, he felt very badly, indeed,---- [_to_ TED] didn't he? TED. He never felt worse in his life! SANTA CLAUS. So he came to me and begged me to fix the matter for him, and I've agreed to do it. He never suspected that I knew about it before he told me, but I did know, all the time, and so I've come prepared to make it up to you for all the trouble Ted caused---- ALL. _Ted!_ SANTA CLAUS. Yes, Ted. [_With pretended fierceness._] He meddled with my business last night. CHILDREN [_shocked_]. Oh, Santa Claus! SANTA CLAUS. But I'm going to forgive him, because I think he learned a good many things about Christmas while he was at it. And I never _could_ bear to see anyone unhappy when I pay my yearly call, so come along, children, come, Father and Mother Bird, and we'll see if we can't find something to suit you all under the branches of my Tree![19] [Footnote 19: See note on Tree, p. 314, and Tree-song, p. 315.] [_Unveiling of Christmas Tree follows. Children mingle with audience, and general distribution of presents takes place._ NOTES ON COSTUME, SETTING, AND PRESENTATION For the parents, nurse, and children, ordinary costumes. Adult parts taken by older girls and boy. Ages of children as indicated in cast. BROWNIE. Wears a close-fitting suit of dark brown canton flannel, with trimmings of lighter brown or tan--a small collar, cuffs, and a belt with long points. The shoes are long, with points turned up at the toes, and the cap, close-fitting, hides the hair and covers the neck at the back, but allows the ears to show. It is finished with a point (stuffed and wired to keep it upright) which comes from the back and curves above the head. All the Brownie's actions and motions should be startlingly sudden and swift. He should alternate between absolute stillness, and a quickness like a wild bird's. A great deal of humor can be put into the scene of disappointment over the stockings, especially by the older girls and boy who play the adult parts. Prepare a double set of stockings, one empty, the other filled; the Brownie carries out the empty ones, and returns with the full ones. As these are not examined on the stage, they may be stuffed with anything that is most convenient. Have in readiness a row of small hooks on the mantel, for hanging them. For SANTA CLAUS' costume, see note, p. 313. COSTUMES IN THE "DREAM" JACK HORNER. May be dressed, if desired, in Kate Greenaway style, but ordinary costume is all that is required. Jack recites the nursery rhyme, at the end pulling a large plum out of a brown paper pie. MRS. SANTA CLAUS. A plump little girl in a long dark dress, white apron and kerchief, big white cap with wide frill, and large spectacles on her nose. One hand holds the corner of her apron full of toys, the other is stretched out as if dispensing gifts to the children. YOUNG SANTA CLAUS. Little boy in boots, thick coat, toboggan cap and mittens, well covered with white cotton snow, and sprinkled at the last moment with diamond dust. He stands with one hand on a tall red chimney, the other just lifting his heavy pack of toys. Make chimney by covering a long dry-goods box with red, and painting bricks with ordinary black ink. Set on stage for this tableau. "Merry Christmas." Little boy, daintily dressed, his arms full of toys, with a drum, a horse, etc., piled at his feet. "No Christmas." A very ragged boy and girl. The boy stands with his left arm around his little sister, his right hand holding hers. The child looks up into his face confidingly. The Christmas Waits. Four boys and four girls between six and twelve years of age. These children may be elaborately dressed, after Seventeenth Century pictures, or very simply--the girls in white kerchiefs and caps, the boys in short capes of any dull black material, with steeple hats, made of cardboard covered with black. These children should have good voices for the carol, "Noël! Noël! the Christ is born!"[20] March as described in text. [Footnote 20: See note, p. 315.] These tableaux are arranged on a small stage or platform behind scene at back, upon which the light is concentrated, the main stage being darkened. Properties should be in readiness, and the children must be taught to take their poses quickly and without noise. For this small stage or platform a kindergarten table serves excellently, covered with dark green, a step being placed for the use of the Waits in their march. If practicable, a curtain made to match the scene, and rise for the tableaux, may be used, but plain curtains, hung like portières, and parting in the center, are also effective. Attention should not in any way be drawn to this curtain, in order that the first tableau may come as a surprise to the audience. The point of chief importance is that, whatever the arrangement of the curtain, it should work silently and without hitch. A PURITAN CHRISTMAS IN TWO ACTS CHARACTERS MISTRESS DELIGHT GOODSPEEDE. ROGER } MYLES } NATHAN } Her children. PATIENCE } PRUDENCE } EAGLEFEATHER, son of an Indian chief. ELDER JONATHAN HOPKINS } DEACON WILLIAM PORTER } GOODMAN JOHN TURNER } DOMINIE PETER COBB } GILBERT APPLETON, a hunter } MISTRESS SUBMIT WELLS } Colonists MISTRESS PRAISEVER PORTER } DESIRE PORTER } } and REUBEN TURNER } GERSHOM PORTER } JARED PERKINS } Children JANE PORTER } PRISCILLA WELLS } _The action takes place in a small New England village, not far from Boston, in the early days of the colonies._ [Illustration: PRUDENCE] [Illustration: EAGLEFEATHER] A PURITAN CHRISTMAS Suggested by a story in _St. Nicholas_ for December, 1880, by S.J. Prichard.[21] [Footnote 21: By courtesy of Miss K.A. Prichard and The Century Company.] ACT I TIME: _Evening of December 18th._ SCENE: _Kitchen in_ MISTRESS GOODSPEEDE'S _cottage, a simple and bare little room. Open fireplace[22] [R.], with exit beside it supposed to lead to loft. Back R., door; L., window, opening upon a desolate winter scene. L., door, leading to another chamber. Down L., a spinning-wheel. Furniture, a few plain chairs and stools, and a settle. By the window a table where little_ PRUDENCE _and_ PATIENCE _are washing the supper dishes._ PATIENCE _stands upon a stool in order to reach the dishpan more easily_, PRUDENCE _wipes the dishes and lays them on the table._ [Footnote 22: See note on Fireplace, p. 313.] PATIENCE [_severely_]. Prudence, if thee's not very careful, I know thee'll drop the platter! PRUDENCE. Oh, no! Patience, I'm being very careful. I wouldn't let it drop for anything. It's Mother's very best platter, too. PATIENCE. And if thee broke it, who knows if dear Mother could ever get a new one? She hath told me many a time she brought it with her from Old England, and she saith the like cannot be found here--even in Boston town. PRUDENCE [_gives it an admiring look, then lays it cautiously on the table_]. I'm sure it's the most beautiful platter that ever was seen. Are there many more dishes, Patience, dear? PATIENCE [_in a motherly tone_]. No. Poor little maid, I fear me thou'rt very weary. Here--just these cups, and I'll help thee. [_Gets down from stool and helps to wipe one or two cups._] Where are the boys, I wonder? You and I, Prudence, can never, never reach to put the dishes away on the shelf. PRUDENCE. No, but brother Roger or Myles can do it. Mother says they grow like tall weeds. PATIENCE. And the parson says they are brave striplings. [_Sighs._] I would I were tall and strong. Then I should never be afraid of---- PRUDENCE [_looks fearfully over her shoulder_]. Afraid of _what_, Patience? PATIENCE [_putting her arm around_ PRUDENCE]. Oh, never mind, Prudence, dear, not afraid of, of--_anything_. PRUDENCE [_pushes her back and shakes her finger_], I know, Patience, thee was going to say--Indians! Oh, Patience, doesn't thee wish Mother'd come home? [_Lays her head on_ PATIENCE'S _shoulder._ MYLES _and_ NATHAN _pass the window._] PATIENCE. Never mind, sister, here come Myles and Nathan. [_Enter the boys._] Myles, has thee seen Roger? NATHAN. Roger has gone to fetch our Mother home. PRUDENCE [_going to table_]. Oh, Myles, won't thee please put the dishes up for us? Patience and I are far too little. [NATHAN _and_ PRUDENCE _carry dishes one at a time to_ MYLES, _who puts them on mantel._ PATIENCE _wrings out her dishcloth._] MYLES. Where is Mother, Patience? PATIENCE. Mistress Submit Wells hath a fever, and after supper Mother went to see if there was aught she could do to help. NATHAN [_looking out of the window_]. I see Mother and Roger coming up the hill now. PATIENCE. Quick, Nathan! Empty the pan for us! [PATIENCE _opens the door for_ NATHAN, _who carries pan out._ PATIENCE _hangs up dishcloth in haste._] Mother must find everything neat when she comes. [_Re-enter_ NATHAN, _putting pan in cupboard or under table._ MYLES [_mockingly_]. Thou art a great housewife, Patience. PRUDENCE [_joyfully_]. Here they are! [_Enter_ MOTHER _and_ ROGER. PRUDENCE, PATIENCE, _and_ NATHAN _gather about her while she takes off her cape and follow her to the door (L.) when she puts it away._ ROGER, _hanging up his hat, goes to fire._ PATIENCE. How did thee find Mistress Wells, Mother? MOTHER. Much better to-night, daughter. PRUDENCE [_catching at her skirts_]. Thou'lt not go back, then, Mother? MOTHER. No, little Prudence, not to-night. ROGER. It's fearsome cold out. Do stir the fire, Myles. [_Warms his hands, while_ MYLES _stirs fire._] NATHAN. Then come sit down with us by the fire, Mother. Thee surely won't work any more to-night? MOTHER. I am willing, Nathan, but I must be knitting. With three great lads who wear out so many stockings, I am kept more than busy, even if the good parson did not exhort us never to be idle. [_Exit and re-enter with knitting._] PATIENCE [_drawing up her_ MOTHER'S _chair and arranging stools_]. Here, Mother, here's thy big chair. Prudence and I will get our stools. Oh, Roger, do get out of the way! Make haste! Thee's such a giant thee'll block the firelight out entirely. [ROGER _gets up and stands before the fire, while the_ MOTHER _sits down_, PRUDENCE _beside her with a corncob doll and_ PATIENCE _at her knee, also knitting._ MYLES _sits with his back against the chimney and_ NATHAN _lies at full length before the fire._ ROGER [_good-humoredly_]. What a pity thee didn't name that child _Im_patience, Mother. It would become her so much better. MOTHER [_while_ PATIENCE _bends her face low over her knitting_]. Does thee think it would make it any easier for her to be good, Roger? ROGER. Well, I'm glad thou gavest us good sober English names. I'm sure 'twould never help me to be good if I had been named Hate-Evil, like Elder Hopkins' son. Think of it--Hate-Evil Hopkins! MYLES. And if Father had called me Love-the-Truth or Have-Courage, instead of naming me after our fine Captain Standish, I know I never would have tried half so hard to be brave and truthful. MOTHER. _That_ was what Father cared for, Myles, whatever thy name might have been. ROGER. One of us is fitly named, at any rate, Mother, and that is thyself, Mistress Delight Goodspeede! [_Bows._] PATIENCE. Yes, Mother _is_ our Delight. MYLES. And everybody's else, too. MOTHER [_laughing_]. Take care, children, you will make me vain, and then the parson will preach a whole sermon about vanity, and call out in the midst of it, "Delight Goodspeede, stand forth!" ROGER. How terrible! [_All laugh._] NATHAN. He calleth vanity a light and shallow thing, but I'll warrant me he would turn his hour-glass at the least four times while he discoursed upon it. MYLES. More terrible still! [_All laugh again. A knock at the door._ ROGER _goes to answer it_, NATHAN _sits up with interest, and_ PRUDENCE, _who has been walking her corncob doll up and down, rushes to her_ MOTHER'S _chair._ ROGER [_his hand on the lock_]. Who knocks? INDIAN [_without_]. Eaglefeather! ROGER [_turning to his_ MOTHER]. Mother, 'tis the Indian boy you helped when he was wounded last winter. May I let him in? MOTHER. He hath always been friendly. Open for him, Roger. ROGER [_opening the door_]. Come in, Eaglefeather! Thou'rt right welcome. [_Enter_ INDIAN, _bow in hand._ MYLES _and_ NATHAN _go to him._ MOTHER. What does he want, Roger? Mayhap he is hungry. ROGER [_pointing to his mouth_]. Hungry, Eaglefeather? Want something to eat? Bread? INDIAN [_shakes his head_]. No hungry. Braves go hunt. [_Draws his bow._] Kill much, much, much deer. [_Spreads out his arms._] No hungry; cold. [_Folds his arms and shivers._] Can warm? [_Boys bring him to fire._] MOTHER. Yes, indeed; make room for him, boys. MYLES. He can stay as long as he likes, mayn't he, Mother? MOTHER [_smiles and nods at the boy_]. Yes, we know he is our friend. We trust him. NATHAN. Doesn't thee remember how he taught us to shoot, and make baskets for thee and the girls? INDIAN. Hmph! Eaglefeather teach young brave much more some day. Many, many new thing. NATHAN. Oh, that is good news. What things, Eaglefeather? INDIAN. Eaglefeather not tell. Eaglefeather show, to-morrow. Tired now. March long, long time. MOTHER. Yes, poor lad. Let him rest now, boys. [INDIAN _lies before fire_, ROGER _and_ MYLES _as before_, NATHAN _behind_ MOTHER'S _chair._ ROGER. Thou'rt always the one to think of making folks comfortable, Mother. What would Mistress Wells say if she saw Eaglefeather here now? MYLES. He never would be beside _her_ kitchen fire. NATHAN. Not if he was frozen stiff. MOTHER. For shame, boys; Mistress Wells hath been very kind to us. PATIENCE. I think she is a very sour-visaged woman, and I can't see why thee wants to help her. [MOTHER _gazes thoughtfully into the fire._ ROGER [_watching her_]. I know what Mother is thinking of! MOTHER. Tell us, then, Roger, if thou be a wizard. ROGER. Mother is thinking that in Old England this is Yule-tide---- MOTHER. Verily, I believe thou _art_ a wizard, Roger, for thou'st guessed aright! MYLES _and_ NATHAN. Tell us about the Yule-tide, Mother. PRUDENCE. Is _this_ the Christmas day, Mother? ROGER. No, Prudence. It's the twenty-fifth that is Christmas. Isn't it, Mother? MYLES. Just a week from to-day? MOTHER. Yes, children, just a week from to-day it will be Christmas in Old England. PATIENCE. But why did Mistress Wells make thee think of Christmas? MOTHER. 'Twas what Myles said about Mistress Wells and Eaglefeather here. 'Twas because Christmas in my father's home in Old England was the time of all others when people did kind and friendly deeds, when poor folks came to the houses of rich men without fear of being driven away, and our homes were open to all who needed food and warmth. PRUDENCE [_wonderingly_]. Why, then, Mother, I think it must have been like heaven! NATHAN. Mother, doesn't thee sometimes wish we were all back in England once more? MOTHER [_earnestly_]. Never wish that, my son. MYLES. Not after all the bitter cold winters and hardships here, Mother? MOTHER. 'Tis the very hardships we have endured that will build up a new and better England for us here, Myles---- But the Old Christmas was a happy time. [EAGLEFEATHER, _who has been sleeping, sits up, and from this point listens intently._ ROGER. Won't thee tell us more about it, then? MOTHER. I've told thee many times already, Roger, how the great Yule-log was brought in and lighted on Christmas Eve--such a monster log that it would burn until Twelfth Night. We always saved a bit of it, then, to light the next year's log. The old folks said that was for luck. All the young folks went out into the forest to gather the Christmas greens, holly, mistletoe, and long festoons of ground pine for wreaths. Ah, it was merry work, and the great hall in my father's house was a brave sight when we had decked it in the green. And on Christmas day we had our Christmas bough covered with shining candles and bright gifts for each other. PRUDENCE. How beautiful, Mother! MOTHER. And we were awakened at dawning by the poor children of the village singing their joyous carols beneath our windows. MYLES. How I wish I could hear them! ROGER. The singing in our meeting on the Sabbath isn't very joyful, is it, Myles? MYLES. Beshrew me if 'tis. This is the way the elders and deacons stand and sing. [MYLES _and_ ROGER _stand side by side, eyes closed and hands folded before them, droning an old psalm tune._][23] [Footnote 23: As the boys would hardly have been permitted to finish their song, the mother may leave the room before they begin, coming back to reprove them sharply when it is over.] Tune: "Windsor." My days consume away like Smoak Mine anguish is so great. My bones are not unlike a hearth Parched and dry with heat. Such is my grief I little else Can do but sigh and groan. So wasted is my flesh I'm left Nothing but skin and bone. Like th' Owl and Pelican that dwell In desarts out of sight I sadly do bemoan myself In solitude delight. The Ashes I rowl in when I eat Are tasted with my bread And with my drink are mixed the tears I plentifully shed. MOTHER [_rising_]. Roger and Myles, silence! I will not have this wicked mocking of our good elders. Haven't you heard the parson tell the story of how the bears ate the children who mocked Elisha? ROGER. Forgive us, Mother, we meant no disrespect. MYLES. But, verily, the sound of the singing maketh me almost as sad as the sight of the bears could. NATHAN. But, Mother, why do the good fathers never allow us to have a Christmas? ROGER. There can be no wrong in the things thou'st told us. Peace and good will and neighborliness. MOTHER. But that was not all, Roger. With the feasting and merriment came much that the good Puritan Fathers did well to abolish. PRUDENCE [_stands at_ MOTHER'S _knee_]. But, Mother, isn't a birthday always a happy day? [MOTHER _nods and smiles._] Then I should think the Lord Christ's birthday would be the very happiest day of all, and the good parson would like to have us sing and be joyful and glad. MOTHER [_kisses her_]. Thou'rt too little to understand it yet, my Prudence. [_Rises._] Come, we have sat too long with our talking. If our candles are not soon out, the tithing-man will be tapping at our door and reproving us. [_Leads the two little girls and_ NATHAN _to door (L.)_]. Come, children. Myles, see that the fire is safe. Roger, is the door fast? [MYLES _and_ ROGER _attend to the fire and the door._] INDIAN. Must Eaglefeather go now? MOTHER. Does thee think, lad, that savage though thou art, I would drive thee out into the bitter night? No, there is too much Yule-tide in our hearts for that! I have no bed for thee, but lay thee down by the fire and welcome. [_Begins to wind the clock._] Boys, bring in some straw for a bed---- Stay a moment. Straw will not do. A chance spark from the fire might light it, and burn the house above our heads. There is an old mat in the shed without. See if you can find it. [_Exeunt all three boys_; MOTHER _takes down candles from mantel and slowly extinguishes one; holds the other in her hand, absently snuffing it. Stands facing audience._ MOTHER [_musingly_]. I told little Prudence she was too young to understand, yet with my years, am I quite sure that I understand it myself? No, the good Fathers can never crush and kill the loving Christmas spirit. [_Enter boys, quietly arranging mat, on which_ INDIAN _stretches himself._ ROGER _goes to fasten door._] Why should little children _not_ be joyous and glad on the holy day? Why should not I _help_ them to celebrate it? [_Hesitates, then firmly and decidedly._] I believe--I _will_ do it! Boys, come here. [_Boys come to her side._ REUBEN TURNER _and_ GERSHOM PORTER _pass window, glance in curiously, then bend close, listening to all that is said._] Roger, what would thee and Myles say to a Christmas bough of our very own? MYLES. Oh, Mother! ROGER. Does thee mean truly, Mother? MOTHER. Of a truth I do mean it, Roger. ROGER. But, Mother, they will persecute thee---- MYLES. And drive us all into the wilderness---- ROGER. And with Father away on his ship, who could take care of thee? MOTHER. I have come into one wilderness before, Myles. I am not afraid. ROGER. But how can we do it, Mother? MOTHER. I will go up to Boston town to-morrow--I can easily walk there and back again before 'tis dusk--and buy what little things I may for gifts. I hear that a ship has but now come into port. MYLES. Doesn't thee wish it was Father's vessel, Roger? ROGER. _Then_ wouldn't we have a Christmas! MOTHER. 'Twill be many a weary month before Father's ship returns, I fear. But whatever this bark may be, she hath surely brought some small trinkets that will do for us. I'll find them and bring them home with me. Then on the day before Christmas thou and Myles must go into the woods and cut a small evergreen, as perfect a one as you can find. At dark on Christmas Eve you can bring it home, and when the children are in bed we will dress it. Then, early on Christmas dawn, before the neighbors are stirring, we will light it and wake the little ones. ROGER. But, Mother, they will surely find us out! MYLES. That Reuben Turner is always spying upon us. And so is Gershom Porter. [_Boys at window dodge below the sill._] ROGER. And, Mother, they think thou art only half a Puritan now, because thou canst sometimes smile and art not always stern and sour like the rest. MYLES. And they say thou art vain and frivolous because thou keep'st brazen fire-dogs and candlesticks instead of iron ones. ROGER. And dost not dress thy daughters in solemn black. MOTHER [_laughing_]. Do they say so? What a list of sins! [_Seriously._] With thee and Myles to help me I am not afraid. We will have our Christmas bough--no, not a bough, but a whole _tree_--if we needs must light it at midnight and cover the window with blankets! Now get quickly to bed in the loft. 'Tis shocking late! [_All turn to go, boys, R._, MOTHER _to door (L.)._ MYLES [_running after her_]. Mother, Mother! won't thee teach us some Christmas carols, some _real_ joyful ones--so I can forget about those bears? MOTHER. Yes, yes, Myles. Now go quickly. This shall be the first Christmas in New England. CURTAIN ACT II TIME: _Before dawn of December 25th._ SCENE: _Same as before. Stage quite dark except for firelight. Window covered with a blanket. Lights high on one side at back to represent moonlight when door is opened. Enter_ MOTHER _[L.] with a lighted candle. Goes to door [R.]._ MOTHER [_calling_]. Roger! Myles! Make haste. [_Looks at clock, arranges fire, examines blanket hurriedly._] MYLES [_softly_]. We're coming, Mother. [_Enter_ MYLES _and_ ROGER _(R.)._] ROGER. Are the others waked yet, Mother? MOTHER. Yes, they are dressing. Quickly now, bring in the tree whilst I see if they need help. [_Exit (L.), leaving candle on mantel. Boys open outer door._] ROGER. How cold it is. See, Myles, the moon hath not yet set. MYLES. Yes, yes. Come, Roger. [_Disappear (L.)._] [REUBEN TURNER _and_ GERSHOM PORTER _at door, look cautiously in, then peer around after the boys._ REUBEN [_softly_]. I see naught of any Christmas bough. GERSHOM. Yet we surely heard them planning---- How angry the parson would be. I believe he would even drive them away like the Quakers. REUBEN. My father bade me look and bring him word if what they said was true. GERSHOM. Beshrew me, if they haven't covered the window so that none may see them. [MYLES _and_ ROGER _heard returning with exclamations "Have a care!" "Gently now!" etc._ REUBEN _and_ GERSHOM _hide themselves without. Enter_ ROGER _and_ MYLES _with the tree already decked and fastened in a small wooden box, which they place in center of stage. Their backs turned_, REUBEN _and_ GERSHOM _appear again at door, hold up their hands in horror, whisper together, and make signs of caution. Watch until_ MOTHER _appears, then they vanish._ MYLES. There: we got it in quite safely, Roger. Dost think the Christmas boughs in England could have been prettier? ROGER [_at door_]. Mother, we're ready now. [_Enter_ MOTHER, _taking candle again._ MOTHER. Roger, Roger! shut the door at once, careless boy! Art mad? [ROGER _fastens door._] The children are nearly ready and grow impatient. Make torches, both of you, and help me to light the candles. [_Boys take splinters of wood from the fireplace and all go about the tree, lighting candles, arranging gifts more firmly, etc., while_ PATIENCE _and_ PRUDENCE, _without, sing "Waken, Christian Children."_ WAKEN, CHRISTIAN CHILDREN[24] [Footnote 24: See note on Carols, p. 315.] (From "Christmas Carols New and Old," Novello & Company.) Waken, Christian children, Up, and let us sing, With glad voice, the praises Of our new-born King. Come, nor fear to seek Him, Children though we be; Once He said of children, "Let them come to Me." In a manger lowly, Sleeps the Heavenly Child; O'er Him fondly bendeth Mary, Mother mild. Haste we then to welcome, With a joyous lay, Christ, the King of Glory, Born for us to-day. (There are additional verses, and this hymn is to be found in various collections. A slightly different version is in Eleanor Smith's "Songs for Little Children," Part I.) NATHAN [_without_]. Can't we come now, Mother? MOTHER. One moment, children! PATIENCE. It grows light, Mother. I'm afeared. Mustn't we hasten? MOTHER. Presently, presently! Is all ready, Roger? MYLES. Yes, every candle. MOTHER [_going to door (L.)_]. Come, now! [_Enter_ NATHAN, PATIENCE, _and_ PRUDENCE _(L.), the girls singing first verse of their song._ PATIENCE [_breaking off_]. _Oh_, Mother! NATHAN. How beautiful! PRUDENCE. Oh, Mother, it feels like a dream! MOTHER [_bending over her and leading her near_]. It is no dream, little daughter. Come near and see. [PRUDENCE _timidly touches one branch with her finger._ PRUDENCE [_turning quickly and looking up to her_ MOTHER]. Oh! it _is_ real! MYLES. Of course it is real. A real Christmas Tree. ROGER [_folding his arms_]. Now I feel like a real Englishman! NATHAN. Is this like the boughs thee remembers when thee was a little girl, Mother? MOTHER. As much like as I could make it, Nathan. Except that I like this one even better. PATIENCE. Oh, see the pretty presents! Oh, did Eaglefeather make these lovely baskets for us? MYLES. Yes, and that's why he wouldn't let thee see what he was working on. NATHAN. But where _is_ Eaglefeather, Myles? ROGER. We can't think where he is. He didn't come back last night. PATIENCE. Oh, I don't want him to miss it! MYLES. Hark! [_A bob-white is heard without._] That's his whistle now. MOTHER. Open cautiously, Myles. [MYLES _and_ ROGER _open door a little and close it as soon as the Indian has slipped through._ PATIENCE _and_ PRUDENCE _run to draw him to the tree._ PATIENCE. See, Eaglefeather! Just see our Christmas Tree! PRUDENCE. Isn't it _beautiful_, Eaglefeather? INDIAN. Beautiful! Eaglefeather think like many stars! [_Points to candles, then touches something shining._] Like sun shining on snow fields. MYLES. Now, Mother, can't we sing our carol? MOTHER. Yes, Myles, and then it will be more than ever like Old England. [_All sing "Come Ye Lofty." At the end of second verse a sound of great knocking, shouting, and calls of "Open! Open! Mistress Goodspeede."_ PATIENCE _and_ PRUDENCE _hide behind their_ MOTHER, NATHAN _stands at her side_, MYLES _and_ ROGER _seize sticks, and_ EAGLEFEATHER _draws a small tomahawk._ PATIENCE _and_ PRUDENCE. 'Tis Indians! ROGER. 'Tis no Indians, 'tis the colonists! MYLES. They've found us out! [_Noise continues._ TURNER _and_ PORTER. Open! open there! MISTRESS WELLS. I see the light---- DESIRE PORTER. It shines through the cracks here---- DOMINIE COBB. Verily none need hope to conceal evil! TURNER [_knocking louder_]. Open! open! MISTRESS PORTER. Shut in like wolves---- GERSHOM. Yea--like wolves in a cage---- REUBEN. I told thee the window was covered. JARED. Mayhap the house is afire! ELDER HOPKINS. Hold, friends! [_Silence without._] Mistress Goodspeede, in the name of the _Governor_ I command you to open for us! ROGER [_looking to his_ MOTHER]. _Must_ I, Mother? MOTHER [_huskily_]. Open for them, Roger. [ROGER _opens the door and all but_ GILBERT APPLETON _press in. Chorus of scandalized exclamations, "Oh, oh!"_ PORTER. What is the meaning of this, woman? DOMINIE COBB. Do not attempt to deceive us! TURNER. Answer. MISTRESS WELLS. She hath not a word to say for herself. MISTRESS PORTER. Ah! we always knew she was not one of the elect! REUBEN. And they have even one of the hateful savages with them! GERSHOM. Who would harbor the wretches? DESIRE [_pulling her mother's sleeve_]. But, Mother, see how pretty it all is! PRISCILLA. Oh, the beautiful tree! And gifts, too! JANE. I would it were my little tree. Doesn't thee wish so, Desire? DOMINIE COBB. Dost see, woman, how swiftly thy ungodly example doth work to corrupt these wenches? MISTRESS PORTER. Silence, Desire! [_She and_ MISTRESS WELLS _try to hustle the children out of sight of the tree._] ELDER HOPKINS. Speak, woman, and tell us the meaning of this. PATIENCE [_timidly_]. Please, sir, 'tis--'tis--'tis a Christmas Tree! PORTER. We knew it! TURNER. Aye, my son Reuben hath told us. He heard them speaking of it not a week since. PORTER. And Gershom, too--they have kept good watch upon these evil-doers. MYLES [_angrily, to_ REUBEN]. So thou wast listening at the window. _Sneak!_ REUBEN [_blustering_]. And may not the King's subject walk upon the King's highway, Sir Cocksparrow? ROGER [_shaking his fist at boys_]. Methinks 'twill take the King's soldiers to protect thee when once we catch thee---- GERSHOM. We'll show thee, thou blusterer, if we be not as free as thou! [TURNER _and_ PORTER _seize_ REUBEN _and_ GERSHOM _and draw them back._ MOTHER [_sternly, touching_ ROGER'S _shoulder_]. Peace, Roger and Myles. Is this the Christmas spirit we talked of but now? ELDER HOPKINS [_severely_]. Woman, dost thou forget that we fled from England for this very cause, that we might escape and save our children from just such sinful folly as this? How darest thou, with these baubles and fripperies, bring temptation into our very midst? I know of no punishment too severe for such evil examples! Not the ducking-stool, nor the stocks, nor even banishment itself---- [_Shakes his finger threateningly, at the same time going a step nearer to her. Enter_ GILBERT APPLETON, _remaining in background._] EAGLEFEATHER [_springing before_ MISTRESS DELIGHT _with lifted tomahawk_]. Stop! stop! No hurt good Squaw. Listen! Me tell. Me Eaglefeather. Father big chief--Bald Eagle. She good, kind squaw. Take Eaglefeather in, feed, make warm, make hurt foot well. Teach Eaglefeather be good Indian. Eaglefeather go home camp. All braves say "This night go burn village." Eaglefeather find Bald Eagle. Say, "Not burn village. Good people. Indian's friend. Good squaw. Kind to Eaglefeather." Bald Eagle listen. Eaglefeather tell about Tree. Say this Christmas Day. Good Day. Nobody hurt nobody. Bald Eagle listen. Say tell braves. Not let braves burn village. Now, now! Not hurt kind squaw! [_Folds his arms proudly._] GILBERT APPLETON [_coming forward_]. Every word the lad says is true, sir! ALL. Gilbert Appleton! What does he mean! How does thee know? GILBERT. Because I was there. Good friends and neighbors, you all know that I, Gilbert Appleton, have been much among the savages. I know their speech, and their ways. Bald Eagle's tribe have always seemed friendly, but two days ago, when I was hunting with my match-lock near their camp, they made a prisoner of me and kept me there until just now. What Eaglefeather here hath told you is true. They would have burned the village if he had not begged the chief for the sake of Mistress Delight's great kindness to spare it. Good neighbors, 'tis my belief that this little Christmas tree hath saved us all! [_During his story all hang upon his words, drawing close and shuddering at the thought of a massacre, and sighing with relief at the end._] ALL. Strange! Wonderful! Did'st ever hear the like! GILBERT. And, furthermore, the savages, who meant to make me guide them by the quickest way into our village, were moved to set me free at midnight and I have but now made my way back to you! TURNER. Unheard-of forbearance! DOMINIE COBB. Can we credit our ears! MISTRESS WELLS. 