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DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
DRAMATIC STORIES 
 
 HOME AND SCHOOL ENTERTAINMENT. 
 
 BY 
 
 LAVINIA HOWE PHELPS. 
 
 'J. good deed is the only vessel that will hold a heavenly joy."— Rev. C. Giles. 
 
 CHICAGO: 4 
 S. C. GRIGGS & COMPANY. 
 
 1874. 
 
M 
 
 Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
 
 S. C. GRIGGS & CO., 
 in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 This book is presented to the young, irrespective 
 of the years they have lived, with the hope that it 
 may afford them many an evening's pleasant enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 L. H. P. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 i. The Mantle of Charity 13 
 
 2. A Picnic --- - 26 
 
 3. Candy - Pulling 38 
 
 4. A Golden Wedding - 63 
 
 5. The Dandy Prince 78 
 
 6. Shenstone Society . 89 
 
 7. Bringing Back the Sunshine 98 
 
 8. The Bumblebee 109 
 
 9. Am I One? 118 
 
 10. The Birch 132 
 
 11. The Gold Snuff-Box _. 142 
 
 12. Catnip Tea 154 
 
 13. What Makes a Man? .. 167 
 
 14. Morning and Night 175 
 
 15. The Bootblack 185 
 
 16. Blind Eva 196 
 
 17. The May- Basket Army 204 
 
 18. A Game of Nuts 211 
 
 19. The Kernel of Corn .. 219 
 
 20. The Pocket -Book 226 
 
 21. The Tangled Thread 232 
 
 22. Sorrowing Nettie 237 
 
 23. What Christmas Means 241 
 
 24. Three Ways of Keeping Christmas 247 
 
 25 A Substantial Christmas Wish 254 
 
 26. A Christmas Address 261 
 
"In all the plans of education, the main point is, that it should be a 
 beatitude ! * * * * * 
 
 "All literature, art, science, are vain, and worse, if they do not enable 
 us to be glad — glad justly ! " — Ruskin. 
 
 "Truths are introduced into the memory by their pleasures and 
 delights." — Swedenborg. 
 
 "The highest use of art — in its dramatic illustrations of truth — con- 
 sists in working out a recreation and a joy." 
 
 " I do n't like to read about things, I like to see them," said Betsey 
 Brown. " If Sally Grumble has a Christmas tree full of nice presents, I 
 should like to see it ; and if grandma has a 'golden wedding,' with a 
 wreath of orange flowers over her gray hair, I should like to see that too." 
 
 You are a wise girl, Betsey Brown. Seeing is more satisfactory than 
 hearing. Invite a company of friends to visit you, then play " The Game 
 of Nuts," and you can see poor Sally's joy when she learns she has friends ; 
 and a little playful ingenuity will introduce to your parlor, grandma with 
 her gray hair wreathed in orange flowers. 
 
THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 
 
 Mary Morn, Mrs. Hill, 
 
 Anna Tibbets, Bennie, her little Son, 
 
 Elsey Green, Sheriff. 
 
 Carl Green, 
 
 Mary Morn and Anna Tibbets. (Mary is sorrowfully examining i 
 a large picture she holds in her hand.) 
 
 Anna. Mary, there is no question about the wicked 
 girl that spoiled your picture. I would go immediately 
 and show it to the teacher, and have her disgraced. 
 
 Mary. No, Anna, I will not do that ; I will just lay 
 my picture one side and let it rest till after the examina- 
 tion, then begin a new one. I do not care about the 
 prize, but I do care about having a perfect picture, for 
 I intend to make a Christmas present of it. 
 
 Anna. You ought to expose Elsey. If she had 
 daubed my picture over as she has yours, I would pull 
 every hair out of her head. I would never forgive her. 
 
 Mary. Anna, do you remember those sweet lines 
 of the poet ? 
 
 " Think gently of the erring ! 
 Ye know not of the power 
 With which the dark temptation came, 
 In some unguarded hour. 
 
 13 
 
14 . DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Ye may not know how earnestly 
 
 They struggled, or how well. 
 Until the hour of weakness came, 
 
 And sadly thus they fell. 
 
 " Think gently of the erring ! 
 
