SHOEMAKER'S BEST SELECTIONS For Re&.dings and Recitd^tions Nos. I to 27 Now Issued Pftp«r Bindinit* each number, « ^ « 30 cents Clotb •* " ** . • • SO cent* Teachers, Readers, Students, and all persons who have had occasion to use books of this kind, concede this to be the best series of speakers pubHshed. The different numbers are compiled by leading elocution- ists of the country, who have exceptional facilities for securing selections, and whose judgment as to their merits is invaluable. No trouble or expense is spared to obtain the very best readings and recitations, and much material is used by special arrangement with other publishers, thus securing the best selections from such American authors as Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Lowell, Emerson, Alice and Phoebe Gary, Mrs. Stowe, and many others. The foremost Eng- lish authors are also represented, as well as the leading French and German writers. * "Tl^s series was formerly called "The Elocution- ist's'Annual," the first seventeen numbers being pub- lished under that title. While the primary purpose of these books is to supply the wants of the public reader and elocution- ist, nowhere else can be found such an attractive col- lection of interesting short stories for home reading. Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, or mailed upon receipt of price. The Penn Publishing Company 226 5. nth Street, Philadelphia Betty's Ancestors A Play in One Act BY Ema M. Hunting PHILADELPHIA THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 1913 Copyright 1913 by The Penn PuiiLisHiNG Company TMP92-009169 JUN 241915 ©CI.D 41033 Betty's Ancestors CHARACTERS Betty Winslow Deborah Weston the last of the high house of Winslow whom, zuith everything else she possesses, Betty has inherited James O'Mara of Texas The Spayde Sisters, Ella and Bella, Gertie, Eva and Imogen sightseers Mrs. Austin C. Wellington ivho doesfi't care for relics Miss Elvira J. Moore . . Mrs. Freddie Hitchens . Mrs. Hitchens' Mother Great-great- Aunt Letitia ^ Ephraim Huntington James O'Mara who knows what she wants a very modern product who would rather sleep ' a beauty of colo- 7iial days first ambassador to the court of > Shades \ France Continental sol- dier of fortune and early western pioneer Note. — The cast may be all female, if preferred. Mrs. Wellington may double Aunt Letitia, Miss Moore may double Mrs. Hitchens' Mother. The parts of any of the three Shades may be taken by any of the Spayde Sisters, or by Mrs. Wellington, or by Miss Moore. One of the Spavdes may play young James O'Mara. Time of Playing. — One hour. STORY OF THE PLAY This play is recommended for use in high schools in con- nection with Washington's Birthday exercises, or for societies and clubs interested in colonial history or ancestry. Miss Betty VVinslow is the caretaker of the family man- sion, which has had a notable colonial history, and is now a museum, open to the public. Betty and her old compan- ion, Deborah Weston, though tired of being at the beck and call of sightseers, have no other means of support. Young James O'JMara of Texas has begged Betty to marry him, but in her family pride she has refused him. Betty repents, too late, when she has a letter saying he has gone back to Texas. In spite of her feelings she has to entertain sight- seers. Miss Moore, a businesslike school-teacher, Mrs. Wellington, who is looking for a new colonial society to join, Mrs. Hitchens, who is irreverent and flippant, her tired mother, and the Spayde sisters, who are a jolly lot and cheer Betty up. Among the relics is Great-great-Aunt Letitia's historic glove. Mrs. Hitchens wants to know where the other glove went. Betty doesn't know. But after the sightseers are gone Betty falls asleep, and in a dream sees something of the love story of Aunt Letitia, who married the man chosen for her by her family, but who loved James O'Mara, a soldier and adventurer. Betty sees Aunt Letitia at the bidding of her fiance bid good-bye to her lover and her happiness, and sees O'Mara take her glove. This solves the mystery of the missing glove, and also solves Betty's own problem. She wakes resolved to follow the dic- tates of her heart, and when young James O'Mara unexpect- edly returns he kisses her, unresisting. COSTUMES Betty Winslow. At first a pretty, up-to-date, blue silk dress. Later, after her second entrance, a quaint costume in the style of the early eighteenth century. This niigiit be of pink brocade, made with a flat, pointed waist, the neck and sleeves filkd in with old lace, the skirt long and vo- luminous, with a slight train ; the whole