'Tis like a miracle! MISTRESS DELIGHT. 'Tis not so strange, either. We do not, we cannot know how much power even a very little good will and friendliness may have. I but thought to make my children happy, and because I loved my dear home in Old England I told them of customs there. PRUDENCE. Mother, I would like to tell the good Elder something. PATIENCE [_aside_]. He will only say thou art a forward wench, Prudence. PRUDENCE. Will he, Mother? Will he frown and say, "Children should be seen and not heard"? ELDER HOPKINS. Nay, my little maid. I will listen gladly. [PRUDENCE _goes to him and puts her hands in his._ PRUDENCE [_earnestly_]. We didn't think it could be wrong, good Elder. Mother said it was the Lord's birthday, and we couldn't help being glad about that, could we? And Mother taught us a song about it. ELDER HOPKINS. Then will you sing it for us, little maids? [PRUDENCE _and_ PATIENCE, _hand in hand, sing their carol once more, while_ MYLES _and_ ROGER _go to_ REUBEN TURNER _and_ GERSHOM PORTER _and in pantomime apologize and shake hands with them._ MISTRESS PORTER. Good friends, these little maids and their song do touch my heart. TURNER. Truly, when we sought to bring truth and righteousness to the new land, I fear we were forgetting charity. JARED. Was Christmas like this in Old England? JANE. My Mother would never tell me of it. PRISCILLA. I would it were so here! PATIENCE. Mother made the tree for us, but we'd like to give you all something from it. May we, Mother? MOTHER. We will gladly share it if the good Elder will forgive any harm we may have done. ELDER HOPKINS. Mistress Delight, I have been thinking that perhaps we have grown over hard and stern. [_Unhindered now, the children draw close to the little tree._ DEACON PORTER. There was much that was good in the old ways, after all. ELDER HOPKINS. I will take a sprig in memory of the happy Christmases in Old England. MISTRESS WELLS. Perhaps we may e'en keep what was good in the old ways here in this New England. I'll take a bit of green, too. ALL THE OTHERS. And I, too. And I! MISTRESS DELIGHT. For the sake of the happy Christmases of old, and the homes we left, and more than all for the sake of the very first Christmas Day of all, let us sing one of the dear old carols we have loved so long. ELDER HOPKINS. Willingly, Mistress Delight. [_All sing "Come Ye Lofty,"[25] and while singing come forward and take bits of green from the Tree, which_ GILBERT APPLETON, REUBEN TURNER, _and_ ROGER _cut for them._ [Footnote 25: See note on Carols, p. 316.] CURTAIN NOTES ON COSTUME AND STAGING Grown people, whose parts are taken by boys and girls from seventeen to twenty, and children, are dressed alike--men and boys in knee-trousers, coats with square white collars and cuffs, large belt- and shoe-buckles, broad-brimmed felt hats, with crowns high and flat. If the costumes are to be fully carried out, all should wear wigs, cropped round. Or they may be worn by the Elders only. Women and girls wear plain dark-colored dresses, with rather full skirts, the children's as long as their mothers'. White kerchiefs, capes, and hoods, of dark colors with bright scarlet or gray-blue linings. The hoods are large and loose, with the edge turned back, giving color about the face. Mistress Delight, Patience, and Prudence wear white caps instead of the hoods. Pictures of Puritan costumes are easily found in the Perry or Brown collections. These costumes are best made of canton or outing flannel. Buckles can be made of cardboard and covered with silver paper, or cut from tin. INDIAN. Suit made of tan canton flannel, fringed at edge of coat, sleeves, and trousers, with a band of fringe up and down arms and legs. He wears moccasins, beads, and a feather head-dress on his black wig. He carries bow and arrows, and a wooden tomahawk. A quiver can be made of a good-sized mailing-tube. He must have Indian make-up. HUNTER'S dress is more like the Indian's than like the colonist's, but he does not wear his hair long, and his suit should be trimmed with furs, not fringe. Fur cap with tail hanging down at back. He carries an old gun, not a bow. Mistress Delight's children range from Roger, twelve years old, down to little Prudence, five. The Indian is a boy of Roger's age. The hunter, sixteen or seventeen. The little Christmas tree should be a very "homemade" one. Strings of popcorn and cranberries, spools and balls covered with bright paper, may be used for decorations, Indian baskets, and such toys as the little Puritans might have made, or any little quaint and old-fashioned trinkets to carry out this idea. Only white candles should be used, and these fastened on in the simplest and most unobtrusive manner. The singing of the old psalm should be made as doleful and droning, even nasal, as possible. It can be sung to the Scotch tune of "Windsor," which is to be found in most hymn-books. The number of verses used may be determined by the amusement and applause of the audience. The boys who sing it must on no account allow themselves to laugh. The charm and picturesqueness of the stage will be greatly enhanced if quaint old-time household articles can be borrowed or manufactured for properties--bellows, lantern, candlesticks, andirons, an old foot-stove--above all, a warming-pan, which the mother fills at the fire and carries out when she takes the younger children to bed. The dishes and platter so much admired by Patience should be rather conspicuously ugly. Finally, a word in regard to the old-time English. When the play was first given it was feared that the children would find it a stumbling-block, and that it would have to be dropped. Quite the reverse proved to be the case, however, and the children all gave their lines with delightful naturalness and evident enjoyment. This has been equally true of other groups of children by whom the play has since been given. They show no awkwardness in the use of the old forms, but seem to feel that it carries them out of the everyday, and makes danger and adventure real to them. THE CHRISTMAS MONKS IN THREE ACTS CHARACTERS THE ABBOT } FATHER ANSELMUS } FATHER GREGORY } FATHER AMBROSE, the Leech } The Brethren of FATHER SEBASTIAN } the Convent. FATHER FELIX } FATHER HILARION, in charge of the comic toys } THE PRINCE. COURTIER. COURT LADY. GEOFFREY, 1st Page. HUMPHREY, 2nd Page. PETER } ROSALIA, Peter's Little Sister } GILBERT, the Carpenter's Apprentice } ROBIN, the Forester's son } Village children. WALTER, the Miller's boy } ANNETTA } MARIANNA } MISTRESS SPINNING } PEGGY SPINNING } Village mother and child. MISTRESS LONGLANE } DOLLY LONGLANE } From a distant village. PETER'S FATHER. PETER'S MOTHER. [Illustration: THE PRINCE] [Illustration: PETER AND THE PRINCE] THE CHRISTMAS MONKS From a story by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.[26] [Footnote 26: By permission of Mrs. Freeman and of Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.] ACT I TIME: _The 10th of April._ SCENE: _Country road leading by the Convent. R., an angle of the Convent Wall. On it a large sign trimmed with evergreens, "Wanted, by the Christmas Monks, two good boys to assist in garden work. Applicants will be examined by_ FATHERS ANSELMUS _and_ GREGORY, _on April 8th, 9th, and 10th." Enter (R.)_ MISTRESS LONGLANE _and_ DOLLY, _wearily, as if at the end of a long journey._ MISTRESS LONGLANE _carries a large basket._ DOLLY _hangs back._ MISTRESS LONGLANE [_rather crossly_]. Now, Dolly Longlane, what with your stopping to gather flowers by the roadside, or to watch the clouds, or to listen to the birds in the hedges, we'll never reach our journey's end. Make haste, now! DOLLY [_tearfully_]. But, Mother, it's such a long, long way, and I'm _so_ tired. MISTRESS LONGLANE [_relenting_]. So you are, poor lamb. Well, a few moments can't make a very great difference, so sit ye down on the basket and take a rest. [_Puts basket down (L.), and seats_ DOLLY _on it, wipes her own face, straightens her bonnet, and then looks about her. Sees sign, at which she glances indifferently, then with interest, at last with amazement. Reads through, then takes out spectacles and reads again._] MISTRESS LONGLANE. Now, what may be the meaning of _this_? DOLLY. What is it, Mother? MISTRESS LONGLANE [_reads sign to_ DOLLY]. The Christmas Monks? What manner of men are the Christmas Monks? Here comes some good dame from the village. I'll make bold to ask. [_Enter_ MISTRESS SPINNING, _with little_ PEGGY _(L.)._ MISTRESS LONGLANE [_courtesying_]. Good morrow, Mistress. Have you a moment to spare for a stranger in the country? MISTRESS SPINNING [_courtesying_]. Yes, indeed, Mistress, and right gladly. Make your manners, Peggy. [PEGGY _courtesies first to_ MISTRESS LONGLANE _and then to_ DOLLY, _who rises from the basket and courtesies, too._ MISTRESS LONGLANE. Why, Mistress, I am minded to ask the meaning of this strange sign that hangs upon the wall. MISTRESS SPINNING. Oh, you must indeed be a stranger in the land if you have never heard of the Christmas Monks. If you have come to make your home in our village, you'll soon learn, I'll warrant me, that this is the home of the Christmas Monks who keep the gardens in which all the Christmas toys are grown. MISTRESS LONGLANE. The Christmas toys! DOLLY. Why, I thought Santa Claus brought them all. MISTRESS SPINNING. So he does, my dear. He takes them to the children, of course, but this is the garden where he comes to load his sleigh. MISTRESS LONGLANE. You don't say! PEGGY [_shaking her finger_]. You never can see inside, but that garden is just full of toys. Oh, don't you wish we could peep in! [_Both children run in search of holes or cracks, stretch their arms towards the top, and stand on tiptoe, vainly, finally coming back to listen to the conversation of their mothers._] MISTRESS SPINNING. Yes, the Christmas Monks have a wonderful garden with beds for rocking-horses, beds for dolls, beds for drums, and picture-books and skates and balls. They do say so, that is; of course, I've never seen the inside. And the seeds are just the tiniest bits of dolls and drums and balls, and the rest of it. So little that you can hardly see them at all. MISTRESS LONGLANE. What do the Monks do? MISTRESS SPINNING. Why, they plant the seeds, and take care of the garden, and see that the toys are all ripe and ready for good old Santa Claus by Christmas time. PEGGY. And that's not all, Mother. They have turkey and plum pudding _every_ day in the year! [_Hugs herself._] DOLLY. Oh, my! PEGGY. And it says "Merry Christmas" over the gate. MISTRESS SPINNING. Yes, and every morning they file into the chapel and sing a Christmas carol, and every evening they ring a Christmas chime. PEGGY. And they have wax candles in all the windows every night. MISTRESS LONGLANE. Why, it's like Christmas every day in the year! DOLLY. Aren't you glad we've come to live in this village, Mother? [_Clasps her hands._] MISTRESS LONGLANE. That I am, my dear. Why, it's enough to make one laugh just to hear of it. MISTRESS SPINNING. That it is, Mistress. You're quite right. The Christmas Monks are so full of the Christmas spirit that it lasts them all the year round, and they just go about putting heart into them that get sad and discouraged. But I think I see some of the children coming for the examination. MISTRESS LONGLANE. Ah! Yes. That's to take place this afternoon? MISTRESS SPINNING. Yes, this is the last afternoon of it. The good Fathers have already held two examinations and, will you believe it? [_Coming closer and speaking very impressively._] They haven't found two boys who are good enough yet, though they've examined _hundreds_. [_Enter_ ANNETTA _and_ MARIANNA, _talking together._ ANNETTA. Oh, Marianna, don't you wonder whom the good Fathers will choose? MARIANNA. Yes, indeed, I do, Annetta. Why, there aren't very many more boys to examine. ANNETTA. No, nearly all the boys in the kingdom have tried. MARIANNA. But they're all naughty in some way or other. ANNETTA. Oh, don't you wish it was two _girls_ the Fathers wanted? MARIANNA. Oh, don't I! Ssh! Here comes Peter with his little sister Rosalia. [_Enter_ PETER _and_ ROSALIA. PETER. Here are some flowers I picked for you, sister. ROSALIA. Thank you, Peter. PETER. See, sister, that's the sign, and the Monks come right here to examine the boys. ROSALIA. Oh, Peter, I wish they'd take you to work in the Christmas garden! PETER. There isn't much chance of that, I'm afraid. But, come, sister, I'd better take you home. You might get hurt in the crowd. [_Exit (L.)_, PETER _bowing politely as he passes the women._] ANNETTA. Marianna, why wouldn't Peter try? MARIANNA. He's going to try to-day, I believe. He wouldn't before because he is so modest. ANNETTA. But he's the very best boy in the village, and so good to his parents and his little lame sister! [_Enter_ GILBERT, ROBIN, _and_ WALTER; _all stand, hands in pockets, before the sign, and read it in silence._ GILBERT. I wish we had been examined yesterday. I hate not to know about it. ROBIN. Well, perhaps we'll have a better chance to-day. WALTER. Yes, there aren't so many of us to choose from. GILBERT. I suppose the boys that get in there can have all the tops and balls they want. ROBIN. Every day in the year. WALTER. Why, all you'd have to do would be to pick them! MISTRESS LONGLANE [_looking out L._]. Why, what's this coming down the road? MISTRESS SPINNING. Why, mercy on us, 'tis the Prince. He must be coming to try the examination. CHILDREN [_in hushed voices, crowding to see, peeping over each other's shoulders_]. The Prince! The Prince! The Prince! [_Enter_ COURTIER. COURTIER [_with an impatient gesture_]. Ssh--ssh--ssh! Out of the way there! Make way for his Royal Highness! [_Stands aside, bowing. Enter_ PRINCE, _his cloak held by two pages, followed by the_ COURT LADY, _by whom the_ COURTIER _takes his place. Villagers fall back, courtesying and bowing._ PRINCE _stands with folded arms and haughty air reading sign and looking about him. Pause._ PRINCE. Well, I see no Monks. Am I to be kept waiting here all day? COURTIER [_bowing low_]. Your Highness, the hour set has not yet---- PRINCE [_interrupting angrily_]. I say I will not be kept waiting. What will my father the king say when he hears I have been kept standing in the highway with a rabble of common peasant children? COURT LADY. Oh, your Highness, condescend to have a little patience! PRINCE [_more angrily_]. I will _not_ have patience. Patience is not a virtue for Kings and Princes. [_Taps his foot on the ground._] COURT LADY [_nervously looking up the road_]. Oh, but think of something else--think of--think what a pleasant day it is! PRINCE [_scowling prodigiously_]. Pleasant day, indeed! COURTIER. Here they come, your Highness! COURT LADY [_full of relief_]. Oh, yes! Here they come. Here they come! [_Enter_ FATHERS ANSELMUS _and_ GREGORY _(R.), followed by_ SEBASTIAN _and_ FELIX; _at same time enter_ PETER _(L.). Monks walk with hands clasped before them. Villagers all doff caps, bow, and courtesy. Even the_ PRINCE _is awed into respect. The Fathers look about smilingly._ GREGORY. Well, well, Brother Anselmus, there seems quite a goodly number awaiting us to-day. ANSELM [_rubbing his hands_]. Yes, Brother Gregory. I trust we shall discover the right boys at last. Let me see. [_Looks about, aside._] I suppose we should examine his Royal Highness first? GREGORY. Truly, my Brother. Let us commit no breach of etiquette. ANSELM. Your Highness! [_Monks bow very slightly._ PRINCE _and attendants advance a little._] How old are you? COURTIER [_haughtily_]. His Royal Highness has just completed his eleventh year. GREGORY. Indeed! And is he a good boy, as boys go? COURT LADY. "As boys go," indeed! Why, his Royal Highness is not to be mentioned in the same day with common boys! ANSELM. Oh! Then you are not like other boys? COURTIER _and_ COURT LADY [_bowing to_ PRINCE]. A wonderful child, your worships! GREGORY. Then he doesn't often do anything wrong? COURTIER. Wrong? Oh, _never_, your worship! COURT LADY. He never did a wrong thing in all his sweet life. [_Clasps hands and casts up her eyes._] ANSELM. Is he diligent? What about his lessons? COURTIER. He doesn't _need_ to study. COURT LADY. A most brilliant intellect! GREGORY. Well, well, well, Anselmus, I think we must try this paragon. [_They put their heads together._] GEOFFREY, 1ST PAGE. He just smashes his toys! HUMPHREY, 2ND PAGE. And he beats his dogs! COURTIER _and_ COURT LADY. Horrors! [_They turn and each boxes the ear of the nearest page._] GEOFFREY. And when he's angry he kicks and screams! HUMPHREY. And he won't mind even the King, his father! [COURTIER _and_ COURT LADY _each clap a hand over a Page's mouth._ COURTIER [_aside to_ LADY]. Such disrespect! COURT LADY [_aside to_ COURTIER]. Such indiscretion! ANSELM. Your Royal Highness is accepted. Now, Brother Gregory, we will continue the examination. First boy! [_The_ PRINCE _and his train fall back slightly._ GILBERT _steps forward._ GREGORY. Your name? GILBERT. Gilbert, the Carpenter's apprentice. ANSELM. Are you a good boy? GILBERT [_doubtfully_]. I guess so, sir. GREGORY. Do you always speak the truth, Gilbert? GILBERT [_stammering_]. W-w-w-well, nearly always. ANSELM. Tut-tut-tut! That won't do at all. _Always_ speak the truth, my boy. I am afraid we can't take you. Next. [GILBERT _steps back, hanging his head._ ROBIN _comes forward._ GREGORY. Name? ROBIN [_in a small, frightened voice_]. Robin, the Forester's son. ANSELM. Don't be afraid, Robin. So you are the Forester's son. Ah-h! Hum, hum-m-m! Are you kind to animals, Robin? ROBIN. Oh, yes, sir. My father teaches me to be good to them always. [GREGORY _bends over and whispers to_ ANSELM. ANSELM. Robin, answer me truthfully. Did you ever rob a bird's nest? [ROBIN _hangs his head and works his toes about._ ANSELM. Did you do this? ROBIN [_rubbing his eyes_]. Yes, Father, I did. GREGORY. Too bad, too bad. Now I _am_ sorry to hear this. ANSELM. So am I, Gregory, but you see it won't do! [ROBIN _goes to stand by_ GILBERT, _still rubbing his eyes._ GREGORY. Next boy. [WALTER _steps forward._] Name? WALTER. I am Walter, the Miller's boy, and I help my father in the mill. ANSELM. That is right, Walter; we approve of that. GREGORY. You are diligent in the mill. How about lessons? WALTER. Well--I go to school---- ANSELM. Are you at the head of your class? WALTER. N-n-n-no, sir. ANSELM. Second, then? WALTER. N-n-no, sir. GREGORY. Well, well, where are you, then? At the foot? WALTER. Y-y-yes, sir. ANSELM. Tut-tut! [_Shakes his head._] What a pity! Are there any more boys, Gregory? [WALTER _crooks his elbow over his eyes and stands by_ ROBIN. GREGORY. One boy, Brother Anselmus. ANSELM. Ah! yes. I have seen this boy before, I think. Isn't this boy named Peter? PETER. Yes, sir. MISTRESS SPINNING [_coming suddenly forward and courtesying_]. And a better boy never lived, your reverence, if you'll excuse me for mentioning it. ANSELMUS. Certainly, Dame, certainly. We shall be very glad to hear what you know about Peter. MISTRESS SPINNING. It's just this I know, sir. He's a good, hard-working, honest boy, sir, and very obedient to his parents. PEGGY. He takes good care of his little sister---- MARIANNA. And he never teases little girls---- ANNETTA. And he's at the head of his class in school---- GILBERT. And the teacher likes him---- ROBIN. So do all the boys---- WALTER. So does everybody in town! GREGORY. Well, well, Brother Anselmus, it does seem as if we had found a good boy at last, doesn't it? ANSELM. Yes, Brother Gregory, this is surely the right boy for us. And now that Peter and the Prince are accepted, let us return to our Convent and resume our exercises there. Come, boys. [_Children all clap loudly. Monks form a procession_, PETER _falls in behind, and the_ PRINCE _gives his hand haughtily to be kissed by his attendants, then struts after. Exeunt, the Monks chanting._ CURTAIN ACT II TIME: _One week before Christmas._ SCENE: _Inside the garden. At back, the wall. Against it (R.), the Doll bed. Left, small trees with toys. Down Center and across Front, garden paths._ PRINCE _and_ PETER _in Monks' robes and sandals._ PRINCE _sitting idly on a wheelbarrow._ PETER _working with rake in the Doll bed. Tools, watering can, etc., scattered about._ PRINCE [_crossly_]. Well, I don't see how you can _stand_ this place, Peter. I've had more than enough--I'm just sick of it, I am. PETER [_still working_], I'm sorry, your Highness. PRINCE. Yes, that's what you always say. I wish you would stop that everlasting work and come here and tell me why you're sorry? Why in the world do you keep on working and working? I believe you like it. Come here, I tell you! [PETER _comes forward and leans on rake to talk with him._ PETER. Well, your Highness? PRINCE. That's right, Peter. Now you just tell me what you like about it so awfully much. PETER. Why, your Highness, you know I'm a poor boy and I've always had to work. This is such pretty work--it's just like play. And I never really had enough to eat until I came here to live. I tell you it's horrid to be hungry! Then the good Fathers are so kind, and I love the Christmas carols and the chimes--why, I think it's a beautiful place, your Highness. Don't you like to watch the toys grow? PRINCE. Oh, they grow so slow. I expected to have a bushelful of new toys every month, and not one have I had yet. And these stingy old Monks say that I can only have my usual Christmas share, anyway, and I mayn't pick them myself, either. I never saw such a stupid place to stay, in all my life. I want to have my velvet tunic on and go home to the palace and ride on my white pony with the silver tail, and hear them all tell me how charming I am. [_His words become nearly a wail, and he rubs his fists in his eyes._] PETER [_patting him sympathetically on the shoulder_]. Never mind, your Highness. It's pretty nearly Christmas now, and in a few days the toys will be ready to pick. Come along, and I'll help you to water those tin soldiers over there--you didn't get that done, did you? PRINCE [_jumps up angrily and stamps his foot_]. No, and I won't do it, either. As for you, Peter, you're _tame_. If you had a grain of spirit you'd hate it just as much as I do. There! [_Runs off angrily (L.)._ PETER _looks after him, shakes his head, gathers tools together neatly, takes up watering-can, and exit (R.). Enter_ PRINCE.] PRINCE [_looking after_ PETER]. There he goes now to water those horrid soldiers. I'd like to melt them all down to lumps of lead--I would! And Peter--he's enough to drive me crazy. I won't stay here a bit longer, so I won't. I'll get that ladder out of the tool house and get over the wall and go home. [_Starts off._] But I'll take some Christmas presents with me, I know! [_Exit (L.). Enter (R.)_ SEBASTIAN, FELIX, ANSELM, _and_ GREGORY.] ANSELM. Well, Brethren, we have every cause to rejoice in the fine flourishing condition of our garden. Peter has kept the beds wonderfully clear of weeds. GREGORY. Yes, and I think I may say that our garden has never been so fine as this year. It was a happy day for us when we found Peter. FELIX. Indeed it was. How neatly he keeps the garden paths raked. ANSELM. And what a good disposition the child has! FELIX. Always ready and willing---- SEBASTIAN [_who has stood at one side with folded arms and dejected countenance_]. Peter. Peter. Peter. But what of the Prince? ANSELM. Alas, yes. You are right, Brother Sebastian. What of the Prince? GREGORY. Oh, I'm not utterly hopeless of the Prince, my Brethren. SEBASTIAN. Brother Gregory is always over-hopeful. FELIX. It is my solemn opinion, Brethren, that the Prince is the very worst boy in the Kingdom. ANSELM. Oh, no, Brother Felix! SEBASTIAN. I say he is! Think of the first day, when we gave him Noah's ark seed to sow, and he went into a passion because it wasn't gold-watch seed! [_The Monks nod regretfully._] We set him a penance to kneel on dried pease in the chapel all afternoon. And hasn't it been so every other day in the year since? ANSELM [_soothingly_]. Yes, Brother Sebastian, I fear it has. [_Cheerfully._] But, then, you know, this has come hardest on you--hasn't it, my Brethren? For, you see, the Prince exhausted our list of penances so soon and you have had to remain in solitary confinement in your cell in order that you might invent new penances for him. Hasn't it been too hard for poor Brother Sebastian, Brethren? GREGORY. Yes, yes, poor fellow, he looks quite thin and worn. FELIX. And to think how we were deceived in that boy! How his people praised him! SEBASTIAN [_gloomily_]. I fear his Royal relatives are sadly deceived in him. GREGORY. But let us think of pleasanter subjects, for I have hopes that the softening influences of the Christmas season will do great things for our misguided young friend. Let us give our minds to the contemplation of the Doll bed. How lovely the little creatures are! FELIX. And how they will delight the hearts of the little girls. ANSELM. Why, why, why, what is this? Here is a vacant place! GREGORY. Oh, yes, Brother, that doll didn't come up. I noticed the place long ago. FELIX. And so did I, but I neglected to speak of it. GREGORY [_to_ ANSELM, _who continues to shake his head over the missing doll_]. Come, come, Brother, let us be glad that such cases are rare. Now, my Brethren, we will go on with our inspection. [_They move towards exit, then, looking back, discover_ SEBASTIAN _still in gloomy revery._ FELIX _goes back, puts an arm across his shoulder, and guides him gently after the others._] GREGORY. Poor fellow! Poor fellow! [_Exeunt slowly (R.). Enter (L.)_ ROSALIA.] ROSALIA [_looking about with delight_]. Oh, the lovely dollies. [_Examines them._] And there comes Peter! [_Enter_ PETER _(R.)._ ROSALIA _goes to meet him._] Peter! Peter! PETER [_amazed_]. Oh, you darling! How in the world did you get in here? ROSALIA. I just crept in behind one of the Monks. I saw him going along the street, and I ran after him, and when he opened the big gates I just crept in. Here I am, Peter! PETER [_worried_]. Well, I don't see what I am going to do with you, now you _are_ here. I can't let you out again, and I don't know whatever the Monks would say! ROSALIA. Oh, I know! I'll stay out here in the garden. I'll sleep in one of those beautiful dolly-cradles over there, and you can bring me something to eat. PETER. But the Monks come out very often to look over the garden, and they'll be sure to find you. ROSALIA. No, I'll hide. Oh, Peter, see that place where there isn't any dolly? PETER. Yes, that doll didn't come up. ROSALIA. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll just stand here in her place and nobody can tell the difference. [_Steps into place among dolls._] PETER. Well, I suppose you can do that. [_Looks at her and shakes his head anxiously._] Of course, I'm glad as glad can be to see you, but I'm afraid the Monks wouldn't like it. Now I must go and put away my tools. Be very quiet, sister. [_Exit_ PETER _(L.), coming back to see if_ ROSALIA _is safe. Waves his hand to her. Exit. A pause in which_ ROSALIA _looks about her, feels the curls of the doll next her, etc., etc. Enter_ PRINCE _(L.), carrying small ladder twined with green, and a huge basket of toys. Goes to wall, places ladder, tries its firmness, and begins to climb, finding much difficulty with basket._ ROSALIA _watches furtively with much interest and excitement._] PRINCE [_at top of wall_]. Now, if I can just get down on the other side. [_Works cautiously but ineffectually to get the basket over. Looks over wall joyfully._] Oh, I see some of my father's people riding by! I'll get them to help. [_Waves hand frantically._] My lord! My lord! Hither! [_Voices beyond wall: "The Prince!" "The Prince!" "His Royal Highness!" "Make haste, your Highness! have a care!" At which the_ PRINCE _contrives to fall over the wall, dropping the basket inside._] PRINCE [_without_]. Oh, I'm not hurt! Let us get away! Hasten, my lords, hasten! [_Voices die away in the distance._] ROSALIA [_horrified_]. What a naughty boy! [_Enter_ PETER _(L.)