 Oh do not thou forget, 
 However darkly stained by >in, 
 
 He is thy brother yet ; 
 Heir of the self-same heritage ! 
 
 Child of the self-same God ! 
 He hath but stumbled in the path 
 
 Thou hast in weakness trod. 
 
 '• Speak gently to the erring ! 
 
 For is it not enough 
 That innocence and peace have gone 
 
 Without thy censure rough? 
 It sure must be a weary lot, 
 
 That sin-crushed heart to bear, 
 And they who share a happier fate, 
 
 Their chidings well may spare. 
 
 4 Speak kindly to the erring ! 
 
 Thou yet may'st lead them back, 
 With holy words, and tones of love, 
 
 From misery's thorny track. 
 Forget not thou hast often sinned, 
 
 And sinful yet must be — 
 Deal gently with the erring one, 
 
 As God hast dealt with thee." 
 
 Anna. The poetry is very pretty. Mary; but poetry 
 and practical life are two things. 
 
 Mary. AVe make them so — but they should be one. 
 Think what a heaven wo would have on earth if this 
 beautiful poem of Miss Fletcher's lived in the hearts of 
 
 the people ! 
 
 Anna. Thinking kindly of the erring would not tun: 
 
THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 15 
 
 them from their errors. Speaking kindly to them would 
 not save them from rushing madly downward to meet 
 the hellish troupe waiting to receive them. 
 
 Mary. It would do much to keep them back, Anna : 
 love, and charity the form of love, has a mighty power ; 
 but the world has not faith in it. When a weak brother 
 or sister falls, how often do we see the world set its 
 heel upon them and hold them down. " Beelzebub can 
 never destroy Beelzebub." 
 
 Anna. But a stronger Beelzebub can keep a weaker 
 one under control. 
 
 Mary. Yes, that may be ; and that is the limit of 
 the dark one's power. How different is the office of 
 charity! It gently binds, while it gives freedom; it 
 forces no control, but it imparts of its own beautiful life 
 an influence that helps to change desire. 
 
 Anna. Your words sound musical, Mary. I feel an 
 influence from your life that I do not understand. There 
 is a great difference between us. As I said about Elsey, 
 if she had daubed my picture as she did yours, I would 
 pull her hair all out of her head. I would n't stand it. 
 
 Mary. If Elsey were the one that spoiled my picture 
 
 Anna. You need not say if she were the one — 
 everybody knows she was the one. 
 
 Mary. I do not like to believe it. 
 
 Anna. But your picture is spoiled, and some wicked 
 hand spoiled it. Why not believe it of Elsey as easily 
 as of any one else ? 
 
 [Enter Elsey Green.] 
 
 Elsey. Mary Morn, I heard your picture was spoiled ; 
 
l(j DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 is it true? [Mary unrolls her picture.'] O, that is too 
 bad! Your picture was so perfect. I have watched 
 us progress daily, and admired your delicate shading. 
 
 Anna. We all know you have watched its progress 
 daily. 1 suppose now the gold medal will be yours : but 
 it rightly belongs to Mary, as the whole school knows. 
 
 ELSEY. Yes, it belongs to Mary; but her beautiful 
 picture ! Who could have spoiled it in this way ? 
 
 Anna. You are the last one that should inquire, 
 
 Elsey. 
 
 Elsey. Mary has no friend that can sympathize with 
 her more deeply than I do. For I am a lover of beauti- 
 ful pictures. I know a good one and appreciate it. 
 Mary's was the only one in school better than mine. I 
 have watched it, and done my best to come up to it, 
 and have failed. 
 
 Anna. And there was but one way left for you 
 
 MARY. Hush! Anna, hush! "Speak gently!" 
 "Think kindly!" 
 
 Anna. I despise hypocrites! I can 't tolerate then- 
 presence. 
 
 Elsey. Anna Tibbets, you had better turn your 
 face to the wall. I despise your mean, suspicious eve. 
 1 understand your base insinuations; they reveal the 
 black heart from which they spring. 1 will exchange 
 no word with you. 
 
 Anna. That is well, since my eye is too keen lor 
 you to deceive. Words exchanged with you would be 
 useless. 
 