veiled with an over- dress or shawl of lace. The hair may be done high, with curls behind the ears, surmounted with a tiny lace cap. Probably some real gown, a family heirloom, may be bor- rowed for the occasion. Deborah Weston. She is a neat, handsome, thrifty woman from "down east" in Maine. She wears a light print house dress with starchy white apron. James O'Mara. When he represents the shade, the character should wear the dress of the early pioneer. A long military cape conceals his person; a colonial cocked hat, or a beaver turned up on one side may be used ; heavy gauntlets, boots and spurs. He wears a sword, and "his own hair" is tied at the neck with a ribbon. He speaks with just a trace of the Irish accent. Later, as the young man from Texas, he wears a long ulster and traveling cap or broad brimmed hat, and carries a bag. The two O'Maras may be represented by different people, but this is not necessary. Great-gueat-Aunt Letitia. The familiar colonial cos- tume — powdered hair, panniers, long, pointed bodice, satin petticoat and high-heeled shoes. Ephraim Huntington. The dress of the fop of the colonial period. Embroidered waistcoat, satin breeches, long coat with bright-colored flaps, lace ruffles at throat and v/rist, silk stockings and buckled shoes. He wears a light dress sword, and carries a snuff-box and lace handkerchief. The Spayde Sisters. Pretty, rather elaborate clothes, in the extreme of style. The twins are dressed exactly alike, and look boyish. Eva is decidedly of the " Fluffy Ruffles " type. Imogen tries to look intellectual, and Gertie is whole- some and handsome. Mrs. Austin C. Wellington. A large, mild lady, pretty 6 PROPERTIES in spite of her ten children. She wears a black bonnet and shawl, voluminous black skirts, and carries an ample hand satchel from wliich she takes her crochet work. Miss Elvira J. Moore. She is forty-five, a school- teacher from Indiana. The tilt of her hat and its sharp quill follow exactly the lines of her nose and chin. She wears a skirt made over from one of her mother's, a tight black jacket cut off short at the hips with a sharp flare be- hind, and a black fur collarette with a high collar turned up around her ears. She carries a guide-book to Boston and environs, a note-book and pencil. She stands on the balls of her feet (rubber heels) and she does not wear a — that is, her figure is her own. Mrs. Freddie Hitchens. A diminutive person, over- dressed, the rings rattling on her skinny little hands, but possessed of an energy that drives everything and everybody before it. Her mother is a dumpling of a woman whose sole endeavor is to move fast enough to keep within sight of her daughter. PROPERTIES The relics of colonial days mentioned in the dialogue can usually be obtained in any community where an interest in such things exists; or if these particular articles cannot be found, others equally appropriate may be substituted by slightly changing the lines. Any other objects of interest may be displayed on the stage; and no small part of the in- terest of producing this little play will result from collecting the heirlooms of the neighborhood and stimulating interest and pride in them. Properties required for Deborah, flowers, letter, dust cloth, broom, handkerchief, lighted candle in brass candle- slick ; for Miss Moore, book ; for The Spavdes, books, hand-bags, muffs, gloves; for Betty, long white glove; for Huntington, snuff-box ; for Letitia, long white gloves. SCENE PLOT / tNURIOR. BACKING \ Scene. — Parlor of an old colonial mansion. Doors up c. and L. Window or fireplace k., if desired, but neither is necessary. Table and chair of colonial design down R. A spinning-wheel and an antique sofa or couch down L. " Grandfather's clock " up r. Other furniture and decora- tions as desired, but all should be colonial. On walls up R. and L. are frames large enough for por- traits, full length or at least three-quarter length. They are covered with dark hangings, and behind them are other cur- tains to serve as background for the persons who pose as portraits. If desired the frames may stand across the corners of the room, up R. and l., with entrances behind them, or space for actors to remain until they enter. Betty's Ancestors SCENE. — A quaint old room, supposed to be the parlor in an old colonial mansion. There should be a door at back center, communicating with the entrance hall of the house ; another, leading to the interior apartments, mid- way of the left zvall. Just beyond this door, on the left, hangs the portrait of Gkeat-gkeat-AxjntI^etitia, repre- sented by tJie frame ; opposite, a similar