._] Oh, Peter, the Prince has run away. PETER [_hurriedly examining ladder, etc._]. Run away? [_Mounts ladder and looks over wall._] He surely has! There he goes on the horse with that gentleman! [_Watching, thoughtfully._] I was afraid he would try that! But this ladder [_getting down_] has always been kept locked up. Oh, too bad,--most of the toys are broken. [_Gathers them up and takes ladder._] Keep very still, sister. I must put these away and tell the Abbot and the other Fathers what has happened. [_Exit (L.). Enter_ ANSELMUS _(R.), walking up and down the path, hands behind him in deep thought. Takes turn near_ ROSALIA, _notices her, starts, bends down to look closer, puts on spectacles, and gazes with astonishment._] ANSELM. Why, what is this! Hoc credam! I thought that wax doll didn't come up. Can my eyes deceive me? Non verum est! There is a doll here--and what a doll! On crutches and in poor homely gear! [_Puts out a hand to touch her._] ROSALIA [_starting_]. Oh! [ANSELM _starts so violently that his wreath falls off in the path._] ANSELM [_gasps, trying to recover himself_]. It is a miracle! The little girl is alive! Parva puella viva est. I must summon the Abbot and the Brethren at once. We will pick her and pay her the honors she is entitled to. [_Picks up wreath, settles it distractedly upon his head, and hurries to path (R.), where he motions to someone without._] ANSELM [_with excitement_]. Hilarion! Brother Hilarion! Hither! [_Enter_ HILARION _in hot haste._ HILARION [_panting_]. Did you call, Brother Anselmus? ANSELM. Summon the holy Father Abbot at once--say to him that it is a matter of importance. [_Exit_ HILARION, _running._ ANSELMUS _returns to look at_ ROSALIA _again, muttering._] A matter of importance--a matter of importance. [_Enter_ ABBOT _and all Monks._ ABBOT. At the wax doll bed, did you say, Hilarion? Ah, yes, there is my son Anselmus. ANSELM [_coming forward_]. Most holy Abbot, behold a miracle. Vide miraculum! Thou wilt remember that there was one wax doll planted which did not come up. Behold! in its place I have found this doll on crutches, which is--alive. MONKS. Alive! Strange! Wonderful! ABBOT. Alive, did you say, Anselmus! Let me see her. [ABBOT _bends over to see_ ROSALIA. _Monks crowd around to see._] ABBOT [_rising_]. Verum est! It is verily a miracle. HILARION. Rather a lame miracle. ABBOT [_reprovingly_]. My son, I fear the work in which you have been engaged, to wit, taking charge of the funny picture-books and the monkeys and jumping jacks, has rather thrown your mind off its level of sobriety, and caused in you a tendency to make frivolous remarks, unbecoming a Monk. AMBROSE. I am the leech of the Convent. Let me look at the miracle, most holy Abbot. [_All make way for_ AMBROSE. ABBOT. Gladly, my son Ambrose. AMBROSE [_examining_ ROSALIA'S _ankle_]. I think I can cure this with my herbs and simples, if your reverence wills that I should try. ABBOT [_doubtfully_]. But I don't know. I never heard of curing a miracle. AMBROSE. If it is not lawful, my humble power will not suffice to cure it. ABBOT. True. We will take her, then, and thou shalt exercise thy healing art upon her. [_Takes_ ROSALIA _up in his arms, and leads the way, a Monk picking up the crutches._] We will go on with our Christmas devotions, for which we should now feel all the more zeal. [_Exit Monks (R.), singing. Enter_ PETER, _darting to place where_ ROSALIA _stood, then to look after the Monks, hands clasped in anxiety._ CURTAIN ACT III TIME: _Christmas morning._ SCENE: _The Convent chapel, decorated with Christmas greens, candles, etc. A picture of the Madonna and Child wreathed in green. On a daïs (back Center), in the_ ABBOT'S _chair, dressed in white with a wreath on her head, is seated little_ ROSALIA. _She sings a simple little Christmas hymn. Enter_ PETER, _with an air of secrecy, sitting down at_ ROSALIA'S _feet._ PETER. Oh, sister, I feel so miserable! ROSALIA. Why, Peter? I think it is just beautiful! PETER. Oh, yes, of course it is beautiful, and that's the very worst part of it. I mean, you know, that just because it is so beautiful, and the good Fathers are so very dreadfully kind, that I feel worse than ever. Oh, dear! I'm not saying what I mean a bit, sister, but, you see, I hate not to tell the Fathers the truth about you, and on Christmas day, too. You know they think that you are a live doll, and a miracle, and you're no such thing. You're just Peter's little sister, aren't you, pet? And they have been so kind, and Father Ambrose has made your poor little ankle so nice and well---- So it makes me feel horrid to think we're deceiving them. Why, it's 'most as bad as telling a story. ROSALIA [_patting_ PETER'S _shoulder_]. Poor Peter, I'm so sorry! PETER. What shall we do about it, sister? ROSALIA. Why, Peter, I'll tell them. They're all so kind, I don't think they will be cross. PETER. Well, sister, I don't believe they will, either. And it's Christmas day, so I want to be sure to do what is right. And this is right--I am sure of that. Now I must run away; they'll be coming soon. [_Exit_ PETER. _Sound of Monks singing in the distance grows louder and louder. Enter Monks_, ABBOT _leading, each bearing a tray full of toys for_ ROSALIA. _Half the Monks march to the right, half to the left of her chair. Monks hold out their presents to her._] ROSALIA. Please, I'm not a miracle. I'm only Peter's little sister! FELIX, AMBROSE, _and_ SEBASTIAN. Peter! ANSELM, HILARION, _and_ GREGORY. Peter's little sister! ABBOT. Peter? The Peter who works in our garden? [_Enter_ PETER, _standing unnoticed by door._ ROSALIA. Yes, Peter's little sister. [_Monks turn, each looking in the eyes of the one nearest._ GREGORY. Surely, here's an opportunity for a whole convent full of Monks to look foolish. ANSELM. Filing up in procession---- AMBROSE. With our hands full of gifts---- SEBASTIAN. To offer them to a miracle---- FELIX. And then to find out that this miracle---- HILARION. This famous miracle is nothing but Peter's little sister! [HILARION _doubles up with laughter, but controls himself as the_ ABBOT _lifts his hand for order._] ABBOT. My children, harken to me. Haven't I always maintained that there are two ways of looking at anything? If an object is not what we wish it to be in one light, let us see if there is not some other light under which it will surely meet our views. This dear little girl is a little girl and not a doll, that is true. She did not come up in the place of the wax doll, and she is not a miracle in that light. But look at her in another light, and surely she is a miracle--do you not see? Look at her, the darling little girl, isn't the very meaning and sweetness of all Christmas in her loving, trusting, innocent little face? MONKS. Yes, yes, she is a miracle, a miracle, indeed! [_Monks come forward and lay the toys at her feet._ PETER _fairly hugs himself with joy._ ABBOT. And, Peter? Where is Peter? PETER [_coming forward_]. Here I am, sir. ABBOT. Peter, we feel so happy this beautiful Christmas Day, that we must find some expression for our joy--we must surely find a way to share such happiness with others. Run, my son, open the Convent gates, and bid all the village people who wait there for our usual gifts to enter and take part in our pleasure. [_Exit_ PETER _in haste._] Think, my children, what a gift we have here for the poor parents of Peter and little Rosalia--this dear little girl will be restored to them, not lame, as she was when she wandered here, but well and strong and happy like other little ones. Think of it, my children. [_Enter_ PETER, _leading his father and mother, who hasten to_ ROSALIA, _kneeling one on each side of her great chair. The rest of the villagers of Act I press in, and stand grouped at each side of the stage._ ABBOT. Welcome, welcome, my good people! A Merry Christmas to you all! VILLAGERS. Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! [_Amid the tumult enter the two_ PAGES. _They advance to the_ ABBOT, _and bowing, present a letter with large seals._ ABBOT. How, now! What's this? [_Breaking seal and reading letter, the Monks showing deep interest._] My children, we have here a message from His Majesty, the King. He tells us that his son, the Prince, reached his palace in safety, and that he has come to feel great regret for all the trouble and anxiety he caused the Christmas Monks. He hopes that the Prince's repentance, though late, will help to season our Christmas and make it a happy one. And his Majesty adds that he finds great improvement in his son. Well! Well! this does indeed add yet another happiness to our day. [_To the people._] And I know you all, little and big, are just as happy as we are, for at last the gates are open to the Convent of the Christmas Monks. [_All sing a Christmas carol._ CURTAIN NOTES ON COSTUME AND PRESENTATION (Mrs. Freeman's story of the same name, from which this little play was taken, has delightful illustrations which would be of help in making the monks' costumes. It appeared first in _Wide Awake_, Volume 16, and was later published in a collection of Mrs. Freeman's short stories, entitled "The Pot of Gold.") THE ABBOT (taken by an adult), and THE BRETHREN of the Convent (boys, sixteen to eighteen) wear long hooded robes made of white canton flannel. Greek patterns in green are stenciled at hem of skirt and around the wide sleeves. A rope of ground pine, or other Christmas wreathing, is worn for a girdle, ends hanging, and the tonsures are made by wearing close-fitting skull-caps of flesh-colored silk or sateen, with a wreath of green at the edge. When PETER and the PRINCE come to the Garden their dress is the same, but their Greek borders should be smaller and they wear no tonsures. They are boys of ten. Hoods of all are worn hanging, except that of Brother SEBASTIAN, who in the 2nd Act goes gloomily hooded. All wear sandals and white stockings. As the story suggests neither country nor period, there may be a good deal of latitude in the matter of costumes for the rest of the cast, but the court party in the first act should be as resplendent as possible. THE PRINCE. Plumed hat, short trousers, slippers with bows, coat with broad lace collar and cuffs. Very long cloak, borne behind him by the PAGES. Dressed alike in a style somewhat resembling the Prince. COURTIER. The same, with the addition of a short cape, and a sword. COURT LADY. Dress made with a train and a high beaded collar. The boy and girl playing these parts are also Peter's Father and Mother in the last act. MISTRESS LONGLANE and MISTRESS SPINNING, and the little Village girls wear large poke bonnets, old-fashioned shawls or white kerchiefs, and mitts. PETER. Neat, but old and faded blouse and knickerbockers. Cap. LITTLE ROSALIA. Quaint smocked dress, of soft blue, a Persian border at hem, square neck, and short sleeves. (Or, white, with blue borders.) Small cap, trimmed in the same way. She is lame and walks with crutches. PETER'S FATHER and MOTHER. Poorly and roughly dressed. GILBERT, the Carpenter's Apprentice. Blue denim apron. Carries T-square. ROBIN, the Forester's Son. Sleeveless green coat, over a white shirt with full sleeves; full trousers; broad felt hat, turned up on one side with a quill. WALTER, the Miller's Son. White apron. Dusty felt hat. (If preferred, instead of using the above suggestions for costumes, the Randolph Caldecott pictures, or Kate Greenaway illustrations of "Mother Goose," may be adopted as a scheme for dressing all but the Monks.) The entrance and exit of the Monks is always heralded by their singing. Their song may be one of the well-known Christmas carols containing a few Latin words, but a Latin chant is most effective, such as can be found in the little Sunday-school hymnals of the Roman Catholic Church. Suggestions for ROSALIA'S song and the carol at the end of the play will be found on p. 315. SETTING For the Garden wall, a frame must be made sufficiently strong to bear the weight of the Prince, and may need special bracing at the central point where he climbs over. He uses a small ladder, preferably a red-painted one, like those in children's ladder-wagon sets. The framework of the wall may be covered with paper, but unbleached muslin is much more substantial and lasting. On this is painted the wall, representing either brick or stone, with a stone coping, all quaintly stained and moss-grown. It is five or six feet in height. The beds where the toys grow are outlined in green. Dolls as large as possible should be used in the back row, in order to prevent the contrast with little Rosalia from being too great. Smaller dolls may be used in the front rows. The number depends on the size of the stage and the possibilities for borrowing. They may be made to stand with wooden braces, but it will be found convenient if milliners' stands for displaying hats can be obtained, as they are light and can be easily set in place. For the other bed, two or three small bare bushes, on the branches of which can be fastened such toys as whips, tin trumpets, etc. Small wheelbarrow, watering-pot, and other garden tools scattered about. For the last scene, the walls should be plain and dark in color. The Abbot's chair is large and ecclesiastical, and Rosalia looks, in it, like the doll for which the Monks mistook her. Two great candles, in tall candlesticks, on the daïs beside her, are effective. No other furniture. THE SPELL OF CHRISTMAS A CHRISTMAS PLAY, IN TWO SCENES CHARACTERS SIR GILBERT UNDERHILL. LADY KATHERINE UNDERHILL. RUFUS } RAFE } CICELY } Their Children. ALLISON } PHYLLIS, their orphan niece. GILLIAN } DICCON } Servants. STEPHEN } ANDREW } Roundhead soldiers. WAT } SIR PHILIP } LADY GERALDINE } Ancestors of the House of Underhill. WAITS, who sing without. TIME: In the reign of Charles the First. SCENE: The old manor-house of the Underhills. [Illustration: ALLISON "Of a truth, I did hear their voices"] THE SPELL OF CHRISTMAS SCENE I _A chamber or corridor in the Manor House. Door [L.]. Hangings on wall._ GILLIAN _seated [R.], with the three children about her, all working at wreaths and garlands, and singing an old carol. Curtain rises on second verse. While they sing_, DICCON _enters. Takes up sword or other piece of armor from table [L.] and begins to polish it._ CICELY [_with a deep sigh_]. Good Gillian, methinks that though we sang our carols o'er and o'er we could not make it seem like Christmas-tide. Brother Rufus is gone away, and we may not even say we miss him. I would I knew---- [_Chin on hand._] GILLIAN. You would you knew what, little mistress mine? CICELY. I would I knew what is wrong with us. Christmas was ever such a merry season in this dear house. RAFE [_wisely_]. 'Tis because my father goeth about wearing such a stern face. ALLISON. And Mother looketh _so_ sad. CICELY [_confidentially_]. And I think cousin Phyllis cries in her chamber sometimes. DICCON [_mutters_]. Meseemeth we should all know right well what aileth this place. [_Enter_ SIR GILBERT. _Stands in doorway._] When he that was the very life and soul is missing from the hearth---- GILLIAN. Hist, Diccon [_warning gesture_]. DICCON. ----and more than that, under a cloud---- GILLIAN. Be silent, I say, Diccon. DICCON [_paying no heed_]. 'Tis young Master Rufus this house needs so sorely, I'm thinking. SIR GILBERT [_striding forward angrily_]. Silence, I say. Have I not given command that my son's name shall not pass the lips of any of my people? I will be obeyed in mine own house. Diccon, hence! Thou canst spend thy days in the stables caring for my horses, an thou'lt not learn to bridle thy tongue. Mayhap the dumb beasts will teach thee a lesson. DICCON [_bowing humbly_]. I crave pardon, Sir Gilbert. I but thought---- SIR G. Enough. [_Turns to table. Exit_ DICCON, _with an awkward bow._] Gillian, let this be a warning to you as well. I have laid my commands--I will be obeyed. [_Exit._] RAFE. 'Tis very hard to be just children, when anything's wrong, I think. We may not know what our elders do know, and yet we must be just as uncomfortable. GILLIAN. Tst-tst, my lambs! Let us think of other things. Shall we measure our garlands? [_Stretches out her green._] RAFE [_measuring his against it, while_ CICELY _and_ ALLISON _stretch theirs together_]. Indeed, 'tis soon done, good Gillian. We've used up all our greens. GILLIAN [_rising_]. I will see if Roger and Noll have brought more for us. [_Exit._] RAFE [_considering his garland_]. Would my garland measure around the great pasty Dame Joan hath made for to-morrow's feast, think you, Cicely? CICELY [_laughing_]. The venison pasty, Rafe? Mayhap when Dame Joan hath turned her back, we can try and see. ALLISON. I fear mine will but reach around a very little pudding! [_Enter_ PHYLLIS.] Oh, cousin Phyllis, cousin Phyllis, come see our garlands! PHYLLIS [_coming forward_]. Did my little Allison wreathe all this long piece? [ALLISON _nods proudly._] That's brave work, indeed. CICELY [_arms around_ PHYLLIS]. Dear cousin Phyllis, won't you stay and help us--and tell us why everyone is so sad? PHYLLIS [_frightened_]. Nay, dear, I must not, and you must not be sad--'tis Christmas Eve. RAFE. Yes, we know. But _why_ doth my father look so stern---- PHYLLIS. Nay, nay--I may not speak of it. My aunt will be sore displeased. [_Enter_ LADY KATHERINE. LADY KATHERINE [_in doorway_]. Phyllis, why art idling here with the children? To thy tasks, girl! [_Exit._ PHYLLIS [_turning hastily to follow_]. You see, sweethearts, I must not tarry. But I wish good speed to your garlands. Farewell. [_Exit._] CICELY. Thou dost see, Rafe. Father will not let us speak of brother Rufus, and Mother is so cross to poor cousin Phyllis. ALLISON [_shocked_]. Nay, Cicely; Mother isn't cross. It's naughty to say that. RAFE. I think I know what it is all about. [_Very confidentially. Girls draw their chairs close._] I think brother Rufus ran away to the wars to fight for the King---- CICELY. But, Rafe, that can't be what displeaseth Father, for Father is a soldier, too, and he himself will fight for our lord the King, if so be the King needeth him. ALLISON [_nodding her head with conviction_]. Father is the most gallantest soldier in all the country. RAFE. But I do think that is why Father is so angry with brother Rufus. CICELY. And why is Mother so--so unkind to poor cousin Phyllis? RAFE [_very solemnly_]. Because--because Rufus did say that when he was come of age and was a man he would _marry_ cousin Phyllis! CICELY. Oh! But _I_ think that's very, _very_ nice! Why doesn't Mother like it, Rafe? They'd never go away to any other house at all--and then, beside,--Allison and I could be their bride-maidens! [_Enter_ GILLIAN _with an armful of greens._ GILLIAN [_sitting down among them_]. Here's work for us all, my pets. We must e'en make our fingers fly an we would finish our task. CICELY [_full of importance_]. Oh, good Gillian, Rafe doth say---- RAFE [_trying to repress her_]. It's no use to ask Gillian, Cicely. Didst not hear my Father tell her she mustn't talk of it? GILLIAN. That's best, Master Rafe. Let Gillian tell you a tale whilst we work. ALLISON. A fairy-tale, Gillian? [_Whispers full of awe._] Are the _fairies_ about to-night, dear Gillian? RAFE. Not on Christmas Eve, Allison. They aren't, are they, Gillian? Midsummer Eve is the fairies' night. CICELY. And fairies have no power on Christmas Eve, and witches can't charm you, nor cast their spells upon you---- RAFE. Because 'tis such a holy, holy night. GILLIAN. Oh, but there be wonderful things that do befall on Christmas Eve, Master Rafe. My old grandam used to say that when the midnight bells ring, the cattle in the stables do kneel down to hail the holy day! CICELY. Oh, Gillian, _do_ they? RAFE. Hast ever seen them, Gillian? Or hath thy grandam? ALLISON. All the cows, and the sheep, and the little, little lambs? GILLIAN. Nay, sweetheart, I never saw them, but I was wont to think, each Christmas Eve, that I would surely creep out to the stables and keep watch. RAFE. And did you? GILLIAN. Oh, Master Rafe, in truth 'twas a pretty plan,--but I was not a very brave little wench,--and it was so cold and dark and fearsome: when the time was come, I was always fain to put it off until the next year! RAFE [_scornfully_]. Sooth! I would never do that! GILLIAN. Nay, that I'll warrant, Master Rafe! But let me tell thee what else my grandam hath told me. 'Twas about the portraits in the long gallery in this very house. [_Enter_ DICCON, _with armful of wood for fire, which he piles upon the hearth._ CICELY. The portraits---- Oh, yes, Gillian. [_Draws close to_ GILLIAN.] RAFE. I know. Our great-great-grandfather and our great-great-grandmother. CICELY. Bethink thee, Rafe--what are their names? I do forget. RAFE. They are Sir Philip and Lady Geraldine Underhill. And they lived right here in this very house. DICCON [_turning from hearth_]. Yes, Master Rafe, they lived in this house. He was a passing gallant gentleman, and fought for the King, and she was as beautiful as he was brave, and as brave as she was beautiful. And they say that in a great war his enemies came to search this house for him, but he and my lady hid themselves in a secret chamber that's long since forgot. But 'tis somewhere in the house,---- [_looks about as if expecting to find door at once_] if a body just but knew how to find the door---- GILLIAN [_in contempt_]. Nay, nay, Diccon. I'll warrant me the Master knoweth where that door is. DICCON. Mayhap Sir Gilbert doth know. But none else may find it. Many's the time the lads ha' looked for it--many's the time. [_Exit._] [RAFE _goes about for a moment, lifting hangings, etc., as if in search for door, but returns to_ GILLIAN'S _side to hear her answer to_ CICELY. CICELY. But, Gillian, what was it thy grandam told about the portraits? GILLIAN. Oh, verily, my sweet. Thinking about the secret door I had well-nigh forgot. My grandam said that if all the house was still and sleeping, just on the stroke of twelve every Christmas Eve, Sir Philip and my Lady Geraldine do move and breathe, step forth from their picture frames, clasp hands, and move together in an ancient dance! RAFE. _Do_ they? CICELY _and_ ALLISON. Oh-h-h! [_Drawing near to_ GILLIAN _with a little delighted shiver._] LADY K. [_without_]. Gillian, Gillian! Come hither, wench; I need thee. GILLIAN [_rising_]. Anon, my lady! [_To children._] Think of it, bairns--that fine brave gentleman and that beautiful lady, stepping across the floors in the moonlight---- [_Exit, hand lifted as if holding a partner's, taking stately dancing steps._] CICELY. Oh, Rafe, think'st that Gillian speaketh true? RAFE. Yes, I do believe her. Christmas is such a marvelous fair time, Cicely, that I do think _any_thing wonderful might happen. ALLISON. I would I could _see_ Sir Philip and Lady Geraldine at their dancing. CICELY. Oh, so do I! Rafe, dost think---- [_Hesitates, afraid to speak her thought._] RAFE [_boldly_]. I think--that if my lord and my lady do dance--we shall see them this very Christmas Eve. CICELY. Oh, Rafe, what dost mean us to do? RAFE. When the great doors are closed at eleven o'clock--I always hear Diccon making them fast--I'll sit up in my bed, so that I can't by mischance fall asleep. Then I will wake thee and Allison, and we will steal into the long gallery and hide ourselves. CICELY. But if Sir Philip and Lady Geraldine see us, mayhap they'll be displeased and not come forth. RAFE. But if we go soon enough they can't see us, because they don't come alive until twelve o'clock. Until the clock strikes, they're only pictures, Cicely. CICELY. Verily, I did forget. RAFE. I mean to make sure the nursery door which giveth on the back passage is left unlocked and open, or mayhap I might fail to hear. Come, sister, bring your wreaths. [_Goes toward door._] CICELY [_gathering up wreaths_]. Oh, Rafe, 'tis a wonderful fine plan! ALLISON. Thou'lt let me come too, Rafe? RAFE. We'll all go. S-sh-sh, now, not a whisper to anyone. [_Exeunt children in great excitement. Short pause. Enter_ RUFUS, _secretly (L.), stopping to look about and listen. Crosses furtively to door (R.) and looks out. Enter_ PHYLLIS _(L.), and as_ RUFUS _turns back into room, she sees him, and with a low cry hurries to meet him._] PHYLLIS. Oh, Rufus, Rufus--not _you_! RUFUS. Yes, 'tis I, fair cousin. I prithee speak softly. I would not have it known as yet that I am here. PHYLLIS. But whence came you, Rufus? We thought you miles away, with the King's troops---- RUFUS. My company made a secret march, across this valley, and I thought to spend Christmas in mine own dear home. My Captain gave me leave to come here to-night, and join him to-morrow eve. But after I set out on my solitary march, a company of Roundhead rebels sprang up from a copse by the way and gave chase to our men. PHYLLIS. How knew you this? RUFUS. I had come but a half-hour's walk, up the long hill, and saw it all quite plainly. PHYLLIS [_much troubled_]. But, Rufus, then you are cut off from the King's men, for there be very many rebels and few loyal hearts about us, in these parts. RUFUS. I know, Phyllis. And, furthermore, though I would not alarm thee, I must tell thee that I was seen by that treacherous Farmer Gosling on the road hither, and I fear he may set others like himself upon my track. PHYLLIS. Oh, Rufus, you frighten me so--they will surely come and take you. RUFUS. Aye, they will try, dear cousin. But I've safe harbor in my father's house, and when darkness comes I can put forth once more and rejoin our men in the North. PHYLLIS. A safe harbor, saidst thou! Thou little knowest---- Hark! someone comes. Hide thee speedily, Rufus. Here, behind this curtain. There--do not show thyself until I see thee again. [_Hides_ RUFUS _behind hanging, and exit (R.). Enter_ SIR GILBERT _and_ LADY KATHERINE _(L.)._ SIR GILBERT _sits moodily in chair by fire._ LADY KATHERINE _stands before him._] SIR G. [_as they enter_]. I tell thee, I will hear no more of it. LADY K. But, my lord, this day have I heard a rumor that a band of King's men were near us--here in this nest of rebel enemies! If there were fighting--if my boy Rufus were in danger, and I might not succor him, 'twould go nigh to kill me. And so, my lord, I'm come once more to crave pardon for him. SIR G. I tell thee, it will not be granted thee. When the boy disobeyed me and ran away I disowned him. I vowed he should never enter these doors again. LADY K. My lord, the lad was so eager to serve his King. SIR G. [_springs up and paces the floor_]. Did I forbid him to serve his King? Nay, when the time was come, he should have gone with me, with horse and arms, in state befitting a gentleman's son. And so I told him. I told him he was full young yet--the lad is scarce turned seventeen. Eagerness to serve his King, forsooth! 'Twas mere idleness. He chose to run away from his tasks and his studies. Beshrew me! Whether he find the camp life of a common soldier a bed of roses or no, I care not. He must e'en lie in it. I'll neither grant him pardon, nor receive him in my house. To consort with common soldiers and camp ruffians--he hath disgraced my name. LADY K. Oh, my poor lad. SIR G. Thou and Phyllis need not grieve so foolishly---- LADY K. [_stiffens angrily_]. Phyllis! She is the one reason why I am reconciled to his being away. SIR G. [_more gently_]. Come, good wife, be not so hard upon poor Phyllis. She's a good maid and a fair. What if the lad have turned her head a bit? I would fain have thee remember the lass is an orphan and we her only kinsfolk. LADY K. [_moving away_]. I care not to talk of Phyllis. [_Turns back._] Will nothing move you, my lord? SIR G. [_hardening_]. I've told you my mind--let's hear no more of this. [_Exeunt (L.)._ RUFUS _comes from hiding-place and stands sadly by fire. Enter_ PHYLLIS.] RUFUS [_turning toward her_]. Why, Phyllis, I little guessed my father could be so hard and stern. I knew I had displeased him, but _this_ passeth belief. PHYLLIS. He is very unforgiving. When you called this house a safe harbor, you little knew. RUFUS [_turning as if to go_]. So be it, then. If my father cannot forgive me,--I'll e'en forth to the tender mercies of mine enemies. PHYLLIS [_alarmed_]. Oh, no, no, Rufus! At least do not venture forth until the dark hath come! No one must see you here. Come into the blue guest chamber. 'Tis not a secure hiding-place should the house be searched, but 'twill serve for the time, and by midnight you may steal away safely. Do come, Rufus! [_He lets her half lead, half push him out as she talks. Exeunt (R.). Pause---- Children's laughter heard. Enter (L.)_ CICELY _with a bunch of raisins._ RAFE _in pursuit. They run all about the stage._ CICELY _jumps upon a chair and holds the raisins over_ RAFE'S _head. He tries to jump for them._] CICELY [_breaking off raisins and dropping them one at a time into_ RAFE'S _mouth_]. Oh, Rafe, such rare sport! You'll have no need to waken _me_. I'll never sleep this night, I know. ALLISON [_without, calling_]. Rafe, Rafe! Where art thou? Oh, Cicely! RAFE [_pulling_ CICELY _down and securing raisins_]. Quick, sister, let's hide us! [RAFE _runs behind hangings (R.)_, CICELY _behind table (L.). Enter_ ALLISON _(L.). Stands still and looks about._] ALLISON [_softly_]. Of a truth, I did hear their voices.... I know.... 'Tis sport. 'Tis a game of hide and hunt. I must set me to find 'em. [_Goes peering about. As she peeps over chair (R.)_, CICELY _runs out and covers_ ALLISON'S _eyes from behind with her hands._ RAFE _comes from other side and feeds_ ALLISON _with raisins._ RAFE _and_ CICELY _begin to sing Christmas carol, and_ ALLISON _throws off Cicely's hands and joins in song._] CURTAIN SCENE II _A gallery in the Manor House. R. front, fireplace[27] with glowing red fire. Beside it, at right angles, settle. R. back, door. Back Center, the portraits of_ SIR PHILIP _and_ LADY GERALDINE, _in tall old frames reaching down nearly to floor, so that only a short step is necessary when the figures come out. L. back, window, with snow-covered trees in distance, and moonlight. L. front, door. Hangings, a few quaint chairs, etc. Center of stage clear. Curtain shows empty stage._ DICCON _and_ GILLIAN _cross from L. to R., talking_--GILLIAN _enters first, as if in haste_, DICCON _trying to stop her. Stage lights very dim._ GILLIAN _carries a candle, which she shades with her hand._ [Footnote 27: See note on Fireplace, p. 313.] DICCON [_calling softly_]. Gillian, Gillian! Hang the wench! Wilt not wait, good Gillian? I've somewhat of great import to tell thee. GILLIAN [_impatiently_]. Were I to believe thee, Master Diccon, _all_ thine affairs are of great matter. Mayhap thou thinkest _my_ business is ever of small consequence? DICCON. Nay, then, Gillian--but this news is thine and mine and my lord's and my lady's too! [GILLIAN _turns, a little curious, and waits for him._ GILLIAN [_scornfully_]. A strange matter, methinks, that can be thine and mine and theirs, too! DICCON. But list a moment, and you shall hear. Giles, the horse-boy, hath been in the village this day, and heard that which bodes ill to us. Giles heard them talking in the tavern---- GILLIAN. Heard whom talking, Diccon? I can make naught of thy twisting tales! DICCON. Why, the Roundhead knaves, be sure. And the pith and kernel of Giles' tale--an thou'lt not hear the how and the when--is this! that they mean to come hither this night and search our house. GILLIAN [_gives a little scream and claps her hand over her mouth_]. Oh, Diccon, Diccon,--what can they want here? We be peaceful folk. In sooth 'tis known we are all good King's men, but no harm have we done to any! Oh, Diccon! DICCON. Sst! silly wench! They'll not harm thee. But hark to what else Giles heard. They be coming to search for Master Rufus! GILLIAN. Master Rufus! But he hath not been here these many weeks. DICCON. Sst! Speak more cautiously, Gillian. The knaves did say they have certain knowledge that Master Rufus is here in hiding. GILLIAN [_looking fearfully and suspiciously about_]. Oh, Diccon, dost believe it? DICCON. In good sooth, how can I tell? But I am in great fear. GILLIAN. Thou afeard, Diccon? Oh, what dost think the Roundhead villains will do to us? DICCON [_angrily_]. A pest upon thee, wench! They'll do naught to _us_! 