 ELSEY. Turn your face to the wall— 1 would not 
 
 look upon it. 
 
THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 17 
 
 Anna. Leave this room, base hypocrite ! 
 
 Elsey. I will turn my back upon you while I speak 
 to Mary. Twenty gold medals would I give, if I had 
 them, to restore the beauty of your picture. 
 
 Anna. The thing you have done you can 't undo. 
 
 Mary. Anna, why will you ? Your hard words mar 
 the beauty of your life. There is more than one picture 
 spoiled this morning. Throw over your shoulders the 
 mantle of charity. 
 
 Anna. The mantle of charity would not become me 
 in this case. Truth should be wielded fearlessly, even 
 if it cuts to the quick. 
 
 Mary. Elsey, do not feel disturbed. Innocence 
 will protect itself. I accept your sympathy for the loss 
 of my picture, and congratulate you on the evening's 
 honor. 
 
 Elsey. The medal is yours, Mary Morn; I could 
 not receive it. But let me ask you one question, what 
 do you suppose led Anna Tibbets to daub your picture 
 over in this manner ? If she had done the same thing 
 to mine, I would pour molten lead into her eyes. She 
 should never see to daub another. 
 
 Mary. O, Anna didn't do it. Nobody did it. Did 
 you read in the paper this morning the account of a 
 fiery serpent writhing himself in our atmosphere ? 
 
 Elsey. Yes. What do you think of it ? 
 
 Mary. I think he spit some of his venom upon my 
 picture, and spoiled it, and there is no use in talking 
 any more about it. The thing is done and can 't be 
 helped. 
 
 Elsey. That may be true, Mary ; but he used some 
 
18 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 mortal's hand to do his work of deviltry. Now. we will 
 
 not rest until we find that hand and sever it from the 
 
 wrist. 
 
 Anna. We might as well cut yours off at once then, 
 
 Elsey. 
 
 ELSEY. We'll take yours first, Anna: and when 
 the serpent uses mine in that wicked way. I will will- 
 ingly make the sacrifice. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Hill with her little boy.~\ 
 
 Mrs. Hill. Mary, I heard this morning of your 
 spoiled picture. I regret it deeply. Can I do anything 
 to restore its beauty? 
 
 Mary. Nothing, Mrs. Hill. It is irreparably <_ 
 A sad disappointment came over me for a moment, 
 but it has passed away. 
 
 Elsfa\ Nothing remains now to be done hut to 
 punish the offender. The hand that spoiled Man's 
 picture shall be severed from the wrist. 
 
 ANNA. Mrs. Hill, have you a sharp knife with you? 
 We might as well proceed at once to the work. I will 
 do the job. I detest hypocrites. 
 
 Elsey. Turn your face to the wall, Anna Tibbets. 
 
 M \nv. Mrs. Hill, we want no sharp knife, but we 
 all want the beautiful and comfortable -Mantle of 
 
 Charity." ' 
 
 MRS. TTh>l. The severe penalty passed upon the 
 
 offender startles me, for my sweet boy must make the 
 
 sacrifice, Bennie, darling, go hold up your little baud 
 
 to Anna. 
 
 (Bennie' % little hand is full of flowers. Ee offers them 
 to Mary. She takes them, A-/— the hand, then looks at 
 
THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 19 
 
 it — she looks at Ms white apron all soiled with paint; 
 then unrolls her picture and holds it near him. He kisses 
 it, rubs his hands over it, then wipes it with his apron. 
 Now he looks into Marys face. Bennie says, " Me love 
 the pretty baby.") 
 
 Mary. (Kisses him?) Beautiful innocence ! You 
 love my picture ! You have loved it to death. Precious 
 hand ! Go, throw over Anna's shoulder the mantle of 
 charity. 
 
 Anna. Come, Bennie. I am humbled. I need it. 
 
 Mrs. Hill. Mary, I am sadly distressed for the loss 
 of your picture. Forgive my carelessness. Last evening 
 I let Bennie come into the hall with Jane to amuse 
 themselves. I did not think he could do any mischief. 
 When he came home he was daubed over with paint. 
 Jane had been interested in her book, and could give 
 no account of where he got it. I tried to wash it from 
 his hand, but he fought me away, saying, "No, no; 
 Bennie love it." So I put my darling to bed with the 
 mark upon him ; and here he is now. I commend him 
 to your mercy. 
 