frame to indicate the companion portrait of her husband. Both are life- size and concealed by draperies. Behind the frames, a second set of draperies should be so arranged as to reprc' sent the background of the paintings, and also to conceal the openings by which the characters enter. If tlie play is to be given in a parlor 7vhich does not have doors con- veniently placed for this purpose, the frames may be set across the back corners of the room, leaving space where the characters may remain throughout the action of the play. In the right wall there should be, if possible, a windoiv. At the right also, well down stage, is placed the table and armchair referred to in the text of the play. There should be a couch, several chairs, etc. — all of quaint, old-time design. (^As the curtain rises, Deborah Weston is placing some flowers in a vase on the table, down R. She looks crit- ically around the room, running her finger along polished surfaces in search of dust, etc. The tall grandfather^ s clock chimes two.^ Deborah. Two o'clock ! {She hurries to the door L. and calls.) Bettina, do you know it's two o'clock, and this house may be full of people in three minutes ? Betty Winslow {outside). I'm hurrying, Deb ! Deborah {sniffing). Hurrying ? You're primping, that's what you are doing. This house is open for visitors every Wednesday afternoon from two till four without fail, and has been, rain, snow or brimstone, for the last thirty years, ever 9 10 BETTY S ANCESTORS since I moved in and took charge; and not a soul, not one soul has been turned away from them steps nor will be while I'm here to let 'em in, even if the poet's only grand- daughter Bktty {still outside). Now, Debbie — don't get nervous. Buck up Deborah. What ? Buck up ? {A burst of laughter answers her. She shuts the door and comes down stage, sputtering.') Buck up ! That's language, I must say, to come from the granddaughter in direct descent, unbroken, of the Father of New England Verse ! She gets it from that cowboy, that's what she does; and if he comes around here this VVednesday and wants to see a forebear and Gen- eral Washington's queue Betty {calling through a crack of the door). Debbie — shut your eyes ! Deborah. Shut my eyes? What on earth Betty {as before). Hurry ! And turn your back. {As Deborah, still grumbling, does as she is bid, Betty flings open the door and comes in on tiptoe. She is flushed, radi- ant, excited. She slips up behind the housekeeper, strikes a pose with a flourish.) Behold,, woman ! (Deborah, obey- ing, turns and looks, and throivs up her hands in astonish- ment.) Well — what's the matter, Deb? Don't you like my dress ? Deborah {sloivly). What in the name of common sense has gotten into you ? Betty {breathlessly gay). Nothing has gotten into me — it's on the outside ! {She pirouettes on her toes, her arms above her head, then takes a lo?ig step to show her modish skirt.) Look at that, Deb ! {Giggles.) Isn't that a scream ? Deborah. A scream ? Bettina Winslow ! Betty. That slipped, Debbie Deborah. Yes, you're right it slipped, and it slipped right straight from Mr. James O'Mara, that's where it slipped from. That gentleman cowboy that we've seen so much of lately. Oh, don't talk to me about slipping ! 1 know all about Betty {coaxing her). Now, Debbie — dear old Deb- bie Deborah {inflexible'). And I know all about this new- fangled dress idea. Nobody ever heard a word about new BETTYS ANCESTORS II dresses until four weeks ago to-day — and four weeks ago to-day was the first day that Mr. James O'Mara favored us with a call — and every Wednesday since. Betty. But, Debbie Deborah. Every Wednesday, Bettina Winslow ! Comes sniilin' up to the door and says he's crazy about ancestors and is thinkin' of gettin' him some, and haven't we half a dozen or so to spare — though I dare say he has plenty of 'em that he wouldn't be proud to own over in Ireland. Betty {warmly^. His people have been in this country since the Revolution. Deborah (scornfully^. That's what he says. And de- claring he'll never believe about Paul Revere and the lan- terns until we show him the skull of the horse the poor man rode, and how he just loves to sit among these sweet relics of the past and let their soothing influence steal over him — influence ! You couldn't move that young man, not if you was to fasten a block and tackle to him. — And had the im- pudence to ask me if I'd get him a pass into the D. R. — • said he'd always wanted to be a Daughter ! What does he want here, anyhow ? Betty. Want ? Why, I — you see he's in the cattle business, and sells land Deborah. Oh ! The cattle business ? I see ! That's the reason he puts in every Wednesday afternoon looking at Revolutionary relics. Wants to describe them to the cows when he gets back home, I s'pose ! Betty (at the window). I suppose he has a right to go sightseeing if he wants to? (Turfis.