'Tis for my young master I am troubled. If they take him, 'tis doubtless to a rebel prison he'll go, and then--it's rough fare for such a young lad,--and gentle born and bred to boot. GILLIAN [_curiously_]. But can he be here, think you, Diccon? DICCON [_anxiously_]. He may be. And I do fear to ask my lord or my lady of the matter. [_Going towards door._] I would I knew my duty, Gillian. [_Exeunt (R.). After a moment enter (L.) the three children in nightgowns, the little girls in caps, also. They do not speak, but motion to each other excitedly, and run about, choosing a fit hiding-place._ ALLISON _takes a small stool and plants it directly in front of portraits, sits down, and folds her hands to wait. The others, consulting by signs, do not at first see her, then rush upon her in alarm and drag her away, taking stool with them, and making reproving gestures. All go to settle, place stool by fire, and allow_ ALLISON _to sit on it._ CICELY _kneels at end of settle, partly concealed by its arm._ RAFE _lies full length upon it, alternately ducking below arm and peeping over it. They shake fingers at each other, touch lips to insure silence, and when_ ALLISON _turns as if to speak._ CICELY _claps a quiet hand over her mouth. Business of settling into place. When there has been a moment's pause, a bell is heard in the distance striking midnight. The portraits slowly turn their heads, take a long and deep breath, and begin to move; soft music is heard (minuet, from Mozart's "Don Giovanni"); they bend forward, step with one foot from the frames and clasp hands across the space between; then step forth entirely, and bow and courtesy low and slowly to each other. Then they take hands, and to the music go through such part of the old French minuet as is practicable for two alone. When this has continued as long as is desirable, there is a sudden noise without. Instantly the music ceases and the figures go back with all swiftness and resume pose in frames. Children also much startled._ CICELY [_in alarmed whisper_]. Oh, Rafe, what was that? RAFE. I don't know. Sh-sh-sh! [_Enter_ RUFUS _(R.), silently and furtively. Goes to window and peers out. Comes back hurriedly and without seeing children. Exit (R.)._ RAFE _springs up and follows to door, gazing out after_ RUFUS. CICELY [_aloud, but still cautious, though in great fright_]. Oh, Rafe--I saw a man! Who was that? ALLISON. So did I, sister! Let's _run_! CICELY. Mother! Mother! I'm frightened! ALLISON. Oh, Gillian, come get us! [_Both rush screaming out of door (L.)._ RAFE _comes quickly and silently back. Goes to window and stands peering out._ RAFE. That was brother Rufus. I wonder how he came hither.... And there is someone ... away out there in the snow ... men ... coming this way. [_Leaves window and stands directly in front of portraits, with his back to them, and a little way off. Stares anxiously straight before him, and speaks low and quietly._] Perhaps they are soldiers ... or wicked people come to seek for him and take him away.... Rufus went up the little stairs to the Tower.... There's no place to hide in the Tower! [_His voice gradually rising._] They'll find him as soon as they get here.... Oh, _what_ shall I do--what shall I do? [_Stands with hands clenched, listening and thinking, wide-eyed. The portraits move and bend toward him._] LADY GERALDINE [_leaning forward and smiling tenderly_]. Little Rafe, little Rafe, thou must play the man this night! SIR PHILIP [_leaning forward and speaking earnestly_]. Little lad, little lad, thou art little and young! Go and fetch thy father! RAFE [_does not turn at all_]. My father will know what to do.... Mayhap he will even open the secret door Gillian telleth of.... Surely, surely he cannot be angry now. [_Turns and rushes wildly out (R.)_]. [_Enter_ PHYLLIS _(R.), all shaking and trembling._ PHYLLIS [_calls softly_]. Rufus! Rufus! Where art thou? [_To herself._] Oh, where can the rash boy have gone? He was safe for the time in the Blue Chamber. And now---- Oh, what can I do! I must warn him! [_Wrings her hands and goes to window._] Gillian hath told me they are coming to seek him. He must be warned! Oh, where can he have gone? [_Goes to door (L.), then to window once more. Enter_ RAFE, _dragging_ SIR GILBERT _by the hand._] RAFE [_breathless_]. You needs must listen, Father! Brother Rufus came in at this door and went to the window, softly, to peep out. Then he ran out again and I got me up speedily and ran to the casement. [_Tries to draw_ SIR GILBERT _to window, but he resists and stands frowning (R. Center)._] And I looked out, Father, and there was someone coming--men--away over toward the village. I saw them. And Rufus is gone up the Tower stairs---- [PHYLLIS _starts forward to door, but turns back._] PHYLLIS. The Tower, saidst thou, Rafe? RAFE. Yes! The Tower! And thou knowest, Father, there is no way of escape from the Tower! Father, tell us what to do! PHYLLIS [_coming to his side with clasped hands_]. Oh, good Uncle, save him while there is yet time! RAFE. I know _thou_ canst find a way, Father! [_Enter_ LADY KATHERINE, _the two little girls clinging to her skirts._ LADY K. [_in amazement_]. What can be the meaning of all this coil? The children crying to me in fright some old wives' tale about the family portraits--someone in the gallery--the soldiers---- My poor wits cannot fathom it! RAFE [_still clinging to his father's hand_]. Oh, lady Mother, Rufus is hiding in the Tower, and the soldiers are coming, and Father must save him! LADY K. [_cries out_]. Rufus, saidst thou? [_Shakes off the children and hurries toward_ RAFE.] Where is he, boy? RAFE [_seizes her hand and draws her to door (L.)_]. Here, Mother, here, up in the Tower. [_Exeunt._ CICELY _and_ ALLISON _cling together._] CICELY. Oh, Allison, sweet sister, it was brother Rufus we did see in the gallery. And the Roundhead soldiers are coming. ALLISON. Will they drag him away from here? PHYLLIS. Oh, Uncle, dear Uncle, surely thou knowest some secret place in this old house where he can lie safe until danger be past? [_Enter_ RAFE _and_ LADY KATHERINE _with_ RUFUS _(R.)._ LADY KATHERINE _hastens to window, glances out, then goes to quiet children, who are sobbing._ RAFE _rushes to his father, and_ RUFUS _at first starts to him._ RAFE. Father, here he is. Now what's to do? RUFUS. Father, I would---- SIR G. [_interrupting_]. Not a word from you, sirrah! How dare you enter this house whence you went but to disgrace my name? You are no son of mine! [RUFUS _draws back and stands proudly a little aloof. The rest cry out in protest._ LADY K. Oh, my lord, you cannot mean the words you speak! PHYLLIS. Uncle! RAFE. Oh, Father, poor Rufus! DICCON [_without_]. Sir Gilbert! Sir Gilbert! Where art thou, master! GILLIAN [_without_]. Oh, mistress! Oh, my lady! [_Enter_ DICCON _and_ GILLIAN _in greatest excitement._ DICCON _carries a pair of candles, which he places hastily on the chimney-piece. Raise lights._ DICCON. My lord, the soldiers are coming! [_Rushes to window._] They be at our very gates! GILLIAN. Oh, mistress, the murthering knaves will burn the house above our heads! LADY K. Hold thy peace, silly wench! [_General hubbub. Children cling crying to their mother._ DICCON _and_ GILLIAN _at window._ RAFE _now running to window, now tugging at his father's hand._ PHYLLIS _at his other side._ DICCON. They come down the long hill! GILLIAN. I see them, the knaves! PHYLLIS. Oh, Uncle, prythee forgive Rufus--save him quickly! SIR G. [_angrily_]. He doth not desire forgiveness. PHYLLIS. Oh, Uncle, he would have asked it but now. Thy bitter words did check him, and thou knowest he is proud. He could not ask it then. GILLIAN. Here they be! DICCON. At our very gates! LADY K. [_above noise_]. My lord, thou dost know some secret place. Do but disclose it to me. Remember he is thine own flesh and blood. DICCON. Hark, ye can hear them! [_Silence falls. In the distance the carol of the_ WAITS _is heard._] PHYLLIS [_relieved_]. 'Tis the waits at their carols. LADY K. [_thankfully_]. 'Tis not the soldiers, after all! DICCON [_turning from window_]. Would it were not, my lady! Ye do hear the waits singing beneath the hall windows, 'tis true, but these at our gates be no peaceful carollers. [_Turns back to window. All are silent for a moment, listening, until the refrain of "Peace on earth" is reached._] SIR G. [_startled_]. "Peace on earth, good will to men!" Now Heaven forgive my angry spirit! Here, Rufus--quick, lad! [_Touches spring at R. of portrait. Panel opens, and_ SIR GILBERT _thrusts_ RUFUS _through, and it closes behind him._ SIR GILBERT _turns and takes command._] Clear the room--this throng will never do--guilt and suspicion sit upon our very faces. Wife, Phyllis! take these children to bed. Gillian! to the kitchen, wench, and do all in thy power to quiet the maidens there. Hasten to the gate, Diccon, and say that your master throws open his doors to their search. Bear yourselves, all, as if nothing had befallen! Now, haste! [_Rapid clearing of the room._ LADY KATHERINE _and_ PHYLLIS _hurry the children out (L.), trying to quiet them. Exeunt_ DICCON _and_ GILLIAN _by the door (R.). Unnoticed_, RAFE _springs into box of settle, and closes lid over him. When all are gone_, SIR GILBERT _goes quietly about room to put all in order. Looks out at window. Sounds from without, of beating on doors, etc. Cries, "Down with the false King!" "Death to traitors!" etc._ SIR GILBERT _goes to panel for a moment._ SIR G. [_tapping_]. Rufus! Rufus! RUFUS [_within_]. Yes, Father! SIR G. Cheerly, good lad! Lie thou quiet, no harm shall come to thee. [SIR GILBERT _goes to chimney, takes an old book from shelf, and sits on settle. Noises of search gradually come nearer. Enter_ DICCON, _followed by soldiers._] DICCON [_torn between his fear and hatred of the soldiers and his wish to propitiate them_]. Here is my lord, your masterships! He bade me give you free welcome [_bows politely, but as they pass him he snarls aside_], and a pest upon all of ye! SIR G. What would you of me, my men? Why, Diccon, these be all old neighbors--not soldiers. [_The men are disconcerted, and advance awkwardly, pulling at their forelocks._ STEPHEN. Yes--Sir Gilbert--no, Sir Gilbert--we be verily soldiers--soldiers of the Parliament. SIR G. You have taken up arms against your King? I had thought to see old neighbors and friends and loyal men. [_Rises, laying down book._] STEPHEN. We do be loyal men---- ANDREW. Loyal to the Parliament. WAT. And soldiers of Cromwell. SIR G. What, then, would you of me? Ye do know I am a subject of King Charles. STEPHEN. My lord, we have orders to search this house. SIR G. So be it, then. Obey your orders. What do ye look to find here? ANDREW. 'Tis a false traitor Cavalier. WAT. He lurketh here and we mean to have him, too. STEPHEN. We would do our work peaceably, my lord. But our general must have the country cleared of all Malignants. SIR G. You have my free consent. My house is open to you from turret's peak to the bins in the cellar. DICCON. There be more of 'em, my lord--a round dozen. And they waited not thy permission. They be already both on tower and in bins. SIR G. Disturb them not, good Diccon. [_Turns back to settle, takes up book and pretends to read, but keeps a careful eye on soldiers._] STEPHEN. Do your work with thoroughness, men. ANDREW. That will we, captain! WAT. There be many lurking--places in these old rats' nests. ANDREW. We'll ferret him out! WAT. Aye, aye--the false villain. [_They go carefully about room, lifting hangings, tapping walls and floor, trying to see behind picture-frames, coming very near secret door._ STEPHEN. Have ye tested the walls? WAT. Aye, and the floors. ANDREW. There be no secrets here. STEPHEN. Then we'll look further. Give ye good even, Sir Gilbert. ANDREW. Mayhap we'll meet again---- WAT. Aye,--on the field of battle! [_Exeunt soldiers, with angry gestures._ SIR GILBERT _rises and bows slightly, signing to_ DICCON _to follow._ SIR GILBERT _waits an instant, follows to door, then goes to window and watches._ RAFE _jumps out of box, and stands beside settle. Enter_ LADY KATHERINE, _followed by_ PHYLLIS _and_ GILLIAN, _stealing in to peep out at window. Enter_ CICELY _and_ ALLISON, _catching at_ GILLIAN'S _skirts._ ALLISON [_piteously_]. Gillian! Gillian! CICELY. Oh, Gillian, don't leave us alone! GILLIAN [_turns back_]. Never! my lambs. Have never a fear of that. [_Sits in chair (L.), gathers_ ALLISON _into her lap, drawing_ CICELY _beside her._ GILLIAN _still looks anxiously towards window._] PHYLLIS. There they go, those wicked men! LADY K. Now Heaven be praised! [RAFE _runs to stand at panel. Enter_ DICCON.] DICCON. My lord and my lady---- [_All turn._ SIR GILBERT _crosses stage to meet_ DICCON.] The knaves be all gone, sir. I shut the gate upon them with my own two hands. [_Everyone takes a breath of relief._ RAFE _touches spring and_ RUFUS _steps out and strides to his father._] RUFUS. Father, let your son's first word be to crave pardon for all his willfulness! SIR G. [_clasping his hand warmly and putting an arm across his shoulder_]. Nay, lad, 'tis freely given. Methinks I should first ask thine for all my hardness of heart. [PHYLLIS _goes to_ LADY KATHERINE, _who turns and kisses her affectionately. They stand side by side._ PHYLLIS. Our little Rafe has played the man and saved Rufus for us all. LADY K. He is a brave little lad! But tell me, children, what doth it mean that you were out of your beds at such a strange hour? RAFE. We got up to see our ancestors dance. ALL. Ancestors dance! SIR G. What meaneth the child? RAFE. Why, sir, Gillian's grandam hath said to her, that when the midnight tolled on Christmas Eve, my lord and my lady here did step forth, clasp hands, and dance. ALLISON. And so we came to see. CICELY. And soothly, it was so. They came forth and danced, here in the shine of the fire. A brave sight, Father! SIR G. Now, saints defend us! What is a man to make of this? LADY K. Never heed them--'twas just a sleep-heavy fancy. A beautiful Christmas-tide dream. RAFE. Nay, lady Mother, it was no dream. It was the spell of Christmas brought it all to pass. SIR G. Now doth the lad speak truth, good friends! Verily it _is_ the spell of Christmas which hath saved us all from sin and much sorrow this night. The spell of "Peace upon earth, good will to men." Hark, the waits are singing still--as angels sing, and ever shall sing the world around, on Christmas Eve. [_All stand listening for a moment to distant singing, then join in carol._ CURTAIN NOTES ON COSTUME, MUSIC, AND SETTING Adult parts in this play taken by boys and girls of fifteen or sixteen. In contrast to these, the smaller the children playing Rafe, Cicely, and Allison, the better--Rafe not over eight, Cicely and Allison six and five years. Costumes follow the Van Dyke pictures of Charles I and those of his children. Very helpful illustrations may also be found in "Merrylips," by Beulah Marie Dix. (The Macmillan Company.) SIR GILBERT and RUFUS wear sleeveless jerkins made of tan-colored canton flannel to represent leather. Rufus wears boots and a broad-brimmed hat with plumes, and long cloak of the same color as his suit. These suits should be of rich colors in contrast to the sober colors of the Puritan soldiers, who also wear leather-colored jerkins and boots. Cavaliers wear broad lace collars and cuffs, while the PURITAN SOLDIERS wear square linen collars and cuffs, and under-sleeves with stripes running around them of black and orange, the colors of the Parliament. Orange baldric over right shoulder. If possible, metal helmets, or firemen's helmets silvered to represent the steel caps of the time; otherwise, broad-brimmed felt hats with band or scarf of orange and black. They carry swords, cross-bows, or other arms. LADY KATHERINE and PHYLLIS. Full, quilted petticoats, broad, deep-pointed lace collars and cuffs. Dressed in rich colors. Lady Katherine wears a small lace cap upon her hair. RAFE. Suit like the picture of Prince Charles. May wear a broad fringed sash, and fringed bows at his knees. Lace collar and cuffs. Sleeves may be slashed. CICELY and ALLISON. Little short-waisted, quilted dresses, with flowered panels set in. Lace at the square necks and the elbow sleeves. GILLIAN. Plainly made dress of flowered material. Skirt full, but not quilted. Short caps to the sleeves. White kerchief, apron, and plain white cap. DICCON. Plain suit, like the Puritans, but less sober in color, and without the leather jerkin. Square linen collar and cuffs. THE PORTRAITS. Costumes of an earlier century. SIR PHILIP. Slashed doublet and trunks of rich color, and long stockings to match. Ruff, and plumed cap or hat of same material as doublet. Wears a dagger. LADY GERALDINE. Dress of rich color to harmonize with Sir Philip's. Puffed and slashed sleeves, figured panel in front of skirt and waist, and panniers on hips. Ruff, and small beaded cap. To stand in absolute stillness for so long a time is a difficult matter. Therefore the portraits must be careful to take poses which they can hold without too great a strain throughout the act. MUSIC Choose songs which, through their quaintness, may be in keeping with the atmosphere of the whole. For the children: "Waken, Christian children,"[28] [Footnote 28: Words printed in "A Puritan Christmas," p. 136.] "The first Nowell the angel did say," or some other simple old carol. For the Waits: "From far away we come to you." These three carols are all to be found in "Christmas Carols New and Old," Novello & Company. The last has been modernized and set to new music more suitable for children's voices by Mr. W.W. Gilchrist, and is to be found in a book containing many good carols for children ("The First Nowell" among them), "The New Hosanna."[29] Mr. Gilchrist's version omits the quaint refrains of the original--"The snow in the street, and the wind on the door," and "Minstrels and maids stand forth on the floor," and substitutes "Sing 'Glory to God' again and again," and "Peace upon earth, good will to men." These last words are necessary to the sense in two places, in the text of the play. When the play was first given, the Waits used the old refrains, and Mr. Gilchrist's, for alternate verses, thus gaining in quaintness of effect and at the same time avoiding monotony. For the midnight dance, use the Minuet from Mozart's "Don Giovanni."[30] [Footnote 29: See p. 315.] [Footnote 30: See note, p. 146, in regard to the English, following "A Puritan Christmas."] SETTING If the first scene, which requires little furniture,--the table, a chair for Gillian, and low stools for the children,--can be set in front of the second, much time will be saved in the changing. One scene will serve for both acts, if the frames of the portraits can be covered with hangings during the first act. Mission furniture may be used, but if it is possible to obtain a carved chair and table, and appropriate objects to hang upon the wall,--one or two pieces of armor, a pair of antlers, etc.,--the effect can be much enhanced. The secret door in the second act must be planned in accordance with the possibilities of one's stage. If scenery is used, one section may be opened wide enough for Rufus to pass through. Otherwise, arrange hangings so that he may appear to go through a door behind them. THE BABUSHKA A RUSSIAN LEGEND, IN ONE SCENE CHARACTERS THE BABUSHKA. THE BARON. PRINCE DIMITRI } PRINCESS DAGMAR } His children. KOLINKA } MARIE } MATRENA } Children of a peasant family. SASCHA } NICOLAS } PAVLO } OLD SEMYON } IVAN, his grandson } The village fiddlers. MICHAEL, SERGIUS, LEO, BORIS, PETER } SOPHIA, NADIA, FEODOSIA, MASHA, } Village children. MALASHKA, KATINKA, PRASKOVIA } THE BABUSHKA TIME: _Christmas Eve._ SCENE: _Interior of a Russian "isba," or hut. Back R., door; L., window; through them a dreary winter landscape is visible. In the corner, by the window, a ledge with ikons and decorations. Right, Russian oven, with ladder to top. Bench runs under window and along wall. For other furniture, a few stools and a table, or large chest used as a table [L.], with a cloth, a loaf of bread, and a knife upon it. Down stage [R.], a cradle. On the floor, bear skins, or other furs. At rise of curtain_, MARIE, _seated by the table, braids a basket_; MATRENA _rocks cradle_; KOLINKA _sits by window, knitting_; SASCHA _lies on top of the oven_; NICOLAS _and_ PAVLO _play on the floor. Children are singing the "Carol of the Birds."_ [Music: CAROL OF THE BIRDS] BAS. QUERCY. Whence comes this rush of wings afar? Following straight the Noël star? Birds from the woods in wondrous flight, Bethlehem seek this Holy Night. 2. "Tell us, ye birds, why come ye here, Into this stable, poor and drear?" "Hast'ning we seek the new-born King, And all our sweetest music bring." 3. First came the Cock, ere break of day, Strutting along in plumage gay, Straight to the humble manger flew, Chanting aloud _Coquerico_. 4. Then, near the Babe a Goldfinch drew, Chirping with mirth _Tir-li-chiu-chiu_; _Chiu_ said the Sparrow in reply, _Pal-pa-bat_ was the Quail's quick cry. 5. Blackbirds then raised their sweetest notes; Warbled the Linnets' tuneful throats! Pigeons all cooed _Rou-cou-rou-cou_, Larks sang with joy _Ti-ro-li-rou_. 6. Angels, and shepherds, birds of the sky, Come where the Son of God doth lie; Christ on the earth with man doth dwell, Join in the shout, Noël, Noël! KOLINKA. How lonely it is with Father away! MARIE. Yes, and isn't it strange to think that all the houses in the village are just as quiet as ours?--on Christmas Eve, too. SASCHA. I don't believe it ever happened before that the whole village had to turn out and hunt wolves on Christmas Eve. MARIE. And if they hadn't had to do that I suppose Mother wouldn't have had to spend the day taking care of Petrovitch's sick wife, either. KOLINKA. If the men were at home somebody would be coming in, or at least passing by. MARIE. Oh, I do hope they will kill all those dreadful wolves so we shan't have to be afraid any more. MATRENA. I'm so afraid Father will be hurt! SASCHA [_with scorn_]. _Hurt_, Matrena! Of course he won't be hurt. Hasn't he always hunted wolves, every winter? But that's the way with you and Kolinka. I tell you _I'm_ not afraid. I only wish I were older and bigger--then I could have gone, too. It's very slow to have to stay at home and take care of you girls. [_Yawns and stretches._] MARIE [_turning indignantly_]. Indeed, Sascha, it wouldn't be slow at all if you would do something beside lie up there on the stove and sleep. Here's the bowl you began to carve a month ago, not finished yet. Just come down now, and do it. SASCHA. Oh, no! I like this better. And you know you would rather have me stay up here and tell you the news. [_Teasingly._] KOLINKA. News, indeed! What news can _you_ have to tell, I should like to know? SASCHA [_triumphantly_]. Just this. That the great castle up on the hill has been thrown open once more. MARIE [_surprised_]. _Has_ it? Why? KOLINKA. I don't believe it. SASCHA. It's true, though. Our father the Czar has pardoned the Baron, and he has come back from Siberia. KOLINKA. Are you _sure_, Sascha? Where is the Baroness? SASCHA. The men said so at the well this morning, so it must be true. MATRENA. Did the Baron bring the little Prince and Princess with him? SASCHA. _Of course_ my lady and the children weren't in Siberia with the Baron. They've been in some foreign country--I forget where--all these years. And now the Baron has sent for them, and they have all come back to the castle to keep Christmas together. MATRENA. Oh, how glad I am! SASCHA. What are you glad for? It won't make any difference to _us_. MATRENA. But I'm glad, anyway! KOLINKA. Of course she is, and so we all are, Sascha--glad for the Baron and the lady, and the children, too. NICOLAS. Did you say they were coming here, Sascha? PAVLO. Are we going to see them? SASCHA. No, of course not. They've come to the castle, and it will be the wonder of wonders if _we_ see them. KOLINKA [_kindly_]. Perhaps they will drive through the village in their beautiful sleigh, Nicolas, and then you and Pavlo will have a chance to see them. SASCHA. They did say, at the village well, that now the Baron is home, there will be more strangers in the village again. MARIE. All the better for the village, and that's a very good reason for you to come down and work, Sascha. We can sell what we make to these same strangers, and earn a few kopeks for poor Father. SASCHA. That's so, Marie. [_Comes down ladder and begins to examine work._] I believe I'll make some more forks and spoons. [_Consults_ MARIE _in pantomime._] NICOLAS. Let's play wolf hunt, Pavlo! I'll be a wolf---- [_Covers himself with a skin._] PAVLO. And I'll be a hunter with a club! [_Jumps up and arms himself._ NICOLAS _growls realistically._ PAVLO _prepares to strike._] KOLINKA [_suddenly, in a startled voice_]. What's that outside! NICOLAS. Bears! PAVLO. No, it's a wolf! [_They throw down skin and club and fly to the top of the stove._] PAVLO _and_ NICOLAS [_terror-stricken_]. Wolf! Wolf! [MARIE _and_ KOLINKA _go to window._ SASCHA _tries to see out, then goes to unbolt door._ MATRENA [_running to foot of ladder and shaking her finger at_ NICOLAS _and_ PAVLO]. You bad boys! you've waked the baby! KOLINKA. Be quiet, boys! It's not a wolf at all. MATRENA. Nor a bear, either. [_Rocks cradle, and pats and hushes baby._] MARIE. It's some poor body lost in the snow, perhaps. [SASCHA _gets door open and runs out._ SASCHA [_without_]. Have you lost your way? Come with me. Here is our door. It's a bitter cold night. [MATRENA _leaves cradle and stands by_ MARIE. _Enter_ SASCHA _with_ PRINCE _and_ PRINCESS. NICOLAS _and_ PAVLO _watch with interest._ KOLINKA [_going forward hospitably_]. Come in; you are very welcome. [_Sees the strange guests._] Oh---- MARIE [_aside_]. Oh, Matrena, who can it be? MATRENA [_aside_]. Marie, just see how beautifully they are dressed! [_Children stand back abashed._ SASCHA _remains by door._ PRINCE [_who leads_ PRINCESS _by the hand_]. We thank you for taking us in. I am the Prince Dimitri from the castle, and this is my sister, the Princess Dagmar. PRINCESS. And we have lost our way. KOLINKA [_timidly_]. We--we didn't know who it was. I'm so glad we heard you. MARIE [_gently taking_ PRINCESS' _hand_]. Oh, Matrena, how cold her hand is! Come near our stove, my lady, and warm yourself. [MARIE _and_ MATRENA _rub the_ PRINCESS' _hands while the boys on the stove peer down curiously. The_ PRINCE _puts his hands against stove._ SASCHA _and_ KOLINKA _stand staring at the strangers._ SASCHA. How did you get lost? PRINCE. We wanted to see our beautiful forest---- PRINCESS. You see, we have only been here for a few days. PRINCE. So we started out for a little walk. We didn't mean to go far at all, but before we knew it we had lost sight of the castle. PRINCESS. And though we tried and tried to find it again, we kept getting deeper into the forest. SASCHA. But how did you come to the village? It isn't very far from the castle, but it is hard to find unless you know the road, or just the right path in the forest. KOLINKA. Yes, how did you come here? PRINCESS. An old woman found us wandering about trying to find the path, and she brought us here. Such a strange old woman, all wrinkled and bent. PRINCE. _She_ seemed to know just how to come here, though I couldn't tell what was guiding her. PRINCESS. And she was so good and kind to us--but she never spoke once, all the way. MARIE [_clapping her hands_]. It must have been the Babushka! SASCHA. Of course it was! KOLINKA _and_ MATRENA. How wonderful! NICOLAS _and_ PAVLO. Babushka! Babushka! PRINCE [_puzzled_]. The Babushka? PRINCESS. Who is she? SASCHA. What! you, Russian children, and don't know that! KOLINKA [_aside_]. Hush, Sascha, don't be rude. You forget they have been away ever since they were babies, almost. [_To_ PRINCE.] We can tell you all about the Babushka, Prince. Sit down, and Marie will tell you the story. Marie knows it best. [KOLINKA, SASCHA, _and_ MARIE _draw benches forward and all sit down_, MARIE _in the center, the rest not too close to her._ PRINCE _and_ PRINCESS _on bench to R._, MATRENA _on end of_ MARIE'S _bench._ SASCHA _stands near_ MATRENA. KOLINKA _behind the group, knitting._ NICOLAS _and_ PAVLO _watch gravely._] NICOLAS. There aren't any bears or wolves coming, Pavlo? PAVLO. No. And Marie's going to tell a story. NICOLAS. Let's get down. [_They scramble down the ladder, and seat themselves at_ MARIE'S _feet._] MARIE. Was the old woman in the forest all dressed in gray? PRINCESS. Yes, all in a long gray cloak, with a queer white cap on her head. MARIE. Yes. Then I'm certain it was the Babushka. She is sure to be wandering about on Christmas Eve. PRINCE. Is she? PRINCESS. Why? MARIE. That's what the story is about. Once upon a time, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, there was a lonely little house out in the fields where four great roads met. SASCHA. And by the house there was a big guidepost that pointed four ways at once, to show people which road to take. [_Stretches out both arms and swings his body slowly to show how the post points._] MARIE. Babushka lived all alone in the little cottage. In the summer the place didn't seem so lonely, for the banks at the roadside were covered with bright flowers, and the days were long and full of sunshine. But in the winter everything was white as far as Babushka could see, and the wind howled, and the wolves howled, and the birds were all gone. And Babushka was poor, and old, and lonely. One winter day, when she was hurrying to get her work all done and her house tidied before the dark came down, because she was too poor to buy candles for herself, she heard a strange sound outside like silver bells ringing above the whistling wind. She looked out of her little window and saw a great train of people coming down the broadest of the roads toward the crossroad. She never had seen anything so strange before, for the leaders were not traveling in sleighs or on horseback, but on three great splendid white camels. The silver bells were hung about the camels' necks, and their saddles were decorated with silver ornaments. And on the camels rode Three Kings. Babushka knew they were kings because they were so richly dressed and because each one wore a golden crown on his head. And after them followed a long train of servants and guards. The Kings did not know which road to take, and one of the servants was sent to knock on Babushka's door and ask the way. At first the old woman was so frightened that she wouldn't open the door, nor answer at all, and the Kings themselves had to get down from their camels and come to speak with her. The servants frightened Babushka, but the Kings were so kind to her that she soon told them all she knew about the four great roads. It wasn't very much, for she had never traveled further than the nearest village, but she told the Kings that there they could find shelter for themselves and their camels and their servants. Then