 Mary. The darling ! I forgive him. His love for 
 my picture is unmistakable. His innocence shields him 
 from guilt. The baby artist ! He destroys now, but 
 when the wisdom of years rests upon him, he will 
 create. 
 
 Mrs. Hill. Bennie, kiss Mary, and say " I 'm sorry." 
 
 (He kisses her, and tries to take the picture from her 
 hand.) 
 
 Mary. Blessed boy ! I will paint you a prettier one 
 than this. 
 
20 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mrs. Hill. We must go. Good-bye. [Exit. 
 
 Ya BEY. And I, too, must go. I only came in to 
 sympathize with you in your loss. I have already stayed 
 too long. [ Exit ELSEY. 
 
 Anna. T have been hasty, Mary; but who would 
 have thought little Bennie Hill did the mischief? 
 
 Mary. No one could think it ; but we could all 
 withhold censure until Ave were quite sure of the one 
 that merited it, and even then we should speak it gently. 
 Reproof given in love has a softening influence. 
 
 Anna. Mary, have you heard the report that is flying 
 through the country about Elsey's brother ( 'ail ? 
 
 Mary. No. What is it? 
 
 Anna. Mr. Churchill has lost five thousand dollars 
 from his office. Carl was the only one in there the day 
 it disappeared. Then you know he started that same 
 night in a great hurry for Kansas. I suppose there is 
 not much doubt but he took it. Circumstances are 
 strongly against him. 
 
 Mary. O, Anna, do not be so ready to believe those 
 slanderous reports! Wait for a better proof than cir- 
 cumstances. Always stand on the side of innocence — 
 hope for it; plead for it. Carl loves fun. and sometimes 
 noes too far, but he is not a thief. I will stand by him 
 in this dark hour. 
 
 Anna. And suppose lie is guilty? 
 
 Mary. If he is guilty he must be punished. T do 
 not believe he is guilty, so we will not talk of punish- 
 ment. 
 
 Anna. Circumstances are against him, and we may 
 as well look things in the face. Somebody has taken 
 the money. 
 
THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 21 
 
 Mary. Be it so ; and let us feel pity, 
 
 " For sure it must be a weary lot, 
 The sin-stained heart to bear." 
 
 [Enter Carl.] 
 
 Carl. Is Elsey here ? 
 
 Mary. She was here a moment since. 
 
 Carl. Where is she now ? Tell me quick. I am 
 in a fearful haste. 
 
 Mary. What has happened, Carl ? 
 
 Carl. Five hundred dollars reward offered for my 
 head. Telegrams are flying all over the country ; one 
 met me in Kansas. I did not wait for a stranger to lay 
 hands on me. I flew home. I must see Elsey. The 
 sheriffs are all awake. I have no time to lose. Any 
 moment one of them may be upon me. 
 
 Mary. What can Elsey do for you ? 
 
 Carl. I will yield myself into her hands. She may 
 give me to the sheriff and claim the reward. You know 
 mother is poorer than poverty itself. If I am buried in 
 prison she would suffer. Tell me, where is Elsey ? 
 
 Mary. I don't know, Carl; but answer me one 
 question, Did you steal the money ? 
 
 Carl. Give me your hand, Mary. Over this I 
 swear I never touched the money. Your hand, to me, 
 Mary, is as sacred as the Bible. But where shall I find 
 Elsey ? If I meet a sheriff on the street the money is 
 lost. 
 
 Mary. Can I help you ? 
 
 Carl. Yes ; accept me as your prisoner. Put me 
 somewhere under guard, and then go claim the reward 
 for my mother. 
 
22 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mary. I'll do it, Carl. 
 
 Anna. 1 hear the sheriff's heavy tread now ; he has 
 got track of yon. 
 
 Mary. Run, Carl, into this side room. 
 [Enter Sheriff.] 
 
 Sheriff. Miss Morn, is Elsey Green here ? 
 
 Mary. She was here a few minutes ago, but is not 
 now. 
 