^ Anyhow, I don't see what he has to do with my new dress. Deborah. You don't? Humph! Well, I do. Where'd you get it ? Betty. Made it. You'd never guess what from. Debouah. It looks to me like Betty. It is — Aunt Emilie's blue brocade. Deborah. You don't mean to tell me that you cut up your Aunt Emilie's blue brocade that she wore to President Buchanan's inaugural ball and made it into — that ? Betty. Yes — and got the whole thing out of the skirt. Isn't it lucky that we used to go this way, and now we go this way ? (She makes ,^estures to indicate first the hoop- skirt and then the close-Jilting modern garment.) And why shouldn't I cut it up ? What good was it doing me that she 12 BETTY S ANCESTORS wore it to a dance and had a good time in it ? You know very well I had to use some old thing — I couldn't have any- thing new. I've never had anything new in my life. I've never had anything but ancestors-^and I'm sick and tired of them ! Deborah. Betty Winslow ! Betty. I am ! I'm sick of being supported by an his- torical society just because my name is Winslow, and being kept here on exhibition like the other relics, and I won't wear that old rag of Great-great-Aunt Letitia's and make a spectacle of myself any more ! Deborah. Bettina Winslow ! You, with your name, and your illustrious family and your Great-great-Aunt Letitia herself hanging right there and hearing you call her dress that she wore before the crowned heads of Europe a rag ! (She points to the portrait.^ Betty. I don't care — it wasn't a hundred years old when she wore it, and it was in style ! You didn't catch her wearing her great-great-aunt's dress ! {Puts her arms aroinid Debokah's neck. ^ Don't scold, Debbie ! I wanted to feel — to-day — that J, just my very own self, am alive — now. {Moves away.) Oh, it's so .good to be alive — ^just alive. Deb, and young Deborah. VVhat's that cowboy been saying to you? Betty. Why, n-nothing. He's been telling me about Texas, you know — it's a great place — and — an-d — besides, he isn't a cowboy, Debbie Weston ! He's a cattleman. And he sells land, whole counties at once — ^just sells 'em off as if it wasn't anything. That's what he came East for. Deborah. And is he trying to sell you a county? Betty. Oh, no — h-he — no, he doesn't want to sell nie any Deborah, Bettina Winslow — has that man proposed to yon ? Betty. Oh, yes — every Wednesday — (Deborah collapses into a chair, vp l., throwi7ig her apron over her head) ex- cept the first one ! {She runs to Deborah atid puts her arms around her.) And 1 didn't accept him, not once, Debbie — honest I haven't Deborah {wailing behind her apron). A Winslow — a Winslow ! Betty {springing vp). Yes — a Winslow ! Why not ? If some Winslow 'way, 'way back hadn't made up his mind BETTY S ANCESTORS 13 to go West in tliat leaky old tub of a "Mayflower," we wouldn't have been heard of from that day to this ! What are we, anyhow ? Just the descendants of a good, solid, middle-class, hard-working Englishman who had sense enough and courage enough to get out of his rut. (^Afoves about the room.) It's the spirit of my ancestors, Debbie — that's what is pulling me. "Go West, young man, go West!" "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of — happiness!" (^She kneels again beside the housekeeper, coaxing the apron down.) Oh, Debbie, don't you see.? I'm young — young — just as Mary Winslow was when she dared to leave her home and come to the new land — and just see what a fuss people make over her. Debbie — smile — there's a dear. Why, you'll love Texas Debbie, you were young, too — don't you remember Deborah {jjuite melted, but trying to maintain her stand). I didn't have men proposing to me every Wednesday, if that's what you mean ! Betty. But didn't you wish they would ? {Unable to resist the girl, Deborah looks at her ; they both laugh, and fall into each other' s arms, laughing, talking, half crying all at once. In the midst of their excitement, the do or -bell rings. The girl draivs back at arm' s length, and the two look again into each other s eyes, this time with complete understanding. Bettv, in a whisper.) Y-you go to the door, Deb Deborah (/// a burst of motherly feeling, drawing the girl back into her arms). Dearie Betty. I won't go to Texas without you, Deb — I won't {Tliey rise. Betty dries Deborah's tears with her own handkerchief, laughing, excited, feverishly