the first King said: "We have journeyed a very long way, Babushka. We have been guided on the road by a glorious, shining Star, and we know that by and by the Star will lead us to a little new-born Baby." The poor old Babushka wondered very much, and said: "Who is the little child, my lord, that you should take such a long, hard journey to find him?" And the first King said: "He is a great King--the King of all the earth. When we find Him we will lay our crowns at His feet, with these gifts we have brought--gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. We are called Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar." Babushka listened and looked. She saw the gold crowns, and she saw that each one of the Kings bore in his hand a gift--one held a richly embroidered bag which looked heavy, and it was, for it was filled with gold. Another carried a beautiful crystal jar full of something clear and golden. Babushka knew this must be myrrh, and suddenly she knew, too, that the fragrance of spices filling the poor little house must come from the incense in the stone vase she saw in the hands of the third King. She listened and looked, and then she said: "Kings have no need of gifts, my lord. Why do you carry these gifts to the little child?" And the first King said: "Because this King of all the Earth is the King of Love, or He would not have come down into the world as a little child. And because we love Him more than everything else, we are bringing Him the very best that we have." And the second King said: "Come, Babushka, go with us on our journey to find the Christ-Child. He has come into the world to love and help just such poor old creatures as you." And the third King said: "There is room in His heart for you, and we will gladly help you on the journey to Him." And all the Kings begged her to go with them. But Babushka was afraid and unwilling. She saw how cold and dreary it was outside, and she knew that she was warm and dry in her little hut, even if she was so poor. She didn't know anything better than just to have enough to eat, and a fire to keep her warm. She looked up into the dark, threatening sky, and couldn't see any marvelous star through the thick clouds. And, besides, she wanted to finish sweeping up her house. She must surely do that first of all. But the Kings could not wait, so they mounted their camels again, and soon Babushka heard the music of the silver bells growing fainter and fainter in the distance. All the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, and every day all the year, and through all the years, Babushka thought of her strange visitors. And still more she thought of the little Child. And the more she thought, the more she grew to love Him, until at last she began to wish she had gone with the Three Kings. She grew more and more unhappy about it, until one day she made up her mind that she would set out alone to try to find the Child. She forgot how many, many years had gone by since the visit of the Kings, and she didn't know that the Child had gone back to His Throne in Heaven again. She locked her little cottage and set out, going from village to village and from house to house, everywhere seeking for the Christ-Child. When she found a little child who was kind and loving and true, she said to herself: "This little one looks as the Child I am seeking must have looked," and it made her very happy. But still she didn't find the Child the Kings had found. And, Princess, though it all happened such hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the Babushka is still hurrying over the world in winter time, looking in every nursery and every cottage for the little Christ-Child. She comes in softly with just a rustle of her skirts, and bends over the beds where little children lie asleep. She always puts some small gift on the pillow, and steals silently out again. It is only the children that are good and quiet who ever see her, and she makes friends with them and gives them Christmas presents. But she loves the babies best of all, I know, because she still hopes to find among them the Baby who was laid in a manger on the first Christmas. MATRENA [_after an instant's pause, pointing to window_]. Someone is at the window! PRINCESS. I see her--it's the old woman who led us out of the forest! SASCHA. It's the Babushka! KOLINKA. Perhaps she will come in. Let's be very quiet. MATRENA. Let's sing--the Babushka loves our carols. [_Children sing softly the carol of the Birds. Enter_ BABUSHKA, _very quietly. Lays her hand on_ PAVLO'S, _then on_ NICOLAS' _head, and gazes earnestly at them._ [_Kneels by cradle, bending over the baby, and kisses it. Rises, stands watching the children a moment, then glides silently out. Children see her pass window, then the song ceases._ PRINCESS [_suddenly springing up_]. Oh, Dimitri, why didn't we beg the Babushka to take us home to the castle? Our Father and Mother will be so terribly frightened when we don't come back! PRINCE [_hurrying to door_]. Perhaps it isn't too late. SASCHA [_catching his arm, and standing before the door_]. No, no! you couldn't catch her. KOLINKA. And you mustn't go out in the cold again. PRINCESS [_in great distress_]. But we must let our father know we are safe! KOLINKA. We will send a messenger as soon as we can, but there is no one in the village to-night---- SASCHA. The wolves have been so bad that all the men have gone out to hunt them. KOLINKA. Perhaps someone will be back soon, and then we can send. It isn't safe for the boys to go alone into the forest so late. SASCHA [_to_ PRINCE]. Father made me promise not to go away until he came home. I'm not a bit afraid, though. KOLINKA. Sascha, run and ask old Semyon what he thinks. [_Exit_ SASCHA.] Sascha will bring Semyon back with him. NICOLAS. Perhaps Ivan will come, too. MATRENA. Ivan and Semyon play their violins and sing--Ivan is Semyon's grandson, you know. PAVLO. And we sing, too. NICOLAS. We'll sing for you when they come. PRINCE. Will you? That's nice. MARIE. We sing all the songs we know on winter nights. And while we sing we work. See, Princess, this is our winter work. [PRINCE _and_ PRINCESS _go to table and look over wooden articles and baskets, with_ MARIE _and_ MATRENA. KOLINKA _stands by window._ NICOLAS [_to_ PAVLO]. I'm glad I wasn't big enough to go wolf-hunting, aren't you, Pavlo, because now we've seen the Prince and the Princess. PAVLO. And Sascha said they wouldn't come here--but they did. Let's go up on the stove again, Nicolas. [_They climb upon the stove._] KOLINKA. There they come. [_Opens door. Enter_ SASCHA, SEMYON, _and_ IVAN.] Did you tell Semyon, Sascha? SASCHA. Yes, and he says we must wait. SEMYON. Good-evening to you all. CHILDREN. Good-evening. SEMYON [_bowing_]. It's a poor, cold welcome home we give to our Prince and Princess, but we are glad to see them among us again. PRINCE. I'm sure they've all been kind, little father. SEMYON [_bowing again, to Prince_]. I'm sorry, my lord, that there is no way to send a message to the Baron, but our boys are too young, and I am too feeble. The men will be at home soon, I hope, and meanwhile you must be patient. MARIE. Oh, Semyon, let us have some carols [_to_ PRINCESS], and then the time will go quickly. SEMYON. Ivan and I are always glad to make music on Christmas Eve. IVAN. Or any other eve, either, Grandfather. [SEMYON _sits in center of stage_, IVAN _standing beside him. They play their violins and sing the ballad of King Wenceslas, all the children joining in the chorus._ NICOLAS. Sister, sister, I hear somebody shouting, outside! SASCHA [_rushing to door_]. The men come back from the wolf hunt! IVAN. Let's see what they've killed. [_Exeunt_ IVAN _and_ SASCHA.] KOLINKA. No, it's not our father--they're all men that look like soldiers. MARIE. It's the people from the castle come to look for you! [_Door flies open. Enter_ IVAN _and_ SASCHA _with_ BARON. PRINCE _and_ PRINCESS _rush to him._ PRINCE _and_ PRINCESS. Father! Father! BARON. My children! Are you both safe? PRINCESS. Oh, yes, Father. These children have been so good to us. BARON. Have they, my dear? Then they have been good to me, too, and I thank them with all my heart. KOLINKA. Oh, we haven't done anything, sir! PRINCE. Tell us how you found out where we were, Father? BARON. In rather a queer way, my son. We didn't miss you just at once, but as soon as we knew you were gone everyone was in a great fright, you may be sure. I started out with Sergius and Smoloff, and half a dozen others to search for you in the forest. We hadn't gone a hundred yards from the castle when we met the strangest little old woman I ever saw, all dressed in gray, and wrinkled and bent---- PRINCESS [_clapping her hands_]. The Babushka, Father, the Babushka! MARIE, SASCHA, _and_ KOLINKA. The Babushka took the message! PRINCE. It was she who brought us here! SEMYON. Have you never heard of the Babushka, Baron? BARON. Yes, yes! I know the old story of the Babushka, but I never saw her before. IVAN. She always comes to our village at Christmas time. We don't all see her every year, but somebody always sees her. PRINCE. What did she do, Father? BARON. She did not speak at all. She looked at us for a moment with the softest eyes imaginable, and then she stooped down and pointed to your footprints in the snow. Then she pointed toward the village, smiled, and beckoned to us to follow her. It seemed as if she must have guessed our trouble, and she seemed so sure and so full of cheer, that we couldn't help believing we should find you, and followed her at once. I must reward her liberally for the great service she has done me and mine this night. MARIE. The Babushka wants no reward, Baron. You know what it is she has been searching for all these years? Grandmother says it was Love the Babushka wanted, and she has surely found it, for every little child in Russia loves her dearly, dearly, and watches for her at Christmas time. IVAN. And when she comes, the children sing their carols for her. But the one she loves best is the "Golden Carol"--that's the song of the Three Kings, you know, sir. SEMYON [_in doorway_]. The Babushka is coming now, with her followers, my lord. Here they are! [_Enter a troop of village children, the_ BABUSHKA _in their midst, smiling on them, and now and then patting some little one on the head. She stands in the center of the stage and distributes gifts to the children from a quaint basket, answering their cries and questions by nods and smiles, each child exclaiming "Thank you!" "How nice!" etc., as he receives his gift._] CHILDREN. Oh, Babushka! dear, good Babushka! SOPHIA. Have you got something for everybody? MALASHKA. Are you quite sure? SERGIUS. Me, too, Babushka! MASHA. I've tried to be good, all the whole year! CHILDREN. We all have, _truly_, Babushka. SERGIUS. I've had good lessons--you can ask the school-teacher. KATINKA. My mother says I've been a good girl--aren't you glad? PETER. Please, Babushka--I--I'm afraid I haven't been a very good boy. But I'm sorry, and I'll try to do better next year. I'll be bigger, then. PRASKOVIA. We'll all be very, very good next year--won't we, children? CHILDREN. Indeed we will, Babushka. BORIS. Perhaps it will be easier next year. FEODOSIA. Oh, please, Babushka, I have a baby brother at home. Could you give me something for him? LEO. My big brother has gone wolf-hunting with the men, but he'll be sorry enough he missed you, Babushka. MICHAEL. So has mine, and he'll be sorry, too. NADIA. Dear Babushka, I've kept the present so carefully that you gave me last year. MALASHKA. Oh, _did_ you? Mine got broken and I cried. CHILDREN. Oh, Babushka, we love you, we love you! Why can't you stay with us always? Live here with us--in our village. SASCHA. Babushka! You must have something for the Prince and Princess, haven't you? [_As the_ BABUSHKA _gives them something, the_ BARON _turns to the children._ BARON. Children, the Babushka has given the best present of all to me. [_Children stare in surprise._ MARIE. Oh, I know! I know what it was! BARON. Yes, some of you can guess. The Prince and the Princess were my Christmas present, for the Babushka gave them back to me. [_Children laugh and clap._ SEMYON [_tapping his violin for quiet_]. Come, children, we must sing for the Babushka! CHILDREN. Yes--we always do. [_Applaud again._ SEMYON _and_ IVAN _play, while children sing "The Golden Carol."_] [Music: THE GOLDEN CAROL of MELCHIOR, BALTHAZAR, and GASPAR.] We saw a light shine out afar, On Christmas in the morning, And straight we knew Christ's star it was, Bright beaming in the morning. Then did we fall on bended knee, On Christmas in the morning, And praised the Lord, who'd let us see, His glory at its dawning. 2. Oh, ever thought be of His Name, On Christmas in the morning, Who bore for us both grief and shame, Afflictions sharpest scorning. And may we die (when death shall come) On Christmas in the morning, And see in heaven, our glorious home, That Star of Christmas morning. CURTAIN NOTES ON SETTING, MUSIC, AND COSTUME RUSSIAN OVEN. Made from a wooden packing-case, five or six feet in height, covered with cambric, and painted to represent stone, brick, or tiles. These stoves are decorated with rich panels in bold conventional designs of flower or animal forms, or combinations of geometrical figures. They are often so large that in the bitter weather whole families may sleep on their tops, or on a platform above. IKONS. Pictures of the Christ, the Madonna, and the Saints, much ornamented with gilt, and placed on a ledge in "the beautiful corner," with candles in silver candlesticks, sweet-smelling grasses, and flowers, real or of paper. Sometimes a carved wooden pigeon is also placed before the ikons--the emblem of the Holy Spirit. The wall in this corner is hung with long towels, either covered with embroidery, or embroidered at the ends. Everyone who enters the room makes an obeisance, and crosses himself, before the ikons. They are specially decorated for Christmas. Make the towels with stencils, as described in the notes on girls' costumes. The same characteristic designs are placed on ledges, cupboards, and shelves, on the chest, or coffer, and ceiling beam, on carved wooden boxes, dishes, and jugs, which are often displayed on a sideboard. The knife and loaf placed on the coffer constitute a symbol of hospitality. The decoration of the stage need be limited only by time and resources. MUSIC Search for information in regard to carol-singing in Russia having been unsuccessful, old carols have been chosen which lend an atmosphere of quaintness. The "Carol of the Birds" is old French, the others English, "The Golden Carol" of the Magi being especially appropriate to the story. The sources for "Good King Wenceslas" are given on p. 316. The singing of this carol (also the "Golden Carol") is accompanied by the Village Fiddlers on their violins. Semyon sings the part of the King, Ivan that of the Page, all the children the narrative parts. Others, with better knowledge of the subject, may be able to obtain music more strictly suitable. The author would be glad to gain any accurate information in regard to the use of Christmas carols in Russia. COSTUMES BOYS wear Russian blouses, and dark trousers, their legs bound, from feet to knees, with yellowish rags; shoes suggesting moccasins. Blouses may be made of canton flannel, white, or dull colors, or of unbleached muslin, reaching halfway to knees. Neck finished in a band; opening from collar down left side is not more than six or eight inches, giving just room enough to put the head through. Trim this collar and opening, also sleeves, with fur; or put on a conventional border with stencil and paints, narrow at neck opening, broad on sleeves. Tie in at waist with a short sash, ends hanging, of bright color to match borders. Outdoor winter costume of boys is a very thick, very full-skirted coat of dark color, immense boots, cap of fur, or fur-bordered, and bright scarf about neck, ends tucked into breast of coat. The village children, however, may be supposed to rush in from their houses, after the Babushka, without coats, but dressed as above, which is both simpler and more picturesque. GIRLS' costumes vary a little more. 1. Sleeveless dress, to ankles; white guimpe, long full sleeves. Dress of bright colors, with band of plain color edging bottom of skirt, neck, both of dress and guimpe, and bordering white sleeves. Apron, white, with stenciled designs in various colors. 2. Skirt to ankles, of soft faded blue or red, worn high on the short white waist, which has full sleeves, gathered in a band at the elbow. Trimmed with stenciled bands in bright colors, at hem of skirt, on neck and sleeves, and also at the edge of an immense handkerchief worn on the head and knotted under the chin. This is large enough to spread out over shoulders, and is straight across the back. 3. Plain narrow skirt of soft color, with a long-sleeved apron (cream white), low-necked in front, and cut like an Eton jacket in the back. This skirt has a band of plain color at the hem, but the apron is trimmed with many rows of stenciled patterns at the bottom, a narrow pattern at neck and hand, and a broader one around the back at the waist. White chemisette in front, also with band of trimming. Girls wear knots of ribbon hanging from the ends of their braids, many strings of bright beads on the neck, and large gold hoops, or enameled earrings in their ears. They may wear low shoes with bows or buckles, or the soft, thick moccasin-like shoes worn by the boys. Some few may be bareheaded. Others wear the large handkerchiefs described above, and still others the picturesque "kokochnik," a velvet, bead-trimmed crescent, worn forward on the head as in the picture of "Marie." These are easily cut from cardboard, covered with velvet, and trimmed in different patterns with small beads. The stenciled patterns above-mentioned take the place of Russian embroideries. They are repeated conventional designs, Greek patterns, and fantastic forms of flowers, birds, and animals. Stenciling is suggested as being the easiest and quickest way of getting the desired effect. THE BABUSHKA. Long robe, and hooded cloak of light gray canton flannel. The hood is worn over the head. She carries a quaint basket filled with cheap little toys. An adult is needed for this part, or an older girl of sufficient insight and appreciation to carry out the simple pantomime and fill it with the love and deep yearning of the Babushka, who is really a spirit, and not a human being at all. THE BARON. Long military coat, below knees; cream-colored, trimmed on breast with a pattern in gold braid, a band of same around the edge and up the slits at the sides. Double collar, standing up behind head and lying flat across back, scarlet with a gilt pattern. Scarlet sash with sword or dagger. Red boots with blue heels. Spurs. Sleeves open from shoulder to fur-trimmed cuff, and worn hanging. Under-sleeve, and lining of coat-sleeve of a rich color. Hat with flat-topped crown about eight inches high, scarlet, with gold pattern; standing brim, dark brown, three inches high, cleft in front to show more of red and gold. Gilt cockade in front. PRINCE. Russian blouse with military trimmings, scarlet and white. Khaki trousers, boots, fur cap. PRINCESS. White cape and hood, trimmed with fur and silver. Dress underneath not unlike the little peasants', but more richly trimmed. OLD SEMYON. Long brown robe, halfway below knees, skirt rather full. Legs bound in tan-colored rags. Moccasins. Coat has broad collar with long reveres, and plain high vest inside, of same material as coat. Hat made of the same, low, with rolling brim, giving a turban-like effect. Long white hair and beard. Marie, the eldest of the children, is perhaps fourteen; Kolinka, twelve; Matrena, nine; Sascha, Ivan, and the Prince, eleven or twelve; Pavlo and Nicolas, five or six; the Princess, nine. The Village children should be rather small. Satisfactory pictures of Russian homes and costumes are very difficult to find, but there is a series of fairy-tales in Russian, beautifully illustrated in color, which will be found most helpful to those wishing to make costumes for this play. These books are to be had at the Russian Importing Company, 452 Boylston Street, Boston, and may also be seen in some of the larger Public Libraries. A CANVAS CHRISTMAS IN TWO ACTS CHARACTERS PETER PEPPER, Ringmaster, and owner of Pepper's Perennial Circus. HARRY HOPKINS } LIMBER JACK } otherwise MARCO BROTHERS, Acrobats. BARNEY O'BRIEN } } SIGNOR FRENCELLI } JERRY PICKLE } otherwise } SIGNOR COCODILLA } Clowns. BEN JACKSON, otherwise MR. BARLOW, Minstrel and hand. DUTCH, peanut-man and general factotum. MIKE MCGINNIS, otherwise PROFESSOR WORMWOOD, Animal-trainer. TIM, one of the hands. SCHNEIDER, the Dog. JOCKO, the Monkey. FARMER SIMPSON. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN SIMPSON--"BUB"--(Eight years old.) } DANIEL WEBSTER SIMPSON--"SONNY"--(Five years old.) } his boys. A CANVAS CHRISTMAS Written for a club of boys from twelve to seventeen. ACT I TIME: _Ten o'clock on Christmas Eve._ SCENE: _The mess-tent of Pepper's Perennial Circus, very bare and shabby, with circus litter about; signs, "No Smoking," "Next performance, 2 P.M.," posters, etc., on the tent walls; a rough mess-table of boards and trestles, with boxes, stools, two broken chairs, etc., for seats. Pile of old blankets in one corner. Lantern hangs in center of tent, and another [L.] at entrance to circus tent. [R.], another exit, leading out of doors. Music [if possible] from circus tent, playing last strains of "Home, Sweet Home." Burst of applause from circus tent, the flaps part, and the troupe enters_ [_excepting_ PEPPER, MIKE, _and the animals_], _weary and discontented, and drop down anywhere to rest._ HOPKINS _throws himself on pile of blankets [R.]_, JACK _takes a box nearby_, BARNEY _sits on table, and_ JERRY _goes to entrance [R.], fanning himself with his hat._ BEN _takes box [L.], and_ DUTCH _enters last, slipping the straps of his peanut-tray from his shoulders and setting it on the end of the table._ HARRY [_sullenly_]. This 'ere's the worst night we've 'ad yet. JACK. You bet yer life! BARNEY. Faix! I've no futs left an me at all, at all! TIM [_rubs his arms_]. I'm lame all over. It's me for the liniment bottle! JERRY. I'm as tired as any of you guys, but I'm a good deal madder than I'm tired. JACK. I should say. HARRY. 'Ow could we be h'anything but tired and h'angry, I'd like to h'arsk, with such a boss as old Pepper? BEN. Gen'lemen--Mr. Pepper he su'tinly war pretty bad, dis evenin'--in fac' I may say he war de limit. JERRY. And no excuse for it, either. BARNEY. Was it excuse, ye said? DUTCH. Mishter Pepper he don't vaits for no excuse. You'd t'ink ve vas all der lazy loafers--und der ain'd a lazy bone in der whole boonch. [_Enter_ MIKE, _with dog, and leading monkey._ MIKE. The sound of yez all is quite familiar. Be ye knockin' the boss again? BEN. We-all got mighty good reason, Mr. McGinnis. HARRY. 'E's not getting a think but wot 'e's earned for 'isself. JACK. Work a fellow to skin and bone! BARNEY. Wid nary bit o' regard to his iligant muscle, Limber Jack? JACK. It's true--no joshin', Barney! BARNEY. Niver a bit of it, darlin'! JERRY. It's all work and no rest---- MIKE. And niver a dacint worrud, even for the dumb bastes---- [_Pats dog and monkey. Dog goes about from one to another expecting pats and caresses, which are absent-mindedly given. Monkey, unobserved, steals peanuts from tray._] TIM. Nothing but blame, morning, noon, and night! DUTCH. Und ven der vork is ofer, ve don't gets noddings enough to eats--ain'd? BEN. Gentlemen, I'm 'bliged to admit dat I'm hungry all de day long! HARRY. H'and h'all night, you might say, and no h'exaggeratin'. TIM. We're all of us half starved. JERRY [_warningly_]. Here's the boss, fellows! [_Enter_ PETER, _striding into tent and giving an angry glance around._ PETER [_suspiciously_]. What are you all doing here? You, Tim, get a hustle on and put out those lights in the big tent. [_Exit_ TIM, _slowly and sullenly._] Mike McGinnis, go put your beasts in their cages--look at that monkey wasting the peanuts! Dutch, you aren't worth your salt--can't you take care of your stuff? [MIKE, _with an injured air, leads out monkey and whistles dog after him._ DUTCH, _much aggrieved, takes up tray, and moves it to another place._] Jerry Pickle, if you and O'Brien can't ring in something new for your turn, you'll soon be given the hook, and Ben's jokes are all stale enough to crumble. As for you, Hopkins, I consider your riding to-night a flunk, and you and Jack are no acrobats at all--you're just a couple of dubs. The show's always had the name of a first-class show, and it's going to keep up to it, if I've got to throw you all out and get a new lot. So you want to look out--see? [_Exit angrily._] HARRY [_jumping up_]. There's a-goin' to be h'end of this--as sure as my name's 'Arry 'Opkins! JERRY. Well, I'm with you, for one. We never go into winter quarters for a rest---- HARRY. No, for the h'old skinflint goes and brings 'is bloomin' show South---- JERRY. So's he can keep open all year round, and double his profits. DUTCH. Und vat does ve get oud of ut? Yust noddings. JERRY. I should say not! We're half paid and half fed, and worked double, and I for one have took all I'll stand. JACK. I'm with you there. TIM. So'm I, Jerry. BARNEY. Bedad, it's in the same box we all are. MIKE. True for you, Barney. We'd all better be quittin'. BEN. Gen'lemen! dis yere 'lustrous Company a' unanimous. We all 'low dat Mr. Pepper have got to reform. We-all mus' draw up a partition an' prohibit Mr. Pepper for conduc' unbecomin' to a Ringmaster. Gen'lemen, let us take action. HARRY. H'action be blowed! If it's 'ighly satisfactory to h'agitate petitions, or throw up your jobs--w'y, _I_ calls that just nothin' doin'. No h'A-1 h'acrobat is a-goin' to stand bein' told 'e's flunked in his best h'act. _I_ don't till I've pied 'im h'up. [_A murmur of assent, and all draw closer about him (R. front), speaking with lowered voices._ BARNEY. That's something like talk, that is! MIKE. I'm wid yez, Harry, me b'y. JERRY. I'd like to burn his old show over his head. TIM. Just doctor his wagon-axles a little, and when they break down, we'll take to the woods! JACK. _Much_ he'll get a new lot. BEN. No, gen'lemen--I got dat proposition beat---- [_Words become inaudible; they draw closer yet. The canvas (back Center) parts. Enter_ BUB _and_ SONNY, _very cautiously and timidly, peering about. They come forward a little, and pause, looking at group._ BUB. This is sure enough the circus, Sonny. Look at those men. [_The troupe fall apart guiltily, and look with amazement at the children._ BUB [_grips_ SONNY'S _hand and comes forward slowly_]. Please, mister, is the circus all over? BEN. Laws, honey, you didn' 'spec' to fin' no circus dis time o' night? BARNEY. Sure, an' ut's time we was all tucked into our little beds, an' the same to _you_, bedad. HARRY. Maybe you'll do us the honor to tell us your names? BUB [_impressively_]. My name is Benjamin Franklin Simpson. SONNY. An' mine is Daniel Webster Simpson. MIKE [_pretends to faint_]. Oh, would some of yez have the goodness to fan me! [JACK _obliges him._] JERRY. Give us a shorter one! They don't call you that every time you get your orders, I'm sure. [_Enter_ PEPPER, _watching unnoticed from background._ BUB. No; I'm just Bub, and he's Sonny. TIM. That's more like it. JACK. Breathe easy, Mike. HARRY. Well, Mr. Benjamin Franklin Bub, will you h'inform us where you 'ails from? BUB. We live over the mountain, by Pinesburg, an' we wanted to see the circus, so we just ran off and came. JERRY. Pinesburg--that's ten miles off. How'd you say you come? BUB. Just walked. SONNY [_rubbing his fists in his eyes_]. An' the circus is all over, an' I'm so tired! [_Men murmur sympathetically, and the group breaks and re-forms around the boys. Men gather about, some squatting near the boys, others standing behind._] BARNEY. Futted it ivery shtep! MIKE. Tired, is it?--yez must be dead! HARRY. Poor kids! DUTCH. Und ve all leafin' der kinder shtandin'. Here--der box seats ain'd all sold yet. [_Brings box and seats them kindly._] BEN [_kneeling before them_]. Why--dey shoes is all bust out---- JERRY. The poor kids ought to be in bed. TIM. Did you have any supper? JACK. When did you say you started? BUB. Right after dinner, an' we thought we could get here for the show to-night, but, you see, Sonny couldn't walk very fast---- SONNY [_sets up a howl, gives_ BUB _a punch that nearly knocks him off the box, and rubs his eyes harder than ever_]. I did, too, now, Bub! I walked an' I walked an' I walked, so I did! An' I want my supper, I do, an' I want to go to bed! JERRY. Hustle off, Dutch, and get the poor kid some grub---- [_Exit_ DUTCH _in haste._ BARNEY. Sure an' one of them can bunk with me. JACK. I'll take the other in my bunk. MIKE. If it's blankets they're wantin' they're welcome to mine. BEN. Dey's lots ob blankets, gen'lemen! I'll fix 'em a place tergedder as sof' as a fedder-bed! [PEPPER _comes forward._ HARRY [_under his breath_]. 'Ere's the h'old h'ogre wot'll scare 'em to death. PEPPER [_with unexpected amiability_]. That's right, Ben, make 'em up a good bed in the sleeping-tent with the extra blankets. What do you fellows suppose their marm's thinking, about now? [_Exit_ BEN.] You kids, did you say you _ran away_? BUB [_a little frightened_]. Ye-es, sir--we couldn't help it. You see--our folks is _strict_. They never went to circuses, and they don't let their boys go. PEPPER. Well, has your folks got a telephone?--most farmers've got 'em these days. BUB _and_ SONNY. Yes, sir---- PEPPER [_giving_ TIM _money_]. Here, Tim, you run out and telephone to---- Simpson, is it? BUB. Yes, sir,--Jonathan Simpson. PEPPER. And tell him his kids are safe, and we'll take care of 'em all right. [TIM _starts out._] And, Tim---- [_Follows him and speaks aside._] Fix it up with him to let 'em stay to the afternoon show. [PEPPER _lingers with_ TIM _at tent door. Troupe overcome with surprise._ BARNEY. Will yez all hark to that! HARRY. I didn't think 'as 'ow 'e 'ad h'it h'in 'im! OTHERS. No! [_Enter_ DUTCH _with thick sandwiches, which the boys munch eagerly._ PEPPER _comes forward and watches._ DUTCH. So! Das ist besser. BEN. How'd dat chile's sho't legs ebber do ten mile, anyhow? JERRY. Pretty sandy, that! PEPPER. What did you boys run away for on Christmas Eve--weren't you afraid of missing your presents and the Christmas Tree? BUB [_between bites_]. Presents? We don't get none! SONNY. I never saw a Christmas Tree. [_He grows very sleepy and leans his head against_ BUB, _who keeps moving and letting it slip off while talking with the men._] DUTCH [_horrified_]. You don't effer hafe no Christmas? BUB. No. I told you our folks is _strict_. My dad didn't let us go to the Christmas Tree they had at the Sunday-school, neither. PEPPER. I didn't suppose that kind of strictness was left in the country. BUB [_with conviction_]. My dad's that kind of strict. BEN. Dat po' chile's mos' ersleep now. Come on, honey. Ben'll take you to bed. [_Lifts_ SONNY _in his arms._] PEPPER. That's right, Ben. Run on with him, Bub--Ben'll take care of you. [_Exit_ BEN, _with children. Enter_ TIM.] Well, Tim, did you get Simpson? TIM. Yes, sir, and he says he'll come and fetch the kids in the morning--he won't on no account let them stay to see the show. [_General groan of indignation._ BARNEY. The like of him ain't fit to live! HARRY [_disgusted_]. Wot sort of chap do you call that! JERRY. Can't we do nothin' about it? PEPPER. Sure you did your best, Tim?