 Sheriff. I suppose she knows where her brother is ? 
 
 Mary. She did not speak of him. I do not think 
 she knows there is any charge against him. I am sorry 
 suspicion has fallen upon poor Carl. I believe he is 
 innocent. The family are Very poor. They cannot 
 well afford to have him pay the penalty of the guilty. 
 
 Sheriff. I have considered the poverty of the 
 family. I know them well. Mrs. Green is in poor 
 health. I thought if Elsey knew her brother's where- 
 abouts, she mio-ht be induced to tell me and secure the 
 reward for her mother. 
 
 Mary. Do you think Elsey would betray her brother 
 for five hundred dollars? 
 
 Sheriff. Some one will; and I feel pity for the 
 family, and would like to manage the matter so that 
 they might have the reward. 
 
 Mary. But Carl did n't take the money. 
 
 Sheriff. That isn't my business. I am to 6nd him. 
 
 Mary. Sheriff, 1 know his hiding place. It' I reveal 
 it to you, will you trust the live hundred dollars in my 
 hand for his mother? 
 
 Sheriff. I will. 
 
 MARY. I have your promise; and here is Anna, she 
 
 will he witness to the agreement. 
 
THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 23 
 
 Sheriff. I accept Anna as witness. (Takes a paper 
 and pencil from his pocket.) Please write his present 
 address on this card. 
 
 (Mary writes and gives to the Sheriff.') 
 
 Sheriff (reads). "In the side room of the house 
 we now occupy." What does this mean, Miss Morn? 
 
 Mary. It means he is here. Shall I bring him for- 
 ward ? But is the reward sure ? 
 
 Sheriff. Bring him forward, and the reward is 
 sure ! 
 
 (Mary opens the door. Carl ivalks in.) 
 
 Sheriff. What does this mean ? Have you not 
 been in Kansas? 
 
 Carl. Yes ; and I met one of the flying telegrams 
 there, and hastened home to respond in person to the 
 friendly call. I am- at your service, Sheriff. 
 
 Sheriff. All right. You are the boy we want. 
 The law must have its course ; and we '11 hope to prove 
 you innocent. 
 
 Carl. I will trust for that. I had a dream last 
 night. I saw Mr. Churchill's money crowded down 
 into the back side of his drawer. I believe it is there 
 now. 
 
 Mary. I believe so too. Sheriff, please leave Carl 
 in my keeping while you make the search. 
 
 Sheriff. That will not do. I would trust you, but 
 the law is between us. 
 
 {Enter Elsey.] 
 
 Elsey. O, brother Carl ! you here ? What sent you 
 home ? 
 
 Carl. I came to secure five hundred dollars to you 
 
24 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 and mother. T Ve accomplished my object. The money 
 is pledged to Mary. I have had the honor of being her 
 
 prisoner. She has delivered me into the sheriff's hands. 
 
 Elsey. O, Mary ! 
 
 Mary. He compelled me to it. But he is innocent, 
 Elsey, and your poor mother will have the five hundred 
 dollars. I know he is innocent. 
 
 Elsey. Of course he is innocent — my brother is 
 innocent; and Mary Morn, with her mantle of charity 
 on, can see it. What does cloudy Anna think? 
 
 Anna. Forgive me, Elsey, I will hope for the best. 
 
 Elsey. The mantle of hope is a little in advance of 
 the serpentine one you had on an hour ago. 
 
 Sheriff. (Places his hand on CarVs shoulder.) 
 Come, my boy, I have no time to lose. 
 
 Elsey. Hands off, Mr. Sheriff. My innocent brother 
 does not walk one step with you. (Takes from her 
 pocket a paper and reads.) 
 
 " Mrs. Green : I am happy to inform you the lost money is found. 
 I regret the hasty step I have taken, and will try to make proper amends 
 to you and your boy. I found the money crowded tightly into the- luck 
 side of my drawer. — E. Churchill." 
 
 Now, Mr. Sheriff, with all due respeel to your office, 
 we discharge you. 
 