happy.) Now you're all right. Deb — now run — no, don't run ! That wouldn't do at all. Walk, Deb — and don't look as if you knew anything — ^just go — go (Deborah goes out into the hall. Betty tries in vain to quiet her own excite7Jient, stands very straight, attempts a haughty look, takes up a pose on the sofa expressing supreme indifference, jumps up at a sound and practices walking about in her netv narrow skirt. As she hears Deborah returning, §he starts toward the door at center back, and stands so, her back to the audience, as Deborah returns alone, a letter in her hand.) 14 BETTY S ANCESTORS Deborah. It was the postman, Betty. The — postman, Deb? Deborah. Yes. He left a letter for you. (Betty fakes the letter. Deborah comes dc>7£'n stage r. Still without turning, Betty opens the letter and reads. The envelope falls from her hand. There is a long pause.') Betty {without turning, in a chariged voice). Deborah — he has gone. Deborah. Gone Bettv. Back to Texas. He — wrote to tell me so. He says, " I am going back to-day. If I wait to see you again, I'll never go. And I've been thinking about you, growing there among those sweet old things, like a rose in an old- fashioned garden. You were quite right to refuse me; I reckon it wouldn't do to break you off and carry you out on the plains. You'd never take root, d-dear — you'd droop and — die." (^She turns slowly. Her hand falls, crushing the letter. Suddenly it falls fro7n her fingers, and with a little cry, like that of a child 7vho has been hurt, she covers her eyes and sta7ids S7vaying. ) Deborah. Darling — Deborah's own little Betty {sharply). Don't ! {After a pause, tensely.) It was the relics and the name and this great useless house that drove him away from me, and I hate them ! Deborah. Betty {The door-bell rings. With an effort, Betty controls her- sef. Her hands fall at her sides, her face groins quite expressionless, the life and color gone. She speaks quietly.) Betty. Will you take care of the people who come? {She moves toward the door, l.) I am going up — to change my dress. Deborah {exploding^. Bettina Winslow ! I've been in this house thirty years and I've never refused a thing you've told me nor your mother before y9u nor I never will, nor nobody shall say I ever did, but when you tell me to " look after the people " while my own blessed lamb that I'd give Betty's ancestors 15 my eyes for is up-stairs breaking her heart over a no-account cowboy that goes off half-coclced to Texas Betty (Jiotly). Stop ! {^Her self-control dotnitiates Deb- orah. She speaks slowly.) This house is open to visitors every Wednesday afternoon no — matter — what — happens. {Very proudly, with her head high, she opens the door, and goes out L. The door-bell rings again. With a deep sigh, shaking her head in sad perplexity, Deborah goes to admit the visitor. After a moment, the murmur of a voice approaches, and Mrs. Austin C. Wellington ap- pears in the doorway — talking. She has a sweet, mon- otonous voice that flows on evenly and ceaselessly like Teiinyson' s brook.') Mrs. W. {continuifig as she enters'). — yes, Mrs. Aus- tin C. Wellington. Austin C. There's some other plain Austins up Maine way, but I've looked them all up and they aren't no relation. My husband's folks came from Vermont state and settled in Maryland first before they moved to Illinois, so there's Wellingtons all the way from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. I was a Pickens — ever see any Pick- enses? Josiah Pickens came from Dorchester, England, in 1659, and he married Mary Norton. Her father was a minister; and their son married Sallie Coolidge, and she died and then he married Emily Burridge and she was the third daughter of Amos Burridge and his wife was'a Russell. And their son was Emery Pickens and he's the one that married a Adams and went down to Maryland — and that's the way I'm related to the Quincys and the Hancocks and all them. You've heard tell of them. What's your name? Are you a Winslow ? Deborah {snappishly). My name is Weston, ma'am. Mrs. W. Weston? Where from— Maine? I thought so. There was Westons that married into the Wellington family up there. Obadiah Weston. But that line never amounted to very much. It died out pretty soon, all but a {q.\v branches around Bangor. I s'pose you come from one of them. Deborah. You appear to me to know a mighty lot about people's families ! Mrs. W. {settling down on the sofa. She takes some crochet zvork from her bag, and goes placidly to work). i6 Betty's ancestors Oh, land, yes ! I just got a pattern here I want to finish, but I can talk just the same. Yes, I took up geneology after my eighth come, and I been studying it off and on ever since. After I'd had five I knew I had to do some- thing to talie my mind off 'n 'em. First it was verbenas. 