--you didn't make him mad, maybe? TIM. _Me?_ No, sir! But he was madder about the kids than he was scared about them, I reckon. MIKE. An' does he think he desarves to get thim back, I'd like to know? Let's kape thim ourselves! JACK. We need a couple of kids in the show. That Bub's a sharp one! PEPPER. No, fellows--that won't do. Perhaps the mother's a different kind. [_Enter_ BEN, _speaks to_ MIKE. _The rest listen._ BEN. Dey's jus' wore out, dose chillen--done fall ersleep 'fo' I got de blanket over dem. JERRY. I tell you what, fellows. That old flub of a farmer won't get in very early--let's give 'em a show all to themselves. What say? JACK. Bully scheme! MIKE. That's classy, that is! HARRY [_aside to_ JERRY]. S'pose the boss'll let us do a stunt like that? Not on yer life! PEPPER. Very good idea, Barney. You'll have all morning for it, sure. [_Troupe surprised and delighted. General hum of pleasure._ PEPPER [_clearing his throat and hesitating a little_]. Oh--a--a--I was going to say--these kids seem to have rather a slow time of it. What do you fellows say we do it up brown--go the whole figure and--well, a little Christmas won't hurt us, either. Let's give them a Christmas Tree. I'll set up the fixin's for it! [_An instant's pause of utter amazement, then a hubbub of enthusiasm and approval, interrupted by_ BEN. BEN [_coming forward, raps on the mess-table and raises his voice_]. Gen'lemen! I'd like to offer de resolution dat we all gib t'ree cheers fo' Mr. Pepper! [_Cheers given with a will._ CURTAIN ACT II TIME: _Christmas morning._ SCENE: _Same as Act I. During first part of scene, the troupe, all but_ PEPPER _and_ TIM, _are very busy arranging tent for their special performance._ BARNEY _and_ DUTCH _move mess-table to [R.], cover it with red cloth, and set two boxes upon it as seats for the guests of honor._ BEN _and_ JERRY _bring in a gymnasium mattress and a small low platform, which they arrange [Center], covering it with a bright-colored cloth._ HARRY, JACK, _and_ MIKE _set soap-boxes with boards for seats at back of stage._ BARNEY. Did yez iver see annything loike the change in the Boss? BEN. I jes' lay awake half de night studyin' 'bout it. JERRY. I tell you, he's just treatin' those two kids white, he is. JACK. First time ever, for _him_. MIKE. I'm just shtruck doomb, I am. Says I to meself, says I, "There's magic in ut." DUTCH. Nein,--it's dot little Christmas Tree vot doos ut. HARRY. Well, h'anyway, 'e's h'evidently 'ad a change of 'eart. 'Ow's the kids this morning? BEN. Fine as silk! I war expectin' to fin' 'em all tuckered out, but not a bit of it, sir! Dey's sharp as persimmons. Don' seem lak dey could a-walked all dat way widout no lift. BARNEY. Did yez tell them about the show, thin? DUTCH. Ve did, und dey're so oxzited dot it seem like dey'd shump out o' deir shkins. JERRY. Have they heard of the tree? BEN. No. Mr. Pepper, he say, don' let on--keep dat fer er s'prise. DUTCH. Und since deir folks iss such heathens--dey ain'd t'inkin' 'bout noddings like dot. JACK. Hustle up--you talk too much. The kids' folks'll be here after them if you don't get a move on. MIKE [_gazing with pride at the result of their labors_]. It's a foine soight, sure. HARRY [_leading the way to the tent door_]. Come along, fellows--it looks to me as 'ow we're ready. 'Oo'll be the 'erald an' tell 'em we're comin'? [_Exeunt all but_ DUTCH. DUTCH [_goes to footlights and speaks to the piano_]. If der bant vill blees be so kint und blay a chune fer der grant marsh! [_Exit. After a moment enter_ DUTCH _and_ BEN _with the children_, SONNY _hanging to_ BEN'S _hand and dancing with excitement. They are lifted into place._] BEN. Now, den, honey, you-all's gwine to see der circus, sho' 'nuff. DUTCH. So! Is you gomf'table? [_Exeunt_ BEN _and_ DUTCH. BUB. Oh, Sonny, we're goin' to have a circus all to ourselves. SONNY. It's better than just comin' in like other folks, isn't it, Bub? BUB. Oh, lots! I guess it's a sure enough Christmas, too, Sonny. [_He rocks to and fro with delight. The piano plays a gay, quick march, and the Circus enters, in procession, headed by_ PEPPER _himself and ending with the dog. They march several times around the stage, then take seats on the boards._ DUTCH _suddenly catches up his tray, and goes about shouting his wares, with a great air of being very busy._] DUTCH. Beanuts! Beanuts! Here's your fresh-roasted beanuts! Bop-corn! Bop-corn und beanuts! JACK. How do you sell 'em, Dutch? DUTCH [_incensed_]. You tink I vould _sell_ dem on _Christmas_? Vot you take me for, hein? Haf some--it's a bresunt. [_Passes them about, and then takes up his stand (R. front) just behind the boys._ PEPPER _steps forward and stands beside the platform. Makes a fine sweeping bow to the boys._] PEPPER [_with his best professional manner_], Mr. Benjamin Franklin Simpson and Mr. Daniel Webster Simpson, we have the great honor to make you welcome to the most world-renowned, the most marvelous single-ring circus upon the face of this Terrestrial Globe--Pepper's Perennial Circus, so named because it never folds its tents from season's end to season's end. I, Gentlemen, am Peter Piper Pepper, the fortunate proprietor of this colossal assemblage of artists. The members of my Company have desired the honor of being presented to you personally before they exhibit to you their unparalleled skill. It gratifies me exceedingly to comply with this wish. [_Steps to side of platform and motions to troupe. As he calls them by name they step forward and bow, with flourishes._] Gentlemen, allow me to present to you the distinguished, the glorious Signor Frencelli, and Signor Cocodilla, who have charmed the crowned heads of Europe. [_The clowns come forward and bow._] DUTCH [_sotto voce to the boys_]. Deir names is Barney O'Brien und Jerry Pickle, but dot vouldn't do for der bosters. [_Clowns sit down._] PEPPER. Gentlemen, you see before you the world-renowned Marco Brothers, known from the frozen North to the sunny South, for their skill and ability in acrobatic feats. One of them also is a famous bareback rider and performer of feats of equestrian valor. He has a further talent of which you will be given an example a little later. [HOPKINS _and_ LIMBER JACK _make their bows._ DUTCH. Dot's Harry Hopkins, und de big feller is Limber Jack. Dey yust bass for brudders. PEPPER. Now, Gentlemen, our show has the distinction of possessing the great Mr. Barlow, the only native African minstrel upon any stage. Mr. Barlow is a prince in his own country, and indeed we esteem him a prince in whatever sphere he may adorn. DUTCH. Dot's Ben Chackson, und he ain't crossed no vater vider dan der riffer. [_Makes a face._] But ve makes it up to der peoples vat pays for der seats. PEPPER. And now, Gentlemen, last, but not least we have the noted, the justly celebrated Professor Wormwood, whose successful methods of training the dog and the monkey until they are rendered all but human, have been copied the world over. Professor Wormwood, with his dog, Schneider, and his South American monkey, Jocko. [MIKE _steps upon the stage with the dog and monkey, makes his bow, and admonishes them to do the same._ DUTCH. Dot's Mike McGinnis. BUB. Have the dog and the monkey got some other names, too? DUTCH. No,--dey don' need dem. PEPPER. Gentlemen, our little entertainment is now about to begin. Professor Wormwood will give an exhibition of his clever animals. [_As each is called upon to do some little "stunt," he bows elaborately, and does whatever he has to do with a great deal of professional air, then returns to his place, as before. The little boys, after_ DUTCH'S _suggestion, applaud vigorously, and the rest of the troupe look on at each other's "acts" with condescending approval. These are given in the following order._ 1. Professor Wormwood and his animals. 2. Frencelli and Cocodilla in juggling feats. 3. Mr. Barlow, the minstrel, in a darkey story. 4. Limber Jack in acrobatic exercises. 5. Marco Brothers, Indian clubs. 6. Harry Hopkins (a) gives an exhibition of bareback riding. (b) as Mademoiselle Zarah, dances. 7. Song. Mademoiselle Zarah and Troupe. [MIKE _puts the animals through a number of tricks._ DUTCH [_to the boys_]. Abplaud! Abplaud! BUB [_puzzled_]. What? DUTCH [_clapping hands_]. Abplaud! Dey mus' have abplowse! [_While the animals are performing, the canvas parts (R. front). Enter_ FARMER SIMPSON, _unnoticed by anyone save_ DUTCH, _who watches him at first uncomprehendingly, then with suspicion. The farmer looks about in horror, craning his neck to see all that is going on. Shakes his fist at the Ringmaster, sees the children, and makes as if to grab them._ DUTCH _interposes his body with determination._ DUTCH [_sotto voce, but decidedly_]. Vot you t'ink you do--hein? FARMER. You gi'me those children! DUTCH. You vaits. You don' gotta take 'em yet. FARMER. They're mine and I've come to git 'em. DUTCH. You is deir vater, hein? All right; you vaits. Shoost sit down und look at der show. [_Shoves him down forcibly on a convenient box or keg, then carefully stands between him and the boys. Children shout and applaud the animals. Farmer watches at intervals, and during each turn he rises as if to protest, and is emphatically set down by_ DUTCH. _His resistance is more and more feeble each time, and his interest in the performers visibly increases, until at the end he actually stands looking open-mouthed over_ DUTCH'S _shoulder, even betrayed into applause. When he catches himself clapping, however, he stops short and clasps his hands behind his back._ PROFESSOR WORMWOOD _finally bows himself off._] PETER. I have the honor to announce Signor Frencelli and Signor Cocodilla in their great act. [_Clowns come forward and bow, do juggling tricks, etc. Same business for the rest._ SONNY. Oh, Bub, I think our dad would like this, don't you? BUB. I reckon he would, if he'd just ever come and see it. [_Clowns bow themselves off._ PETER. Gentlemen, the famous Mr. Barlow will now entertain you. [_Minstrel tells a darkey story._ BUB. Don't you wish he'd come and live at the farm, Sonny? SONNY. Yes, I do. S'pose he would? [_Minstrel bows and sits down. All applaud._ PETER. Now, Gentlemen, one of the Marco Brothers will show his marvelous strength and agility. [LIMBER JACK _turns flip-flaps, etc. Presently_ HARRY _steps forward and they swing Indian clubs, gayly decorated, to music. Then_ LIMBER JACK _takes his seat, and_ HOPKINS _takes the stage alone._ HARRY. Yer honors, I 'eartily regret that I cannot this morning give a h'exhibition of my famous bareback riding h'exploits, h'owing to the fact of our 'orses being h'otherwise h'occupied---- [_confidentially_] a-h'eating their h'oats, ye know. But, h'anyway, I can make the h'attempt to show you 'ow it is done, with a h'imaginary 'orse. 'Ere, Mr. h'O'Brien, will you kindly h'assist me? [BARNEY _brings a chair without a back, and_ HARRY, _after pretending to quiet a mettlesome steed, mounts, and goes through all the motions of dashing about the ring bareback. He wears an intensely serious look, fixing his eyes as it were upon the horse's ears, cheering him on, leaping off and on, standing lightly on one toe, etc. The Ringmaster watches and cracks his whip, the music plays a light and quick air, the whole troupe rise and watch breathlessly, bending in time to the music as if in time to a galloping horse._ JERRY _comes forward with a wand, and_ HARRY _leaps over it. Then_ BARNEY _brings a hoop, wound in gay colors, or covered with tissue paper, and_ HARRY _springs through it. This is his culminating feat, and now the horse apparently slows down and stops_, HARRY _leaping off and making a low bow toward the seats of honor._ BUB [_applauding wildly_]. Why, I could almost see the horse! [HARRY _retires to back of stage, and makes a quick change in full view of the audience, to a ballet skirt and a yellow wig. The clowns assist him to dress, hooking him up behind, and holding a mirror for the proper adjustment of the wig, etc._ PETER. Gentlemen, having shown you his prowess as a bareback rider, Signor Marco will now be introduced to you in a new light. Our traveling arrangements being somewhat--ahem!--circumscribed, we have never been able to carry any of the fair sex with us upon our tours. Believe me, Gentlemen, such is the surpassing genius of Signor Marco that we have never felt the need of ladies, as I am sure you will agree. [HARRY _now comes forward with mincing steps and a coy smile._] Gentlemen, allow me to present to you the celebrated artist, the far-famed and charming Mademoiselle Zarah! [_The troupe all bow with great enthusiasm to the transformed_ HARRY, _who courtesies and smiles with all professional airs and graces. The music strikes up, and_ ZARAH _dances. When the dance is ended_, ZARAH _bows again, and goes through the motions of catching bouquets from the troupe or audience._] PETER. Mademoiselle Zarah, assisted by the whole troupe, will now favor us with a song. [_Popular song, adapted to the occasion by the use of Christmas words. The boys applaud long and loudly; the troupe, after making a general farewell bow, break ranks and gather around them._ JERRY _and_ BARNEY _remove platform._ SONNY. I'd like to go to a circus every day. BUB. Don't I wish I could! Well, it's a fine Christmas present, anyway. PETER. Did you like it? BUB _and_ SONNY. Oh, _did_ we! BUB. It was just right! PETER. Can you think of anything that would be an improvement--for a Christmas celebration, you know? BUB [_embarrassed_]. Well, Mr. Pepper--you see--we've always heard the other children telling about Christmas--and Christmas Trees--and we did wish we could see one. This is next best, you know--but we did wish we could see a tree. PEPPER [_nods to clowns_]. Well,--I'm not Herman--nor yet old Santa Claus, but I guess I can do _this_ trick. [_Waves his whip, and the two clowns suddenly throw back the canvas (back Center) and disclose a small tree, lighted and raised high, framed by the sides of the tent._] BUB [_claps his hands_]. Oh, is _that_ what a Christmas Tree looks like! SONNY. Oh, Bub, let's go and see it. [_They slip down from their places and slowly approach the tree. Farmer makes as if to seize them._] DUTCH [_catching his arm_]. No, sir,--you vaits shtill longer a leetle bit! SONNY. Oh, Bub, look at all the pretty shiny things. BUB. And candy, Sonny, and toys, and the star on top! [_The men fairly swell with pride._] BARNEY. Sure it's the best I iver did see, for a small one. JERRY. Makes me feel like a kid myself--we always had 'em every year. MIKE. It joost warms the very cockles of me heart. HARRY. I'd 'ave you look at their faces--they're 'appy, all right. It 'as the circus beat h'all 'ollow for them. JACK. Between the two, they'll not forget _this_ Christmas! BEN [_leaning over the children_]. Look at all dem C'ris'mas gif's, honey! Dey's every las' one fer you. BUB [_disappointed_]. Not anything for anybody else? SONNY. Not nothing for Ben? I likes Ben! BUB. And Dutch, and everybody? [_The men are confused at this turn of affairs._] Only for us? Why, we thought Christmas trees were for everybody. And they've all been so good to us! PETER [_throwing himself into the breach_]. No, that's a big mistake, boys! There _is_ something on that tree for them--something that says every man in this here show gets a whole week's wages for a Christmas present, and then he can get what he wants most! [_A moment's silence, then there is a great clapping of hands, and slapping of each other's shoulders, and all press forward and shake hands gratefully with_ PETER. DUTCH [_to Farmer_]. Vot I tells you? No maitter how shtrict you goes for to be [_slowly, and with emphasis_], you cain't kills Christmas! Yust look at der liddle tree! Laist night ve all vas reddy to cut somebody's t'roat, und dis mornin'--Bresto! Shangch!--ve're de pest frien's efer. It's der Kinder, und der Tree, und Christmas! I tells you, der ain'd noddings like Christmas der whole vorld rount! [_The Farmer, who has been unbending gradually, at last nods in hearty acquiescence. Music strikes up, and all sing "Christmas Song."_ BUB _and_ SONNY, _unmolested, climb up to examine the little tree._ [Music: CHRISTMAS SONG[31]] [Footnote 31: Courtesy of Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.] FRANK E. SAVILE. 1. The Christmas chimes are ringing out, Across the valleys sounding clear, And as the echoes float about, Tell of peace and Christmas cheer, With joyous voices bless the day, And with sounds of merry cheer, Let us all keep holiday For Christmas comes but once a year. 2. Old Christmas comes with merry train, Bringing joy and mirth again; The chimes ring out the glad refrain, "Peace on earth, good will to men." Be many Christmas days in store, May no sorrow soon befall; To young and old, to rich and poor, A merry Christmas to you all. CURTAIN NOTES ON COSTUME, SETTING, AND PRESENTATION COSTUMES PEPPER. Scarlet coat, khaki trousers, high black boots. Silk hat. He wears a mustache, and carries a long whip with a scarlet bow. ACROBATS. (Hopkins and Limber Jack.) Long stockings, puffed trunks, and running-shirt, or undershirt, dyed to match. White bathing-shoes, or "sneakers." Any colors may be used. Light blue for Jack, and yellow for Hopkins are effective. Hopkins's ballet dress is made of innumerable skirts of white tarletan, sewed to a low-necked and short-sleeved waist of same material as his trunks, bespangled with tinsel. This should be carefully put together and equipped with buttons and button-holes, to slip on over the acrobat's clothes, so that Hopkins's "lightning change" can really be made in the least possible time. Woman's light yellow wig (or, if the boy is fair, a dark wig), dressed in the extreme of style. CLOWNS. Pierrot costumes. White with red spots, and yellow with blue. Faces whitened with the usual red marks. Heads bald and white. White soft Pierrot hats. They may provide themselves with "slapsticks," and other properties incidental to their tricks and jokes. MINSTREL. Usual minstrel make-up. Black-face, large collar, gaudy tie and vest. Flowered or large-checked trousers and dress-coat. DUTCH. Khaki hat and trousers, shirt-sleeves, velvet vest, stuffed to make him very rotund. Should be a short, roly-poly boy. He carries by a strap over his shoulders a tray with bags of peanuts, rolls of popcorn, etc. (Which will probably need to be kept under lock and key until time for its use.) ANIMAL-TRAINER. Dress suit and silk hat. Carries a riding-whip. TIM. Red flannel shirt, old trousers, very old felt hat, boots. May double with FARMER SIMPSON. Old overcoat and straw hat. Red hair and chin beard. DOG _and_ MONKEY. It is best to rent these costumes from a costumer, though, if preferred, close-fitting suits of brown and black canton flannel, with long tails, may be made, and the heads only, rented. Chain for monkey, leash for dog. BUB _and_ SONNY. Overalls, sneakers, and big straw farm hats. SETTING TENT. A most effective circus-tent can be made by fastening strips of unbleached muslin above the stage-arch, and sloping them down to a wire stretched five feet above floor at back of stage, then dropping straight to floor. Back the entrances to the other tents with more canvas, to represent a straight-sided passage. THE CIRCUS PERFORMANCE A great deal of liberty may be allowed here. This play having been written for a boys' club, the boys were intrusted with the duty of working up the individual "acts," which they did very successfully, with a little oversight and revision from those in charge. The tricks by the Dog and Monkey were seesawing, boxing with gloves, dancing, fighting a duel, etc., etc. The Clowns introduced an "elephant walk," a race, juggling with balls, and other tricks. The Minstrel collected the latest and snappiest stories he could find, and told them with zest. The boys' own list of acrobatic feats, which will be understood by boys doing work in a gymnasium, was as follows: 1. Roll. Back and forth. 2. Roll and frog leap. 3. Short dive. 4. Long dive. 5. High dive. 6. High dive over man. 7. Weight-lifting. 8. Two-man dive. 9. Double roll. 10. Pyramid. They also included turning flip-flaps, walking on the hands, swinging clubs, etc. The Pyramid, at the end, was formed by the whole troupe, on hands and knees, the lightest boys on top, and at a given signal all fell flat on the mattress. The bareback riding of Hopkins and the dance of Zarah are fully described in the text. MUSIC A good two-step, rapidly played, will serve for the galloping horse, and Zarah can adapt herself to any modern dance-music. For this play a carol or hymn is not appropriate, but rather a jolly song embodying the idea of "Christmas comes but once a year." MINTY-MALVINY'S SANTA CLAUS PLAY IN ONE ACT CHARACTERS HENRI LEBRETON. ALPHONSE, his mulatto servant. LAURA COURVOISIER, his sister. LOUISE } ANNETTE } Her children. PHILIP } MINTY-MALVINY, a pickaninny. MINTY-MALVINY'S SANTA CLAUS Adapted from the story in _Wide Awake_ by M.E.M. Davis.[32] [Footnote 32: Used by courtesy of Colonel Thomas E. Davis.] TIME: _Christmas Eve and Christmas morning._ SCENE: LEBRETON'S _room in_ MADAME CLEMENTINE'S _handsome lodging-house in the Rue Bourbon, New Orleans._ NOTE.--The curtain falls for a moment, during the play, to indicate the passing of Christmas Eve and the coming of Christmas Day. _Curtain rises showing a comfortable room, strewn with a bachelor's possessions. [R.] a fireplace[33] with wood fire, brass dogs, a large armchair, and footstool on the hearth-rug. [L.], curtain indicates an alcove with a bed. Near curtain, an old-fashioned low-boy with toilet articles before the mirror,--military brushes, cologne, etc., etc. Lighted candles here, and also on each side of gilt mirror above mantel. Shaded lamp on center table, littered with books, papers, a box of cigars, ash-tray, etc._ LEBRETON _seated in the easy-chair._ LAURA _leaning over the back._ [Footnote 33: See note on Fireplace, p. 313.] LAURA [_affectionately stroking her brother's hair_]. Oh, Henri, you can't guess how good it is to be at home again! LEB. Oh, yes, I can! What do you suppose it has meant to me to have you and Louis and the children wandering over the face of the earth all these months? I've been a lost soul without you, and your home to go to. LAURA. Traveling's all very nice and interesting, but it does pall! I grew tired to death of it--I just pined to come home again, Henri. [_Sits on arm of chair._] LEB. And here you are at last, in time to save your poor old brother from utter desolation at Christmas time. LAURA. Oh, but I wish the house had been ready for us--it hardly feels like Christmas anywhere but in the dear old place. But Louis said it wouldn't do to hurry the workmen too much. LEB. No--they'd only make a botch of it. But you are comfortable here, aren't you? LAURA. Yes, indeed--you've taken such nice rooms for us, Henri. It's just the sentiment of it, you know, and I oughtn't have spoken. And Madame Clementine does everything to make us feel at home and comfortable. LEB. How about the service--are the maids attentive, Laura? LAURA. Ask such a question about darkies just before Christmas? Henri, you are a dear old silly! Of course they are. And so many of them--I see a new one to provide with a "C'ris'mus gif'" every day, I think. To-day I noticed another--not exactly a maid, that is, but a funny little oddity of a pickaninny who seems to live just to "fotch an' carry." LEB. Yes, I've seen that little monkey--does she really belong here? LAURA. I'm not sure--I must ask Madame Clementine about her.... Henri, if we are to make that call, I must get my things at once. LEB. This is so cozy--do you think you _must_ rout me out? LAURA. Poor dear, his conscience has come home again! [_Rises._] Yes, I think we really ought. I've been at home three days, you know, and the Percivals are such old friends, and Helen has been ill---- [_Goes to door._] I'll only be a moment. LEB. [_going to ring bell_]. Very well, Madame, I'm at your service. If you are my conscience, sis, you certainly manage to sweeten my duty. LAURA [_laughing_]. That's just your flattery! [_Exit._ LEBRETON _goes to find gloves. Enter_ ALPHONSE. ALPH. Did you ring, M'sieu Henri? LEB. Yes. Get me my coat, Alphonse. Madame Courvoisier and I are going out for a while. [ALPHONSE _brings coat and silk hat, which he brushes, then helps_ LEBRETON _into coat._] I shan't be late. [_Goes to door._] But maybe you've calls to make yourself? [ALPHONSE _puts on a conscious smirk._] Well, you needn't wait for me--Christmas Eve, you know. [_Exit, putting on gloves._] ALPH. Thanks, M'sieu Henri. [_Looks about room, sees cane, which he catches up and hurries after_ LEBRETON.] M'sieu Henri! [_Exit._ MINTY-MALVINY _appears at door. Looks cautiously after_ ALPHONSE. _Enters and minces about._ M.-M. [_sings_]. De rabbit and de jaybird, dey fell out! Walk jes' so! De possum and de coon dey want ter know what erbout. Walk jes' so! [_Goes to window and looks out._] Hit am plumb dark! Old Santa Claus mus' be a-hitchin' up dem plow-mules o' hisn by dis time. My lan'! de white folks is havin' er good time, I 'low! [_Goes to fire and sits on a stool._] Dem dolls, an' dem doll cheers, an' dem rollin'-pins in de show-winders is mighty fine. [_Sighs, and continues meditatively._] Pow'ful scrumptious dey was! Dass de kin' o' C'ris'mus gif' whar ole Santa Claus gwine ter fotch ter all de white chillen in dis yer town in de mawnin'! Santa Claus ain't got no 'quaintance wid niggers, dat I knows on--lessen it am niggers on de sugar-plantations;--he ain't never hearn tell o' town niggers. My lan', whyn't de Lawd mek me white whilse He 'uz about it! Hit mus' be jes' ez easy fer de Lawd ter mek er white chile ez er black chile! [_Rests her head disconsolately on her knees for a moment. Suddenly, as a great idea dawns upon her, she lifts her head and claps her hands._] Hi! I got it! [_Springs to her feet and begins to dance a double-shuffle with all her might, shouting._] Sho's you bawn, I'ze gwine ter do it! I'ze gwine ter mek m'se'f er white chile! I'ze gwine ter do it, sho'! [_In the midst of her wild dance_, ALPHONSE _appears in doorway, and stands transfixed with horror._ ALPH. [_furiously_]. Bête! Wat you do here, in M'sieu Henri LeBreton's room? Ah'm a-goin' to _keel_ you! [_He darts after, and they dash about the room at top speed_, MINTY-MALVINY _always just out of his reach._] M.-M. I ain' 'fraid o' no French nigger lak you! [_She leads him a dance, but finally rushes out at door._ ALPHONSE _recovers his dignity, and goes to attend to fire._ MINTY-MALVINY _appears before door again, walking up and down with mincing steps and singing with a meaning air._] M.-M. De yallergater ax fer de jack-o'lantern's light, Walk jes' so! Fer to go ter see his gal thoo' de swamp in de night, Walk jes' so! [ALPHONSE _listens, rattles irons angrily, then runs to door with poker in hand._ MINTY-MALVINY _promptly takes to her heels._ ALPH. "Walk jes' so!" An' if you don't walk jes' so, I'll show you how, _gamine_! [_Goes about arranging room for the night. Lays_ LEBRETON'S _dressing-gown and slippers by the fire, puts out candles on mantel, then goes to dresser, where he pauses to admire himself._ MINTY-MALVINY _slips in, a small brown paper bag in one hand and a very ragged stocking in the other. She hides behind the easy-chair, but manages to keep a sharp eye on_ ALPHONSE, _with scornful mouth, for his vanity._ ALPHONSE _struts complacently before the glass, moistens his handkerchief with his master's cologne, puts out the candles, goes to table, where he helps himself to the cigars, puts out light, and exit._ MINTY-MALVINY _comes out from hiding-place, makes sure he is really gone, and relights candles._] M.-M. [_with deep scorn_]. Dar! I knowed dat French nigger 'u'd steal! I gwine ter tell on him in de mawnin' de minit I get er chance. [_Sits down on her heels before the fire, screwing up her mouth and chuckling with glee._] Now, now, I'ze gwine ter mek myse'f inter er white chile. [_Opens bag in which she carries a dab of flour, with which she proceeds to powder her face as liberally as the bag allows. Then she produces the stocking and examines it with care._] Co'se hit's holey, but den Santa Claus kin stuff er gob er candy er sumpn in de toe-hole, an' er bannanner, er o'ange, in de heel-hole, and some reesins er a'mon's in de res' o' de holes. [_She gets up to hang the stocking._] Hump! dis is sump'n lak a chimbly, dis is! Santa Claus ain' gwine ter hu't hisse'f comin' down a stovepipe. Some white folks is funny. [_She catches sight of herself in the mirror above the mantel._] My lan'! Kingdom come! I is tu'ned inter er white chile, sho'! An' ole Santa Claus gwine ter be fooled, sho' as I is er nigger!... Now I gwine ter scrooch down on de rug hyar an' watch. [_Settles herself comfortably._] I gwine ter hol' my eyes open [_yawns aloud_] ontwel I see ole Santa Claus crope down dis yer chimbly. Den I gwine ter ax him howdy, an' den I gwine ter p'int out what I bleedge ter hev fer C'ris'mus. Ca'se I ain' gwine ter be er white chile fer nuffin. [_This with some energy, but she grows more and more drowsy._] I gwine ter ax fer er wax doll lak whar in der show-winder, an' er cheer, an' er cradle---- [MINTY-MALVINY _falls asleep._] [_After a moment, enter_ LEBRETON, _quietly. Turns on light, goes to dresser, sets down hat, and drawing off gloves, tosses them into it. Crosses to fire, and sees_ MINTY-MALVINY. _Stirs her gently with his foot._ LEB. [_not unkindly_]. Here, you little imp, get up! What are you doing here? Who are you, anyway? M.-M. [_springing to her feet, then falling on her knees on the rug_]. I ax you howdy, Mister Santa Claus! I hope you's feelin' pretty peart? LEB. [_to himself_]. Oh, Mister Santa Claus, am I? M.-M. [_hurriedly_]. I'ze name Mint--I'ze er white chile, Mister Santa Claus, an' I'ze name Miss Ann. I'ze er white chile sho's you bawn, Mister Santa Claus! LEB. [_laughing_]. Oh, are you? And your name is Miss Ann? M.