1 had fifty-nine varieties of verbenas growin' in my garden at the same time, and I could tell you the names of every one of 'em, popular and botanical. Then it began to get crowded keepin' them in the house over winter, so I took up geneology. That's lasted me all through the whole ten, and now that the girls are all away and doin' their own sewin', I been joinin' the societies. I belonged to eleven one time, but 1 dropped the sewing circle and the Willing Workers. I'd had them two societies of my own right at home ever since I was married, and I didn't feel like payin' dues to 'em. That's what I come to see about today. Do you know any more 'round here I could join? Debokah. Societies ? Mrs. W. Yes, Daughters or Dames or somethin' like that. I belong to all there is out in Illinois. I'm four Daughters, a Mayflower Descendant, and a Colonial Dame now, not countin' Royal Neighbors and such. But I heard there was lots of historical societies around here, and I thought I'd come out to-day and ask about 'em — I'm visitin' my fourth over in Boston. There's the Society of Collegiate Alumnises, but I don't know as I care much about that. I joined the New England Historic Geneological Society yes- terday, and 1 sent my application in to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences — thought maybe I could tell them something about verbenas. I'd like to join the Daughters of Maine — I was down in Maine once; I liked it real well — and the Daughters of Sons of Veterans. Where do they meet ? Deborah (c). But you weren't borne in Maine ! Mrs. W. Oh, no, but I thought I'd like to be another Daughter. I'm a Daughter of the American Revolution, Daughter of Vermont, Daughter of Early Immigrants to Southern Illinois — Egypt, some folks call it — and a King's Daughter, but I thought I'd like to join some more. Deborah {Jielplessly^. Don't you want to see the relics? Mrs. W. No, I don't care much about relics. Unless you got some good crochet patterns, crochet or tattin'. I'm sort of vvorkin' into crochet now I've joined most of the BETTY S ANCESTORS 17 societies. I never finish anything, you know, just get pat- terns. {The bell rings S) There, you're goin' to have com- pany. {Puts up her ^vork.) Well, if you see any of them Austin Wellingtons when you go back to Maine you might say you met me, but they aren't any kin to my husband's family because I looked up the whole outfit in the {Her 7vords trail off into incoherence as she a?id Deborah go down the hall. After a moment, Deborah appears, standing stiffly in the doorway and pointing into the room.^ Deborah. Yes, ma'am. This is the house of the poet Winslow, and unfortunately it is open to the general public. And this is the poet's study where he wrote "Lines to a Purple Flower " and it is supported by the State Historical Society, and if you care to see the relics — come in ! {She steps aside, and Miss Elvira J. Moore, 0/ Indiana, appears i?t her place.) Miss Moore. Humph ! This is it, is it ? {She looks sharply around the room as if each object Were a pupil whom she had under her eye; tlien produces tlie guide-book and reads. ^ "Here may be seen the study of the poet where for many years he lived and wrote ; and where are preserved interesting relics of the Winslow family dating as far back as the times of Col. George Winslow, of the Continental army, who gave the mansion to his daughter Letitia, on the oc- casion of her marriage to Ephraim Huntington. The relics are in charge of the poet's granddaughter, and may be seen every Wednesday afternoon " Are you the poet's granddaughter ? Deborah {glaring^. I am not ! Miss Moore {also glaring'). Well, I'm sure I'm not ! Deborah. I'm sure it's a matter of entire indifference to me vvho you are ! Miss Moore. And I'm sure it would not inconvenience me in the least if you did not so much as exist ! Wh;it 1 am interested in is these relics. I came all the way from In- diana to visit spots of historical interest, and I'm going to see every spot within thirty miles or know the reason why. That's what the school board sent me for. They snid, " Miss Moore " — my name is Elvira J. Moore — " we've de- led to separate the eighth grade from the seventh, and we i8 Betty's ancestors haven't a teacher in the building that we'd trust with it but you. Now," they says, " if there's anything you want to get started with — in reason — in reason — ^just you feel free to name it." I