-M. [_with assurance_]. Yes-sir. Law, Marse Santa Claus [_laughs hysterically and rocks herself back and forth on her knees_], I'ze mos' sho' dat I seed you clammin' down de chimbly jes' now! An' I has been settin' up all night jes' ter ax yer howdy, an' ter ax yer ter fotch me er gre't big wax doll lak whar in der show-winder, an' er cheer, an' er cradle, an' some cups an' sassers wid blue on de aidge lak whar ole Mis' had on de sugar-plantation whar me an' Mammy come f'um. An' dat stockin' whar I is done hung up, hit am pow'ful holey, I knows. But I ain't got no Mammy ter men' it, an' ef er gob er candy wuz in de toe-hole, an' er o'ange in de heel-hole,--oh, Mister Santa Claus, Marse Santa Claus, I is er white chile! Cross my heart, I is! [_Bursts into tears, as_ LEBRETON _takes hold of the stocking and looks it over, trying hard to restrain his laughter._] Oh, Marse Santa Claus! [_Wails._] You is knowed all de time dat I wuz lyin'! I ain't nuffin but er good-fer-nuffin li'l' black nigger whar is name Minty-Malviny. LEB. [_almost overcome with laughter_]. Now I am surprised! M.-M. An' I ain' fitten fer ter hev no C'ris'mus gif'. LEB. Hush! [_Takes off his light coat, pushes her down on the rug, and throws the coat over her._] Lie down and go to sleep. [_With mock sternness._] If you're not asleep within two minutes, I'll---- [_His threat ends in a growl._] [MINTY-MALVINY _sobs for a moment or two, but quickly falls asleep, breathing deeply and quietly._ LEBRETON _comes forward and stands perplexed._ LEB. Well, I reckon Santa Claus will have to call for help. Laura can't have gone to bed yet.... I'll get her. [_Exit, returning almost at once with_ LAURA.] That's good! Come in a moment. LAURA [_anxiously_]. Oh, Henri, what is it? LEB. [_laughing_]. A trifle! [_Puts his hand on her shoulder._] My pack has given out, and I'm 'bleeged to have a big wax doll, like whar in de show-winder, and a cheer, and some dishes, lak ole Miss's on de plantation; and all for a 'spectable young cullud pusson named Minty-Malviny! LAURA [_mystified_]. Henri! I don't understand. LEB. No, but you will in a moment. See what I found when I came in. [_Leads her over to rug, lifts corner of coat, and discloses_ MINTY-MALVINY _fast asleep._] Isn't this your little waif, Laura? LAURA. Yes. But what in the world has she been doing to herself? LEB. Sh-sh! Don't waken her! [_They speak in lowered voices._] Why, she was waiting for Santa Claus, and her past experience of the old gentleman's impartiality seems to be responsible for an experiment. Anyway, she popped up and assured me that she was er white chile sho's I was bawn, and her name was Miss Ann. But it stuck in her throat---- LAURA [_laughing_]. No wonder! LEB. And she presently broke down and wailed that she warn't fitten ter hev no Christmas gift. Now, do you suppose you can find anything for her? LAURA. Certainly I can, poor little soul. Such a lot of things have come--ever so much more than the children need. I'll look them over. [_Going._] LEB. Wait a minute--have you any fruit in your rooms? LAURA. Yes--a whole dish. I'll bring it. [_Exit._] LEB. [_rummaging about on dresser_]. Er gob er candy fer de toe-hole. Ah--this will do nicely. [_Finds box of candy. Enter_ LAURA _with fruit._] LAURA. Here, Henri, fill her stocking with these. I'll get some toys. [_Exit._ LEBRETON _takes dish, and sits down to fill stocking._] LEB. [_working busily_]. Er gob er candy--there, that's it. An' er o'ange fer the heel-hole. Good! Here are the nuts an' reesins for all the other holes--and bananas for the leg! [_Enter_ LAURA. LEBRETON _holds up stocking proudly for her inspection._] There! I flatter myself I'm good at the business, though you may say that that leg is hardly as fat as Minty-Malviny's own. [LAURA _laughs approval, and busies herself arranging doll in armchair, with other toys about her._ LEBRETON _tries to hang stocking._ LEB. Oh, hang it! LAURA. What, the stocking? LEB. Yes--no--yes, that's exactly what I can't do! Come and help me, will you? [_They struggle with it together, making some noise._] LAURA. Hush, Santa Claus, you'll wake her! [_The stocking is hung, the toys arranged, they stand surveying the display, and putting last touches._] LEB. Oh, Laura, this is gorgeous! But you mustn't be too generous. LAURA. Nonsense, the children will never miss them. [_They stand looking down at the coat._ LAURA _lifts the edge and kneels beside_ MINTY-MALVINY.] She's too funny--poor little monkey! Oh, Henri, when we are back in our own home, I should like to take this poor little neglected thing and give her a home and look after her a little. Do you suppose I could? LEB. I don't see what's to prevent. She looks perfectly friendless. [_They rise and go to door._] LAURA. You are a good heart, Henri. LEB. The good heart is yours! I'm Marse Santa Claus--and I intend to put Minty-Malviny in your stocking! [_Both laugh heartily, but quietly, and exchange good nights._ LAURA _goes._ LEBRETON _comes back, standing at table a moment._] LEB. I believe I rather envy the old gentleman! [_Puts out light and goes towards alcove, his dressing gown thrown over his arm._] [_Curtains are drawn for a moment, to indicate the passing of the night. When they open, daylight has come, the fire is dim_, MINTY-MALVINY _is waking._ M.-M. [_catching sight of toys, as she sits up and stretches_]. Ow! Wow! Wow! [_She fairly yells, beside herself with joy._] Ole Santa Claus done come down de chimbly sho' 'nuff, lak I seed him! An' he done fotch me er wax doll, an' er set o' dishes, same ez ef I wuz er white chile! Oh, Lawdy, Lawdy, Lawdy! [_Jumps up and gets down stocking, feeling it, and peering through the holes._] Er gob er candy in de toe-hole, and er o'ange in de heel-hole. [_Pauses suddenly, her arm thrust into the stocking._] Lawd, I is glad I didn' try ter stick ter dat lie about bein' er white chile whar name Miss Ann! [_Continues her ecstatic rummaging._] My lan'! I jes' ez lief be er nigger ez er white chile! An' er heap liefer! [_Enter_ ALPHONSE, _with an armful of firewood. Stands horrified on the threshold, then rushes forward._ ALPH. Ah-h-h-h! 'tite diablesse! va-t-en! I'm goin' to shake the life out of you, singe! [_A boot whizzes past his ear, from the direction of the alcove._ LEB. [_imperiously_]. Let her alone, you rascal! If you dare to touch her I'll thrash you within an inch of your life! ALPH. [_obsequiously_]. Yaa-as, M'sieu Henri. M.-M. [_maliciously, half whispering_]. Walk jes' so! [_Makes a face at_ ALPHONSE. _Aloud._] I'ze dat gemplum's nigger whar is dar in de bade, an' I gwine he'p mek he fiah. [ALPHONSE _goes viciously to work to make the fire, frustrating_ MINTY-MALVINY'S _attempts when possible, snatching the poker away from her, etc. She is exasperatingly pleasant and superior._] You ain' bresh de hearf. [_He does so, and gathers up the rubbish with one last grimace._] ALPH. [_at door_]. Singe! [_Exit._ M.-M. [_tossing her head and chuckling_]. Dat French nigger don' dass say nuffin to me, no mo'! [_Enter_ LEBRETON _from alcove, tying the cords of his dressing gown._ LEB. Good-morning, Minty-Malviny--Merry Christmas to you! M.-M. [_bobbing little courtesies to him_]. Mawnin', Marse Henry--same to you, suh! [_Looks at him with puzzled half-recognition, head on one side, like a bright little bird._] LEB. [_to himself, sitting near table_]. She's nearly sharp enough to know me! [_To her._] Minty-Malviny, what are all those things? Where did you get them? M.-M. [_diverted from her study, turns to the toys_]. 'Deed, Marse Henry, I didn't _took_ 'em f'um nobody. Ole Santa Claus done come down dis yer chimbly an' fotch 'em heself. LEB. You don't say so! How do you know he did? M.-M. Done saw him, Marse Henry. LEB. You did? Did he scare you? M.-M. Laws, no! I'ze erspectin' him, co'se, an' I jes' 'membered ma manners an' ax him howdy, an' he gib me all dese gran' C'ris'mus gif's. LEB. All those for _you_, Minty-Malviny? M.-M. [_coming closer_]. Yes, Marse Henry, I is some s'prised myse'f. I didn't s'pose no li'l' nigger could hab no such gran' C'ris'mus--I 'lowed 'twar on'y fer de white folks. [_Squats near him, on the floor, hugging her knees._] LEB. [_aside_], I 'low white folks do have the lion's share, myself. [_To her._] See here, Minty-Malviny--where's your Mammy--who owns you, anyway? M.-M. Laws, Marse Henry, ain' got no Mammy. She brung me in f'um ole Mis's plantation, an' den she jes' up an' lef me. LEB. Who takes care of you? M.-M. [_with dignity_]. Takes cyah ob myse'f--don' need nobody to min' _me_. LEB. Do you mean you earn your own living? M.-M. Co'se I does! I runs a'rons fo' Mam' Dilcey--dat's you-all's cook--an' I does chores. An' Mam' Dilcey she treats me pretty good--dat is, mos'ly. [_Rubs her ear reminiscently._] LEB. Where do you sleep? M.-M. Oh, mos' anywheres. [_Sidles nearer to him._] I lak yo' hearf-rug fust-rate, Marse Henry. LEB. Oh, you do? [_Aside._] Part of the C'ris'mus gif', I suppose. [_To her._] Well, Minty-Malviny, my sister, Mrs. Courvoisier, is here now. In a few weeks she will be going to her own home--a fine great house, with a big garden--more like your ole Mis's plantation, you know. How would you like to go and live with her, and wait on her, and help mind her baby? M.-M. Dat do soun' mighty scrumptious! But--Marse Henry---- [_looking at him shyly from the corners of her eyes_] ef it's all er same to _you_--I'd er heap druther be yo'r li'l' nigger. [_Suddenly turns and kneels at his feet._] LEB. [_taken aback, turns away and walks down stage_]. Well--this turn of affairs looks rather more like my sock than Laura's stocking! [_Turns to her again._] But what about Alphonse? M.-M. [_with concentrated scorn_]. Dat French nigger! Why---- [_very rapidly_] he cain't eben mek a fiah! [_There is a rush from the door. Enter the children, followed by_ LAURA. _The children throw themselves upon_ LEBRETON _with enthusiastic shouts._ CHILDREN. Christmas gift, Uncle! Christmas gift! PHILIP. We caught you, we caught you! LAURA. Merry Christmas, Henri! LEB. I've no breath left to say Merry Christmas, you young bears! [_Shakes them off, laughing._] Unhand me, villains! I want to tell you something. There is somebody else here. Minty-Malviny, this is my sister, Mrs. Courvoisier [MINTY-MALVINY _courtesies to them all, with little bobs of her head_], and these are my nieces, Miss Louise and Miss Annette. And here is my nephew, Master Philip Courvoisier. [_Sits down, with_ PHILIP _on his knee._] Children, when you go home, Minty-Malviny is going with you, to look after you, and play games, and tell stories. PHILIP. Can she tell stories? Oh, goody! LOUISE [_aside_]. Oh, Mother, how ragged she is! ANNETTE. Goody! I like stories, too! LOUISE. Are those your Christmas presents? PHILIP. Was your stocking just awful full? ANNETTE. Just plumb full? Ours were. M.-M. Yes'm, hit sho'ly wuz! LOUISE. What nice things--did Santa Claus leave them for you? M.-M. Yes'm. Ole Santa Claus done brung 'em, an' I never 'lowed he'd gib 'em to no pickaninny [_with lowered voice_], so I powd'ed myse'f up an' let on lak I'ze er white chile! ANNETTE. You did! What fun! M.-M. An' den he come down dat chimbly an' seed me. PHILIP. Right down this chimney? [_Slips off_ LEBRETON'S _knee, and runs to look up chimney._ LEBRETON _rises and stands by_ LAURA.] M.-M. Sho's you bawn, honey! LOUISE. And you saw him? M.-M. 'Deed I did, Miss Louise. [_The children gather close, and_ MINTY-MALVINY _tells her story with effective drops in her voice, followed by sudden and startling crescendos._] When he crope down dat chimbly, an' sot he eyes on me de fust time, he knowed I wa'n't no white chile. Ca'ze he eyes uz big ez yo' maw's chiny plates! But he didn' keer! He jes' up an' tuk dat wax doll, an' dem dishes, an' dat cheer, an' dat table, an' dat cradle out'n de ba-ag whar he had on he back, an' gun 'em ter me jes' de same ez ef I 'uz white ez you-alls. But I mos' sho' dat he wouldn' er lef 'em, ner stuff dat stockin' full er goodies, ef I'd er kep' on tellin' him dat lie about bein' er white chile whar name Miss Ann! My lan' [_this with an air of great virtue and pride_], I is glad ole Mis' l'arnt me to tell de troof! PHILIP. What did Santa Claus look like? LOUISE. He brings us things, but we never saw him. ANNETTE. No, he always comes when we are asleep. M.-M. Wa-al, he 'uz sump'n lak yo' Unc' Henry, on'y not er leas' mite gooder-lookin' dan Marse Henry, caze Marse Henry he de bestes' gempm'n on dis yearth! But he 'uz sump'n lak yo' Unc' Henry. 'Cep'n he's hade touch de top er de house! [_Makes a quick and startling motion with her hand and rolls her eyes._] An' he voice big an' deep, an' growly lak a gre't big b'ar. An' de foot he kicked me wif, 'uz big ez de kitchen stove. [_Resumes her ordinary voice._] Ya-as, chillen, ef Marse Henry 'uz mo' bigger, an' mo' higher, he 'u'd look jes' eszactly lak ole Mister Santa Claus! CURTAIN NOTES ON COSTUME AND PRESENTATION Ordinary modern costume. LeBreton should have an iron-gray beard. Laura and her children daintily and attractively dressed. Alphonse, mulatto servant, very dandified and vain. Minty-Malviny, a black pickaninny, in rags and tatters, nondescript and faded. Her wool braided into little pigtails tied with odd bits of ribbon and string. LeBreton, Laura, and Alphonse, by adults. Laura's children, five to nine years. Minty-Malviny, ten years old. This part could be played by a boy. MUSIC. During the moment when the curtain is drawn for the passing of the night, "Holy Night," or some other well-known Christmas hymn, is very softly played off stage. LeBreton hums the same air while filling the stocking, and moving about stage before this interim. THE HUNDRED A PLAY IN ONE ACT CHARACTERS MRS. DARLING, a young and pretty widow. MRS. BONNET, the lady's maid. CATHERINE, the parlor maid. MRS. MCGRATH, the cook. SALLY, the kitchen maid. TIBBIE, from the East Side. THE HUNDRED Adapted from the story by Gertrude Hall.[34] [Footnote 34: Copyrighted, 1896, by Harper & Bros. Used by courtesy of Miss Hall and Harper & Bros.] TIME: _Christmas Eve._ SCENE: MRS. DARLING'S _dressing-room. Dressing-table, with elaborate and glittering toilette articles, and a large and rather showy photograph of the late_ MR. DARLING, _also a smaller one of_ MRS. DARLING'S _cousin, the_ REVEREND DOREL GOODHUE. _R., an alcove hidden by curtains, containing a couch on which repose The Hundred dolls. Stage requires two entrances, one communicating with_ MRS. DARLING'S _bedroom, the other with the rest of the house._ [_Enter_ CATHERINE, _with two carriage wraps, which she surveys critically._ CATHERINE [_sniffing at one of the wraps, with a sharp glance at the bedroom door_]. Humph. If there's the merest smidgeon of camphire about this, I'll hear from it! It's been airing 'most a week, too. [_Lays them carefully on couch or chair, then stepping softly, surveys the dressing-table and its appointments. Takes up newspaper from chair, and glances over it while expressing her sentiments._] I'll just take this down with me till it's called for. What with Mr. Jackson the butler, and Sally the kitchen-maid always going home nights, and Cook slippin' off to her bloomin' family every chance she gets, it's likely to be lonesome for me this evening. I'll be bound Mrs. Bonnet'll be off with some friend or other, the minute Mrs. Darling's out of the house. Not that _her_ company's over-pleasant. I'd rather stay alone any time. It's good luck for every other soul in the house when Mrs. Darling dines out. But _I_ never come in for the extras. [_Enter_ SALLY _with fur-lined carriage shoes, which she places beside the wraps._ SALLY. Mrs. Darling wanted those warmed in the kitchen. I sh'd think all these fur fixin's 'd be warm enough without no stove. CATHERINE [_sullenly_]. You going, too, I suppose? SALLY. Why, yes. Ain't I done everything? There's no need of me staying, is there? CATHERINE. No, I don't suppose there is. I just thought you might be, that's all. SALLY. Tell you what I'd like to do! CATHERINE. What'd you like to do, Sally? SALLY [_confidentially_]. That's to come back again after I've been home for just a minute. CATHERINE [_looks up, unable to conceal her interest_]. You don't mean just to oblige, do you, Sally? SALLY. Well, I'd do it in a minute, for nothing else beside, but that ain't quite all I was thinking of, just this once. Miss Catherine---- [_hesitates, then continues enthusiastically_] ----have you seen 'em in there? The whole hundred of 'em laid out in the alcove here. [_Draws back curtain a little, partly disclosing the couch with an array of daintily dressed dolls. They pick up one or two, and look them over admiringly._] I saw 'em last night when Mrs. Bonnet she sent me up for the lamps to clean, and I've been thinkin' about it ever since. Law! wouldn't any child like to see a sight like that! There's a little girl in my tenement, she'd just go crazy. Do you think there'd be any harm in it, if I was to bring her over and let her get one peep? She's as clean a child as ever you saw. She comes of dreadful poor folks, but just as respectable. She never seen anything like it in her life. Law, what would I have done when I was a young one, if I'd seen that? I'd thought I was dead and gone to heaven. I say, Miss Catherine, do you think anybody'd mind? CATHERINE [_callously_]. How'll they know? Look here, Sally; you go along as fast as you can, and fetch your young one. And when you've got back, perhaps I'll step out a minute, two or three doors up street, and you can answer the bell while I'm gone. Now hurry into your things. I'll give you your car-fare. SALLY. Miss Catherine, you're just as good as you can be, and I'll do something to oblige you, too, sometime. [_Exeunt._] [_Enter_ MRS. DARLING _from bedroom in evening dress. Takes her cousin's photo from dressing-table and holds it at arm's length._ MRS. DARLING. Well, sir, does your charming cousin reach your standard of feminine appearance? Or is she still far from that pinnacle of elegance to which she aspires? She should be perfect indeed when she is to pose before the world as the highly-favored of the distinguished Mr. Goodhue.... And all the time, I know perfectly well that he prefers Quaker gowns, or hospital caps and aprons.... Well, I'm not exactly a lily of the field, but when it comes to Solomon in all his glory!... The morning papers will say so, at least. "The Reverend Dorel Goodhue, accompanied by his cousin, Mrs. Darling," _and_ so forth. Oh, sometimes I do grow so tired of it all! It's such a farce!... Now, this won't do at all. The Reverend Dorel Goodhue may preach to me on Sunday mornings, from a properly elevated pulpit, in a proper and decorous and conventional manner, but---- Just be kind enough to turn your reproachful face away, sir, and let your cousin finish her prinking. [_Replaces photo face down._] Bonnet, why don't you come and do my hair? [_Enter_ BONNET, _slowly waving a hot curling iron._ BONNET. Yes, Mrs. Darling. [MRS. DARLING _sits before mirror beautifying her finger-nails, while_ BONNET _curls a few straggling locks of hair._ MRS. D. [_diligently polishing, murmurs_]. Mind what you are about. [BONNET _removes tongs and catches the lock with greater precaution._ MRS. D. [_louder, with a warning acid in her voice_]. Mind what you are about! [BONNET _begins again, after a pause to make firm her nerve, catching the hair with infinite solicitude._ MRS. D. [_almost screams_]. Mind what you're about! Didn't I _tell_ you to be careful? You've been pulling right along at the same hair! _Do_ consider that it is a human scalp, and not a _wig_--you are dealing with! Bonny, you're not a bad woman, but you will wear me out. Come, go on with it; it's getting late. [_She turns the photo face out once more, and after a moment, as if the sight of it made her repent, she rolls up her eyes angelically to the reflection of_ BONNET'S _face in the mirror._] Bonny, do you think that black moiré of mine would make over nicely for you? I am going to give it to you. No, don't thank me--it makes me look old. Now, my fur shoes. [BONNET _brings the shoes and begins to struggle with them._ MRS. D. [_bracing herself against_ BONNET'S _efforts_]. I suppose--I suppose I have a very bad temper! [_Laughs in a sensible, natural way._] Tell the truth, Bonny; if every mistress had to have a certificate from her maid, you would give me a pretty bad one, wouldn't you? But I was abominably brought up. I used to slap my governesses. And I've had all sorts of illnesses; trouble, too. And I mostly don't mean anything by it. It's just nerves. Poor Bonny! I do treat you shamefully, don't I? BONNET [_expanding in the light of this uncommon familiarity_]. Oh, ma'am, I would give you a character as would make it no difficulty in you getting a first-class situation right away; you may depend upon it, ma'am, I would. Don't this shoe seem a bit tight, ma'am? MRS. D. Not at all. It's a whole size larger than the old ones. If you would just be so good as to hold the shoe-horn properly. There, that is it. [_Rises and stands surveying the two wraps._] Which shall I wear? [BONNET _draws back for a critical view, but dares not suggest unprompted._] The blue is prettier, but the gray with ermine is more becoming. Oh, Bonny, decide for me quickly, like a tossed-up penny! BONNET. Well, I think now I should say the blue one, ma'am. MRS. D. [_musing_]. Should you? But I look less well in it. Surely I would rather look pretty myself than have my dress look pretty, wouldn't I? Give me the gray, and hurry. Mr. Goodhue will be here in a second.... Bonnet, you trying creature! Didn't I _tell_ you to put a hook and eye in the neck of this? Didn't I _tell_ you? _Where_ are your ears? _Where_ are your senses? What on _earth_ do you spend your time thinking about, I should like to know, anyway? I wouldn't wear that thing as it _is_, not for--not for---- Oh, I'm tired of living surrounded by fools! Take it away--take it away! Bring the other one.... Now, button my gloves. [_Looks at herself in the glass, passively letting_ BONNET _take one of her arms to button the glove. Murmurs._] Ouch! Go softly; you pinch! [BONNET _changes her method, and pulls very gently. Louder._] Ouch! You pinch me! [BONNET _stops short, looks helplessly at the glove, casts up her eyes as if appealing to heaven, then tries again._] MRS. D. [_screams_]. Ouch, ouch, ouch! You pinch like anything! I'm black and blue! [_Tears her arm from the quaking_ BONNET, _fidgets with the button, and pulls it off._] Bonnet, how many times must I tell you to sew the buttons fast on my gloves before you give them to me to put on?... No, they were not! [_Pulls off the glove and throws it far across the room. A knock at the door._] MAN'S VOICE [_respectfully_]. Mr. Goodhue is below, ma'am. MRS. D. [_humbly, like a child reminded of its promise to behave_]. Get another pair, and let me go. [_Tucks a final rose, or bunch of violets into the bosom of her dress, turns to leave the room, then pauses to draw back the curtains and look at the dolls. Speaks gushingly._] Aren't they lovely, the hundred of them? Did you ever see such a sight? One prettier than the other! I almost wish I were one of the little girls, myself! BONNET. Them that gets them will be made happy, surely, ma'am. I suppose it's for some Christmas Tree? MRS. D. They are for my cousin Dorel's Orphans. Pick up, Bonny. Open the windows. Mind you tell Jackson to look at the furnace. I shall not be very late--not later than twelve. [_Exit._] [BONNET _moves briskly about, straightening the room, with no affectation of soft-stepping. She digresses from her labors to get a black skirt from the bedroom, which she examines critically, then replaces. A knock._ MAN'S VOICE [_only a shade less respectful than before_]. Miss Pittock is waiting below, ma'am. BONNET. Very well, I'll be down directly. [_Exit, and re-enter at once with a rather old-fashioned cloak and bonnet, which she dons before the glass._] I hope I haven't kept Miss Pittock waiting. [_Looks contemptuously at her wrap._] _She_ looks quite more than the lady in her mistress's last year's cape. They say the shops is a sight to behold this year--I haven't a minute to get a look at them myself--and it do seem as if people made more to-do about Christmas than they used. I wonder what kind of shops Miss Pittock'll fancy most. I'd rather see the show-windows in the Grand Bazaar first. They do have the most amazing show there. Anyway, we've got plenty of time. Her lady won't be home before twelve, and no more will mine. [_Turns down gas, and exit._] [_Enter_ CATHERINE, _in a coat, with jet spangles and a hat with nodding plumes. Turns up gas, and looks about her while drawing on a pair of tight gloves. Enter_ SALLY _and_ TIBBIE _in outdoor wraps, shawls, and "comforters."_ SALLY. Oh, Miss Catherine, I didn't know where you was. I thought maybe you was gone. TIBBIE [_hanging back_]. You didn't tell me! You didn't tell me! CATHERINE. Now you'll be sure she don't touch anything, Sally. [_Looks_ TIBBIE _over._] SALLY. Naw! She won't hurt anything. I've told her I'd skin her if she did. CATHERINE. Are her hands clean? You'd better give them a wash, anyhow. [TIBBIE _drops her eyes, a little mortified._ SALLY. All right. I'll wash 'em. CATHERINE. Did she scrape her boots thoroughly on the mat before she came up? SALLY. I looked after all that, Miss Catherine. Just you go along with an easy mind. CATHERINE. Well, I'm off. I won't be long gone. Why don't you give her a piece of that cake? It's cut. But don't let her make any crumbs. Here, give me your things. I'll take 'em down to the kitchen. Good-by, little girl. I guess you never was in a house like this before. Good-by, Sal. Is my hat on straight? [_Exit with coats._] SALLY. She's particular, ain't she? TIBBIE. I'd just as soon wash them again, but they're clean. I thought you said she was gone off to a party, and going to be gone till real late. SALLY [_plumps down to contort herself in comfort_]. Law! She thought it was Mis' Darling herself! Law! Law! [TIBBIE _laughs, too, but less heartily._] Now what'll we do first? Do you want the treat right off? TIBBIE. Oh, lemme guess, first, Sal, and tell me when I'm hot! Is it made of sugar? SALLY. No, it ain't. TIBBIE. But you said it was a treat, didn't you, Sally? SALLY. I did that. But ain't there treats and treats? There's goin' to the circus, for instance. That hasn't any sugar. TIBBIE. Is it a circus, Sally? Is it a circus? SALLY. No, it ain't a circus, but it's every bit as nice. TIBBIE. Is it freaks, Sally? Oh, tell me if it's freaks! It isn't? Are you sure I'll like it very much? It's nothing to eat, and it's nothing I can have to keep, and it's not a circus. What color is it? You'll answer straight, won't you? SALLY. Oh, it's every color in the world, and striped, and polka-dotted, and crinkled, and smooth. There's a hundred of it. TIBBIE [_rapturously_]. Oh! SALLY [_takes her hand_]. Come along now, I'm going to wash your hands in Mrs. Darling's basin. Ain't it handsome? [_Pokes the scented soap under the nose of_ TIBBIE, _who sniffs delightedly._] Flowers on the chiny, too. [_Washes_ TIBBIE'S _hands while they talk._] Did you get anything for Christmas yet, Tibbie? [TIBBIE _moves her head slowly up and down, absorbed in the process of washing._] What did you get? TIBBIE. A doll's flatiron an' a muslin bag of candy. I put the iron on to heat and it melted. I gave what was left to Jimmy. SALLY. Who gave them to you? TIBBIE. Off the Sunday-school tree. But there weren't no lights on it because it was daytime. Sally, I know something that has a hundred---- SALLY. What's that? Let's see if you've got it now? TIBBIE [_shamefacedly_]. A dollar--is a hundred cents. SALLY. Well, and would I be bringing you so far just to show you a dollar? This is worth as much as a dollar, every individual one of them. Tibbie, it's just the grandest sight you ever seen--pink and blue and yellow and striped---- TIBBIE [_after looking her fixedly in the face, now almost shouts_]. It's marbles! SALLY. Aw, but you're downright stupid, Tibbie! I don't mind telling you I'm disappointed. You're just a common, everyday sort of a young one, with no idear of grandness in your idears, at all! And you don't seem to keep a hold on more than one notion at a time. First it's a dollar. Is that pink and blue? And next it's marbles. Is marbles worth a dollar apiece? Now tell me what's the grandest, prettiest thing ever you saw---- TIBBIE. ... Angels. SALLY. D'you ever see any? TIBBIE. In the church-window, painted. SALLY. Well, this is as handsome as a hundred angels, less than a foot tall, all in new clothes, with little hats on. TIBBIE. Sally, I think I know, now. Only it couldn't be that. There couldn't likely be a hundred of them altogether, for it isn't a store you brought me to! You didn't tell me we were going to a store. SALLY. No more it is. We're going to stay right here in Mrs. Darling's house, and no place but here. TIBBIE [_faintly, looking all about_]. But where is there a hundred of anything? SALLY. Oh, this ain't it, yet! This is only like the outside entry. Now, Miss Tibbs, what kind of scent will you have on your hands? TIBBIE. Oh, Sal! SALLY [_at dresser_]. Shall it be Violet, or Roossian Empress, or--what's this other?