says, "Mr. Winter" — he's been boss of that board for the last twenty years — but I gave him the shock of his life that day — I says, " Mr. Winter, there's just one thing, and that's history. Not dates ; I've got dates all right, and names and battles and generals 3 but what 1 want is background. I want to get up before my class and say, ' Here. You lake from page eighteen to the end of the chapter to-morrow and you learn it. And everything you find in there is so — because I've seen the place where it hap- pened ! ' Now," I says, " that's what I want to tell those youngsters ; and I want you to pay half my expenses while I goon a two weeks' trip visiting historical spots in the East." Well — I thought it would kill him. He says, " I meant blackboards and erasers and — and maybe a map or two." But he came 'round. Oh, you bet he did I I've known Frank Winter for the last twenty-five years, and if his wife knew him half as well as I do she wouldn't be wearing her Grandmother Perkins' black silk, turned, on Sundays. What's that ? Deborah {snapping'). A lantern. Miss Moore. A lantern ? What lantern ? Deborah. The lantern that Col. George Winslow carried when he went to the Boston Tea Party — several years before you were born. Miss Moore. Humph ! Deborah. Anything else you would like to know? Miss Moore. Nothing that you could tell me ! Deborah. I'm obliged to you, ma'am ! Miss Moore. I shall go immediately to the Fopp's Hill Burying Ground ! Deborah. You couldn't do anything that would please me better ! Miss Moore. Humph ! {She marches to the door, stops, and turns back for a parting sJtot.') There isn't a relic in the place that I'd be seen carrying to a Salvation Army Rummage Sale ! (Exit, colors flying.') Deborah {glaring after her). Of all the natural, dyed- in-the-wool, pressed-down-and-running-over impudence ! BETTY S ANCESTORS IQ {She goes to door l., opens it aiid calls. ^ Bettina, if you tlon't get down here and attend to tliese inflated question marks from the Mississippi Valley there'll be another Bat- tle of Bunker Hill right here ! {Slams the door.) " What lantern?" "Are you the poet's granddaughter?" She wouldn't dare go to a Salvation Army sale — though they'd have to put her in a surprise package, sight unseen, to get rid of her. {T/ie bell rings.) Another of 'em ! {She goes back to door L., and calls.') Bettina, there'll be mur- der committed if I have to see another of these Bettv {outside). Be there in a minute, Debbie. Deborah. Humph ! {She thro70S up her hands and marches to the hall door. A moment later a flutter of chatter, laughter, ladylike squeals, cries ofdelis^ht, etc. , are heard approaching doivii the hall, and the five Spayde sisters burst simultaneously into tlie room and stand with clasped hands.) The Spaydes {ecstatically). Oh — girls! Gertie. How sweet ! Eva. Too cute ! Imogen. Such a literary atmosphere ! The Twins. Say, ain't it grand ? All. Oh — girls ! Deborah. Oh — cat's foot ! Gertie {turning to her). Did you say the poet's study? Girls, the poet's study ! Eva {gushingly). What did he study ? Imogen. Eva Spayde — study! He created. Gertie. Cre-ated? Oh, yes, dear. {To Deborah.) Imogen is so literary ! The Twins (/^Deborah). Are you her? Imogen. Gertie — really! Did you hear that? "Are you her? " The Twins. Well, ain't that all right? Imogen. " Ain't ! " Ella. Well, what's hurting you ? Imogen. You talk so — common ! Bella. Piffle ! Gertie {shocked). Girls ! {To Deborah, apologetic- ally.) Imogen is so sensitive to language, and the twins are so impulsive ! 20 BETTY S ANCESTORS The Twins. We ain't, either ! We want to see Betty ! Deborah. You want to see Betty? The Twins (speaking alternately, and very fast'). Yes. Miss Bettina Winslow, grand Daughter of the Poet Winslow who in Herils much of his Charm of manner And the beauty of Her gieat-great-aunt Letitia, who Married Ephraim Huntington P'irst minister to the court of France- (^Together.') For further details see chapter entitled "Living Descendants of Our Illustrious Men." Ella. You left out "and is affectionately known as Betty to the large circle of friends " — and all that. Bella, I didn't no such thing ! That comes from "Living Descendants." Ella. Why, Bella Spayde ! Bella. It does, too ! Ella. I'm going to ask her ! Bella. Why, Ella Spayde ! Imogen. Gertie, can't you stop this wrangling? It is so common ! Gertie. Girls ! Eva. Oh, might we see the poet's granddaughter? Deborah. Well, I hope so — and pretty quick ! (She goes to the door L., and calls.) Bettina ! There's a picnic party here that wants to see a Living Descendant ! Betty (otttside). Yes, Debbie. {\)YX,o\