--Lilass Blank? or the anatomizer played over them like the garden hose? [_They unstop the bottles in turn, and draw up great, noisy, luxurious breaths._] TIBBIE. This, Sally, this one with a double name, like a person. [SALLY _pours a drop in each hand, and_ TIBBIE _dances as she rubs them together._] Why are the little scissors crooked? [_Busily picks up things one after the other_]. What for is the fluting-irons? What for is the butter in the little chiny jar? What's the flour for in the silver box? Oh, what's this? Oh, Sal, what's that? SALLY. It's to make you pale. It ain't fashionable to be red. [_Picks up powder-puff, and gives_ TIBBIE, _who draws back startled and coughing, a dusty dab on each cheek, then applies it to her own. The two stand gazing in silent interest at themselves in the mirror, gradually breaking into smiles._ SALLY _suddenly hitches first one shoulder, then the other, and brushes her face clean_, TIBBIE _faithfully aping her movements. Then they look at themselves again._] TIBBIE. But I ain't pale, anyhow. SALLY. Law! that you ain't! TIBBIE. Who's the gentleman, Sal, in the pretty frame? SALLY. That's Mrs.'s husband. He ain't been living some time. TIBBIE. Oh, he ain't living. SALLY. Now, Tibbs, I'm going to get you that cake before I show you the Hundred. You wait here. But don't you hurt anything, or I'll skin you sure, like I told Miss Catherine. And whatever you do, don't you look behind that curtain till I come back. TIBBIE. Is the Hundred there? SALLY. Yes, it's there. [_Exit._] [TIBBIE _looks at the curtain for a moment, then turns to examine other wonders. Strokes the soft cushions, etc., with the palm of her hand, which she frequently stops to smell. Gazes at the photo of the_ REVEREND DOREL. TIBBIE. He looks like a real kind, good man. I'm going to ask Sally if she knows him. [_Sits down on the floor and strokes the fur rug. Enter_ SALLY _with cake-box._ TIBBIE _chooses gravely, then speaks with her mouth full._] I never tasted any cake like this before. M-m-m-m! Say, Sally, this big thing's 'most as good as a dog. It's so soft I'd like to sleep on it. SALLY [_with feigned coldness_]. Oh, all right! I don't think we'll bother any more about seeing The Hundred. TIBBIE. I had forgotten, honest, Sally. SALLY. Eat your cake, and come along, then. TIBBIE [_jumping up_]. Can't I take it, in my hand? SALLY. No, for when you see 'em, you'll drop it quick all over the floor. TIBBIE [_hurrying it down_]. All right. I will. SALLY. Wait a minute. You turn your back, and I'll go and open the curtains. When I sing out, you turn around. [TIBBIE _stands facing audience, hands clasped tightly in impatience._ SALLY. Ready! [TIBBIE _gives one bound, then stops short quite overcome._ SALLY [_expectantly_]. Well, ma'am? [TIBBIE _stands gazing, unable to speak._] Well, I never! Don't you like 'em? What on earth did you expect, child? Well, I never! Well, if it don't beat all! Why, when I was a young one---- Why, Tibbie, girl--don't you think they're _lovely_? TIBBIE [_whispers_]. Yes. [_Nodding her head slowly, then letting it hang._] SALLY [_understanding_]. Aw, come out o' that! Come, let's look at 'em one by one, taking all our time. Come to Sally, darling, and don't feel bad. We'll have lots of fun. [_Takes_ TIBBIE'S _hand and draws her nearer the dolls, then sits on the floor and pulls_ TIBBIE _down into her lap._] TIBBIE. I had almost guessed it, you know, when you said like angels with hats on. But I couldn't think there would be a hundred unless it was a store. What has the lady so many for? SALLY. Bless your heart! They ain't for herself! They're for orphans in a school that a minister cousin of hers is superintendent of. She's been over a month making these clothes. Every Wednesday she would give a tea-party, and a lot of ladies come stitching and snipping and buzzing over the dolls' clothes the blessed afternoon. And I washed the tea things after them all! TIBBIE. They are for the orphans. Are there a hundred orphans? SALLY. Oh, I guess likely. TIBBIE. Suppose, Sally--suppose there were only ninety-nine, and some girl got two! SALLY. Well, we two have got a hundred for to-night, Tibbie, so let's play, and glad enough we've got our mothers. Look, this is the way you must hold them to be sure and not crumple anything. [SALLY _slips her hand under a doll's petticoats, and they peep at the dainty underclothes._ SALLY _spurs on_ TIBBIE'S _enthusiasm by the tones of her voice, making the wonder more, to fill the child's soul to intoxication._ TIBBIE _easily responds, fairly rocking herself to and fro with delight._] SALLY. My soul and body! Did you ever see the like! [_Sighs._] And not a pin among 'em. All pearl buttons, and silk tying-strings, and silver hooks and eyes; and, mercy on my soul! a little bit of a pocket in every dress, with its little bit of a lace pocket-handkerchief inside. D'you see that, Tibbie? TIBBIE [_breathlessly_]. Oh, Sally! Oh, _Sal_ly! SALLY. Come on, Tibbie; let's choose the one we would choose to get if we was to get one given us. Now I would like that one in red velvet. It's just so dressy, ain't it, with the gold braid sewed down in a pattern round the bottom. Which would you take? TIBBIE. I should like the one all in white. She must be a bride; see, she has a wreath and veil and necklace. I should like her the very best. But right after that, if I could have two, I should like this other in the shade hat with the forget-me-nots wreath, and forget-me-nots dotted all over her dress. And, see! the sky-blue ribbon. If I could just have three, then I would take this one, too, with the black lace shawl over her head, fastened with roses, instead of a hat. She has such a lovely face! And after her I would choose this one in green--or this one in pink; no, this one here, Sally; just look--this one in green and pink. And you--if you could have more than one, which would you choose, after the red one? SALLY. Well, I guess I should choose this one in white. TIBBIE. Oh, no, Sally, don't you remember? That is the bride, the one I said the very first. You can have all the others, Sally dear, except the bride. But let's see, perhaps there are two brides. Yes!--no!--that is just a little girl in white, without a wreath. Should you like her as well? I was the first to say the bride, you know. SALLY. Law! I wouldn't have wanted her if I'd known she was a bride! I take this one, Tibbie--this one with feathers in her hat. Ain't she the gay girl in red and green plaid? And this purple silk one, and this red and white stripe, and this---- TIBBIE. Wait! That's enough; Sally, that makes four for you. It's my turn now. If I could have five, I should take one of the rosebud ones--no, two of them, so's to play I had twins. Say, Sally, what if we could choose one apiece--first you one, and then me one, till we'd chosen them all up, and got fifty apiece! SALLY. What if we could! Wouldn't that be just grand! Tell us some more you'd take. TIBBIE [_pointing and speaking at first slowly and meditatively, then more and more quickly_]. I'd take this darling blue girl, and this yellow one, and this cunning little spotted one, and this, and this, and this, and this, and this---- Oh, Sally, if it was only real, and not just let's-pretend! Now it's your turn. SALLY [_placing her forefinger pensively against the side of her nose_]. For my fifth one, I choose her--her with the little black velvets run all through. TIBBIE [_promptly_]. Taken already. SALLY. Then her over there with the short puffy sleeves. TIBBIE. Taken! SALLY. She taken, too? Well, then, her in the pink Mother Hubbard, with the little knitting-bag on her arm. TIBBIE. Taken, Sally! Can't you remember anything? Those belong to me; I chose them long ago. These are the not taken ones over here; here, and here, and here, and here, and here, and here, and---- SALLY. Aw, you're a great girl! [_Suddenly throws her arms around_ TIBBIE _and casts herself back on the floor, where they tumble and roll in a frenzy of fun._] Oh, Tibbie, ain't we having a time of it? TIBBIE [_almost shouting_]. Yes!--ain't we having a time of it! SALLY. Ain't this a night? TIBBIE. Oh, yes,--ain't it a night! [_They tickle and poke each other until almost hysterical. At last_ TIBBIE _disentangles herself from the panting and laughing_ SALLY, _and gets up._] Here, Sally, now stop laughing, and let's go on. It was your turn. You'd best take that one. She looks as if she might be a little girl of yours, her cheeks are so red--red as a great big cabbage! [_Laughs till she nearly cries._] SALLY. Well, it's sure none of 'em has legs to make 'em look like children of yours! [_At this_ TIBBIE _flings out her thin black legs with the action of a young colt, and drops to the floor, where they frolic as before. In the midst of their gale of mirth, a bell rings. They sit up, and look at each other in silent consternation._] SALLY [_after a pause, in a solemn whisper_]. Murder! TIBBIE [_in her ear_]. What is it? SALLY. Was it the front door or the back door? TIBBIE. I dunno, Sally. [SALLY _picks herself up, and casts a hurried glance on the dolls and about the room, to see if things are nearly as she found them, then turns down the light. Leads_ TIBBIE _to bedroom door._] SALLY [_glancing at clock_]. It ain't late. It ain't a bit later than I supposed. It can't be her! It might be Mrs. Bonnet, though, getting home before Catherine, who's got the key. I shouldn't want her to catch you here for the whole world. Look here, Tibbie. You stand in here till I find out who it is, and if it's Mrs. Bonnet, you'll have to stay hidden till I find a good chance to come and smuggle you down. [_Pushes_ TIBBIE _through door, and exit by other door._ TIBBIE _very cautiously pokes her head out and looks around._] TIBBIE. What's that scratching? I know there's a mouse here somewhere. Go right away, mousie. There's nobody in here. Go right away! SALLY [_without. Her voice calm, and pleasant with a kind of company pleasantness_]. Tibbie! It's all right. It's just a friend dropped in for a moment. You can play a little longer. Turn up the light carefully. But remember what I told you. [_Enter_ TIBBIE _at the first sound of_ SALLY'S _voice. Turns up the light, draws back the curtain in front of the dolls, and kneels before them. Takes up the bride with a reverent hand, and after long contemplating her, kisses her very seriously and tenderly. Then moves the dolls about to bring those she has chosen closer together._ TIBBIE [_meditatively_]. I can't play they are a family, there are too many all the same age and all girls. I will play they are a hundred girls in an orphan asylum--a very rich orphan asylum--and that I am the superintendent. To-morrow I'm going to give each a beautiful doll for a Christmas present. This little girl's name is Rosa. That one is Nellie. That one is Katie. That one is Sue. And Mary. And Jennie. And Ethel, and Victoria, and Blossom, and Violet, and Pansy, and Goldenlocks, and Cherrylips---- Oh, dear, I know I can never name them all. There surely ain't enough names to go around and I'd just have to make up names for them. Kirry, Mirry, Dirry, Birry! These don't sound like anything. I wonder what they do every day in orphan asylums. They must have school and learn lessons, I guess. I'll be the teacher, now. Miss Snowdrop! [TIBBIE _assists the dolls to move, and answers for them in a squeaking little voice._] "Yes, ma'am." Spell knot. "N-o-t." Not at all, my dear. Sit down again, my dear. Miss Lily; stand up, miss, and see if you can do any better this morning. Miss Pansy, I see you putting your foot out to trip poor Miss Blossom. Don't you do that again, child, or I shall have to stand you in the corner. Why, Rosy, how red your cheeks are! Don't you feel well? "No, ma'am." Never mind, don't cry. I must take you to the doctor's right away. Come, my dear. [_Goes to dresser and looks in glass._] Good-morning, doctor. "Good-morning, ma'am" [_in a deep voice_]; "you've got a sick child there, I see." Yes, doctor, this is a young lady from the orphan asylum, and she says she's got a bad pain in her face. "Yes, yes. I see, I see. Well, we'll give her something to cure those red cheeks right up. Just come here, miss." [TIBBIE, _as the doctor, powders the doll's cheeks very gently._] Very well. Good-by, doctor. "Good-by, ma'am. If she isn't better in fifteen minutes, let me know." Now, my dear, you needn't go back to school. The orphans might catch it. I'd like to rock you in my arms, but the superintendent is too busy.... Oh, dear, I don't like to be a superintendent. I think I'll have you for my little girl [_draws forward a low rocker and carefully turns down light_], and get you some nice little sisters [_gathers a dozen dolls_], and then rock you all to sleep. [_Settles comfortably in the chair._] It's bedtime, and you must be rocked and loved a little. Now, sh! Sh! Sh! Sh! What's that, Mamie? Sing to you? Very well. [_Sings._] Rosie, what are you crying for now? You want me to rock faster? All right, I will. [_Rocks faster. Rosie continues to cry, and the rocking soon becomes furious. In the excitement one doll slips unnoticed to the floor._] There, that's better. Now, children, do go to sleep.... Mother is sleepy herself. [_Rocking becomes slower and slower, and at last stops entirely._ TIBBIE _falls asleep.... Enter_ SALLY.] SALLY. Lively, Tibbie! Miss Catherine has got back. We must be packing off home. I declare I lost sight of the time. There's just no one like a fireman to be entertaining, I do declare. Mrs. Bonnet won't be long coming now. [_Turns up light, sees_ TIBBIE _rubbing her eyes, and the dolls all disarranged. Blankly._] Law! do you suppose we can get them to look as they did? I hope t' Heaven she didn't know which went next to which. Do you remember, Tibbie, where they all belonged? TIBBIE. Yes, the bride went here. The rosebuds here. The purple and gray here. I can put them all back, every one. SALLY [_cheerfully, again_]. No one'll ever know in the world they've been disturbed. [_Draws off to get general effect. Dives for the last doll, which_ TIBBIE _sleepily hands up from the floor._] SALLY [_in a ghastly whisper_]. Tibbie! look at its head! [TIBBIE _gazes in a puzzled way. The face is crushed._ SALLY _groans._] Oh, Tibbie! now what'll we do! TIBBIE [_truthfully, lifting a very pale face_]. I didn't do it! I was just as careful! She was one of my daughters. I had her in my lap, rocking her to sleep with the others; she slipped off my lap--there were too many for one lap, I guess--but I didn't step on her. Sure, Sally,--sure as I live, I didn't step on her! SALLY. Oh, law! You must have rocked on her. Oh, Tibbie, what'll I do? Here, give her to me.... No, she can't never be fixed. I wonder if I can cover her up, here. [_Moves the dolls about tentatively._] But what's the good? They'll count them, and there'll be the mischief of a fuss. Oh, Tibbie---- [_reaching the end of her good-nature_] ----why did I ever think of bringing you here? Now look at all the trouble you've brought on me, when I thought you'd be so careful! And I told you and told you till I was hoarse. And here you've ruined all! [_Drops into a chair before the wreck._ TIBBIE, _not daring to meet_ SALLY'S _eyes, stands motionless and speechless._] I declare I don't know _what_ to do! I wish I'd never seen 'em! I wish there'd never been any Christmas! Oh, it's a great job, this! Tibbie, you've done for me this time! [_Enter_ CATHERINE. CATHERINE. Hurry, and get off, now, Sally. SALLY [_blurts out_]. She's broken one of them! CATHERINE. You don't mean it! SALLY. Yes, she has! CATHERINE. Let me see it. Oh, you wicked child! [_Shakes_ TIBBIE _vigorously by one arm._ SALLY, _attempting a rescue, seizes her by the other, and the poor child is jerked about unmercifully._] She's smashed its face right in! Now, whoever heard of such naughtiness? [TIBBIE _escapes and twists about to get her back to the two._ SALLY. She didn't do it out of naughtiness, at all, Miss Catherine. She's as good a child as ever lived! [TIBBIE'S _shoulders give a convulsive heave._] It was an accident entirely. But that's just as bad for me--I suppose I shall have to say it was me did it. CATHERINE. And then they'll say what was I doing while the kitchen-help was poking about in the lady's chamber. No; you don't get me into no trouble, Sally Bean! You'd much better say how it was--how that you asked me if you just might bring a little girl to look, and I said you might, out of pure good-nature, being Christmas is rightly for children, and I've a softness for them. And while we was both in the kitchen, she slipped away from us, and come here and done it before we knew. And the child will say herself that it was so. You'll be packed off, dead sure, out of this place, if you let on you meddled with them yourself. She won't have her things meddled with---- There! I hear the door now. There comes that old cat Bonnet. [_Enter_ MRS. BONNET, _her cheek bones and the end of her nose brilliant with the cold. She carries a paper bag, and speaks with an impediment and a breath of peppermint._ BONNET. What's the matter? What child is that? CATHERINE. It happened this way, Mrs. Bonnet. I allowed Sally to fetch this child up to see Mrs. Darling's dolls.--Just for a treat, of course--never thinking Sally'd be so careless as to let one of them get broken. But that's what she done. I'd just stepped out for a moment, never for a minute supposing anything like this could happen, but you just see for yourself. That doll can't be mended no way at all. And now, Mrs. Bonnet, what's to be done? BONNET. Oh, you wicked little brat! I just want to get hold of you and shake you! [_Makes a snatch at_ TIBBIE, _who gets beyond her clutch, and turns scared eyes on_ SALLY.] TIBBIE [_just audibly_]. I want to go home; I want to go home. BONNET [_bitterly_]. It don't seem possible that I can run out a minute just to do an errand for Mrs. Darling herself--to get a spool of feather-stitching silk--but things like this has to happen. Catherine, I thought you at least was a responsible person, and here you has to go and---- CATHERINE [_promptly_]. Mrs. Bonnet, you just let that alone! Don't you try none of that with me! I went out of an errand every bit as much as you did. I went out to make sure the ice cream would be sent in good season for Christmas dinner, I did. Now I don't get dragged into this mess one bit more than you do! BONNET [_looking at her with a poison-green eye_]. Well, Mrs. Darling will be here in a minute, and then we shall see what we shall see. Land, ain't that woman been cross to-day, and fussy! 'Tain't as if she was like other people--a little bit sensible, and could take some little few things into consideration, and remember we're all human flesh and blood. Not much! She don't consider nothing, nor nobody, nor feelings, nor circumstances! She just makes things fly! Things has to go her way, every time! TIBBIE [_pathetically, turning a trembling face to_ SALLY]. I want to go home! BONNET [_uglily_]. No, you shan't go home! You shall stay right here and take the blame you deserve, after spoiling the face of that handsome doll. What do you mean by it, you little brat, you little gutter-imp! SALLY [_with a boldness new in her relations with_ MRS. BONNET]. You let her alone, Mrs. Bonnet! Don't you talk to her like that! Anyone can see she's as sorry as sorry can be for what she's done, and all the trouble she's got us into---- [COOK _appears in door._] BONNET. And what does that help, I'd like to know? The doll is broke, ain't it? And some one of us is going to catch it, however things go. You're a lucky girl, I say, if you don't lose your place. Some one of us is a-going to, I can easy foretell. CATHERINE [_firmly, with lifted chin_]. I ain't going to lose my place! Here comes Cook now! I suppose she wants to get into trouble, too. [_Enter_ COOK, _her high-colored shawl pinned on her breast with a big brooch, her bonnet-strings nearly lost in her fat chin._ COOK. What's the matter? What's it all about? Whose nice little girl is this? SALLY. I brought her here, Mrs. McGrath. She's Tibbie, a neighbor's child, and I brought her---- COOK. To see them beautiful dolls. Of course. And one of 'em happened to get broke? [_Goes to_ TIBBIE, _and lifts her miserable little face._] Don't you feel bad one bit, darlin'! It was all an accident, and it's no good crying over spilt milk. And if Mrs. Darling gets mad at you, she ain't the real lady I take her for. Why, I gave my Clary a new doll this very evenin' and it's ready for a new head this minute. And did I go for to rare and tear about it? Not a bit of it! Why, bless you, she didn't go for to do it! Why, what child smashes a doll a-purpose? You're a pretty set, the whole gang of you, to pitch into a child! [_Tries, with_ SALLY, _to comfort and silence_ TIBBIE, _who by this time is freely weeping. Exit_ BONNET, _and re-enter at once without hat and coat._] COOK [_looking hard at_ MRS. BONNET]. I've a great mind to stay here myself and stand up for her, yer pack of old maids, the lot of yer! BONNET. You will oblige me, Mrs. McGrath, by doing nothing of the sort. We've no need to have a whole scene from the drama. You've no business on this floor, anyhow, and I must insist on your keeping yourself in your own quarters. COOK [_mutters_]. And I'll take my own time, yer born Britisher! [_Putting her arm around_ TIBBIE.] Well, Tibbie dear, you can be sure of this: however bad this seems, it'll soon be over. And if Mrs. Darling scolds, that'll soon be over, too. It'll all be looking different to you in the morning. However things goes, you'll soon be forgetting all about it. And to-morrow is Christmas Day, that our own dear Lord was born on, and I'll bake you a little cake and send it to you by Sally. TIBBIE [_sobbing_]. But Sally's going to be sent away. COOK. So she might be, but I feel it in my little toe that she ain't going to be. SALLY [_bravely_]. Well, if I am, I am, and there an end. But I don't see why she can't take the price of the doll out of my wages and let me stay. BONNET. I think you'll find that it ain't most particularly the cost of the doll gets you into trouble---- There she comes this minute! [_All listen in profound silence._ MRS. D. [_below_]. Good-night, cousin Dorel. MR. GOODHUE [_below_]. Good-night, cousin Cynthia. Sleep well. MRS. D. You, too. Pleasant dreams. Good-night. [_Sound of door closing._] [_Enter_ MRS. DARLING. _Stands a moment at door, regarding the assemblage with a sort of absent-minded astonishment._ MRS. D. What is it? Has anything happened? What is everybody doing up here? Whose little girl is this sitting up so late? They used to tell me I should never grow, my dear, if I sat up late---- BONNET. This is what it is, ma'am. I took the liberty of stepping out for a few moments, it being Christmas Eve and my work all done, knowing you wouldn't be needing me till late. And Sally here took it upon herself to bring a child--how she could presume so, I'm sure _I_ don't understand, ma'am. She might have known aforehand something would be broken. And sure enough--when I come in---- MRS. D. Oh, cut it short! What you have to tell is that the child there has broken one of the dolls, isn't it? BONNET [_mutters_]. That's it, ma'am. MRS. D. And you've kept her here when she ought to have been in bed these hours, to bear the first burst of my displeasure---- [MRS. DARLING _says so much in a hard voice, with an appearance of cold anger; here her voice suddenly dies, and she bursts out crying like a vexed, injured child._] I declare it's too bad! [_She sobs, reckless of making a spectacle of herself, while all look on in consternation._] I declare it's too bad! It's no use! It doesn't matter _what_ I do--it's always the same! It's _always_ taken for granted that I will conduct myself like a beast. Who can wonder, after that, if I do? Here I find them, pale as sheets, the five of them shaking in their boots, because a forlorn little child has broken a miserable doll. And _what_ is it supposed I shall do about it? Didn't I dress the hundred of them for children, and little poor children, too? And I must have known they would get broken, of course. _Why_ did I dress them? _What_ did I spend months dressing them for? Solely for _show_, they think,--not for any charity, any kindness, any love of children, or anything in the _world_ but to make an effect on an occasion--to make myself a merit with the parson, perhaps! [_Her crying seems to become less of anger and nervousness, and more of sorrow._] Oh, it is too bad! One would imagine I never said a decent thing or did a kind act to anyone. And, Heaven knows it's not for lack of trying to change. But no one sees the difference! I am treated like a vixen and a terror. And the people about me hate and fear and deceive me! A proof of it to-night. Oh, the _lesson_! Oh, I wasn't _meant_ for this! I wasn't meant for it! When I think of last Sunday's sermon and how straight to my heart it went. Oh, I am a fool to cry! [_Dries her eyes, and holds out her hand to_ TIBBIE.] Come here to me, dear child. What is your name? What? A little louder! What did you say? Tibbie! Oh, what a nice, funny name! _You_ didn't think I was going to scold you, did you, dear? Of _course_ not! It was an accident; I understand all about it. I used to break my dolls' heads frequently, I remember very well. [_Puts her arm about_ TIBBIE _and tries to make her head easy on her shoulder._ TIBBIE, _however, cannot relax, and rests uncomfortably against her._] Let us see, dear, now, what we can do to make us both feel happier. I dressed all those dolls for little children I am not acquainted with at all. Which of them would you like the very best? Which should you like for your very own? [TIBBIE _cannot move nor speak, but her eyes travel towards the dolls._ SALLY [_comes beamingly to_ TIBBIE'S _aid_]. The bride, Tibbie, the bride! MRS. D. The bride? Which one is that? That one? Of course! [_Reaches for it, and_ SALLY _hands it to her._] There, my dear. [TIBBIE _takes the doll loosely, without breath of thanks._ MRS. D. _reviews the dolls, and_ TIBBIE'S _hand is stretched involuntarily towards the broken one._] Of course, of course, you would want that poor dolly to nurse back to health. Now, dear, isn't there _one more_ you would like? [TIBBIE'S _confusion overwhelms her._] I'll choose one for you, and you shall call her Cynthia, after me. How would you like that? Suppose we say this one with the forget-me-nots? She looks a little like me, doesn't she, with her hair parted in the middle? Her dress is made of a piece of one of my own, and that blue is my favorite color. [_Rising._] There, Tibbie, now you have two whole dollies, and part of another. You must run right home to bed. A Merry Christmas to you, dear child. I am very happy to have made your acquaintance. TIBBIE [_shyly, but heartily_]. I think you are good--_good_. And, please,--I'd like--if you wouldn't mind--I'd like to kiss you! [MRS. DARLING _bends suddenly, and catches the child in her arms._ CURTAIN NOTES ON COSTUME AND PRESENTATION MRS. DARLING. Evening dress. BONNET and CATHERINE wear black, with white maid's apron, collar, and cuffs. Outdoor costume as indicated. MRS. MCGRATH. Shawl and bonnet with no attempt at prevailing styles. Stout, rosy, motherly, and comfortable. SALLY. Pretty and wholesome-looking. Appears at first in a limp blue kitchen-apron, later in her outdoor coat and hat, neat, but cheap-looking. TIBBIE. Old dress, very neat and clean, but faded, and with an outgrown, hand-me-down appearance. She is a thin and half-fed little tenement-house child, to whom the luxury of Mrs. Darling's house is an undreamed-of fairy-land. This part was played by a little girl of nine, who delighted in learning and acting it. A bright and appreciative child can do it without undue effort, although it is, of course, the important rôle of the play. THE DOLLS. The number of dolls need not be over fifteen or twenty, if so arranged as to suggest more tiers hidden from view at the back of the couch. They should be as nearly of one size as is practicable, though uniformity goes no further. The broken one should be broken first, and Tibbie must slip it to the floor unnoticed before she sits down to rock the others. GENERAL NOTES FIREPLACE. If scenery is not available, the fireplace used in this play, and in several others, can easily be built up from packing-boxes covered with cambric (dull side out), the bricks or tiles marked in black paint, or even with ink. A valuable and effective stage-property, used when "Tom's Plan" was first given, and in many subsequent plays, was an old-fashioned wooden mantel, obtained through a carpenter who was tearing down an old house. This may be a suggestion for other amateurs. A small screen can be covered with cambric, and painted to represent the back of the fireplace, an opening being left at one side, through which Santa Claus, in "Tom's Plan," "The Christmas Brownie," and "Their Christmas Party," makes his entrance. Andirons, with logs and a red electric bulb, will make a very pretty and effective fire. In "Their Christmas Party," the poor children hide in the fireplace, and the "Christmas Brownie" goes in and out several times. SANTA CLAUS. Red or brown coat, trimmed with ermine (cotton, or, if practicable, some real fur); high boots; cap to match coat, with fur brim. He wears a string of sleigh bells over his shoulder, and carries a pack full of small toys for distribution. White hair, mustache, and long white beard. In these plays, in which Santa Claus has often an important part, do not on any account allow him to wear a mask. The hair, mustache, and beard, with a good rosy make-up, are sufficient disguise for him, and in those cases where there are little children in the cast whose literal belief in Santa Claus must not be disturbed, he is not indispensable at rehearsals. Partly because he should not be recognized, an adult player is always indicated for this part, rather than an older boy, who is apt to be in more intimate touch with the children. CHRISTMAS TREE. If the play is to serve as introduction to a Christmas Tree, the tree should be placed as near the stage as possible. When the play is over, the lighted tree is unveiled, and the children who have taken part distribute the presents under the leadership of Santa Claus. Or, if found more practicable, the tree may be placed in another room, and Santa Claus may invite the children of the play and the audience to go with him in search of it. An appropriate tree song may be sung by the whole audience. Reference to such songs may be found on the following page. SUGGESTIONS FOR CAROLS SONGS AND GAMES FOR LITTLE ONES. Gertrude Walker and Harriet S. Jenks. Oliver Ditson Company, Boston. Contains a number of useful songs and carols, among which the following may be specially mentioned: "Oh, Ring, Glad Bells!" (P. 58.) "The First Christmas." (P. 60.) Good for little children. "Noël, Noël, the Christ is Born!" (P. 62.) Excellent processional. "A Wonderful Tree." (P. 67.) Tree song. SONGS FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. Part I. Eleanor Smith. Milton Bradley Co., Springfield, Mass. "In Another Land and Time." (P. 31.) "Waken, Little Children." (P. 33.) Very simple. Good for small children. PART II of the same contains Santa Claus and Jack Frost songs. THE NEW HOSANNA. New-Church Board of Publication, 3 West 29th Street, N.Y. Has a good tree song: "The Christmas Bells in Many a Clime." (P. 4.) For little children: "Can There Be a Sweeter Story?" (P. 21.) There are also a number of old English carols, among them: "The First Nowell." (P. 2.) "Come, Ye Lofty, Come, Ye Lowly." (P. 23.) "From Far Away We Come to You." (P. 30.) Also several of the more familiar Christmas hymns to be found in most church hymnals. For old music, see the following: CHRISTMAS CAROLS, NEW AND OLD. Novello & Company. TWELVE OLD CAROLS, ENGLISH AND FOREIGN. Novello & Company. FOLK SONGS, AND OTHER SONGS FOR CHILDREN. Oliver Ditson Company, Boston. The first and last of these both contain "Good King Wenceslas," which is included in other collections as well. Martin Luther's Christmas hymn for his own children, which is very good for small children, beginning "Away in a manger," is in DAINTY SONGS FOR LITTLE LADS AND LASSES. John Church Company, Cincinnati.