 Sheriff. My business is not settled yet. 1 am 
 bound to Miss Mary for five hundred dollars, which I 
 now pay her. I want a receipt for it. Master ( 'ail must 
 accompany me to Mr. Churchill's office and receive an 
 apology from him. I will put no handcuffs on him. 
 Come along. [Exeunt Sheriff and Carl. 
 
 Elsey. The fiery serpent has twice coiled himself 
 
THE MANTLE OP CHARITY. 25 
 
 about our humble home to-day, but some good power 
 has foiled his purpose. 
 
 Mary. You know it is written in the Book of Books, 
 "He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep 
 thee." Let us ever trust that promise. 
 
 Elsey. Mary, I have a little trust. We sometimes 
 see ourselves so wonderfully protected — yes, many 
 times ; but, on the whole, life is dark and cold. 
 
 Mary. Wrap about you " The Mantle of Charity," 
 and you will find it very warm [Curtain falls. 
 
A PICNIC. 
 
 (Tijatartcrs : 
 
 Sarah Earl, Agnes Lane, Rosie Bright, 
 
 Gracie Dow, Susan Darling, Harry 1 
 
 Sidney Field and Frank Simpson. 
 
 All present but Gracie. Sarah Earl sits at the table, as the presiding 
 genius of the evening, with a pencil in her hand and a sheet of paper 
 on the table. Her head and one shoulder are wreathed in flowers. 
 Her guests arc standing with hats on. 
 
 Sarah (rising). My friends, I am delighted to see 
 you this evening. My heart beats warmly in anticipa- 
 tion of our picnic feast. I am a little impatienl at 
 Grade's tardiness. Shall Ave begin to unpack our 
 baskets, or shall we wait for her? 
 
 Many Voices. Wait. 
 
 Agnes. She will living us something worth the 
 waiting. Gracie is always tardy on all occasions when 
 she is particularly wanted ; but, when she conns, we 
 find her ready. 
 
 HaEBY. Yes. Gracie will lie fresh. She always puts 
 spice into her dishes. 
 
 | EwterGuACiE in haste, swinging //< r hat by the string.] 
 
 26 
 
A PICNIC. 27 
 
 Gracie. Excuse me ; I am sorry to have kept you 
 waiting. 
 
 Sarah. We will hear your apologj^. 
 
 Gracie. Is there no excusing me without it? 
 
 Many Voices. None — none. 
 
 Gracie. Then, the truth I will tell you, though I 
 speak it with shame. I have a place for everything, 
 but everything isn't in its place; and when I wanted 
 to start for this golden picnic, my gloves were nowhere 
 — and this means, nowhere that I could find them. So 
 I took Lottie's mittens, as you see. (Holding up her 
 hands.) Then our pet dog, Carlo, had treated himself 
 to a frolic with my new knit overshoes, which I had 
 left lying in the corner, so I had to wait to warm my 
 rubbers. Then I coasted on the way only half a 
 minute. 
 
 Sarah. The beautiful garb of truth is the only 
 salient point in your apology. Our judgment will not 
 be tempered with much mercy in your case. You would 
 not like to be called dishonest, and I am sure there is 
 not much honesty in robbing your friends of some of 
 the precious moments that make up life. As a penalty 
 for your fault, we call upon you for the first dish, and 
 that must be an impromptu poem. 
 
 Gracie. Queen of the Feast! you are very severe. 
 Poor me give an impromptu poem ! And simply because 
 I robbed you of a few moments of time. I appeal to 
 your people. Let your Queen revoke her command. 
 
 All. Never — -never! Her word is law. 
 
 Sarah. Miss Gracie will please bring her dish round 
 to the center of the circle, that each guest may receive 
 
28 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 a generous share. Here, take my place. (Sarah step* 
 as de to make room for her. Grade tah % her place.) 
 
 Gracie. Our Queen has complimented me very 
 slightly, once this evening, od speaking truth. Being 
 
 most desirous for her continued approbation, the truth 
 again 1 will speak, although the doing it draws severely 
 on my very sensitive nerves. You will appreciate, I 
 
 trust, the effort it costs me, since it is but the laving 
 my dear self upon the altar for sacrifice : 
 
 " We have no right to others' time, 
 Our promise we should keep ; 
 Thus, pardon me, good friends and kind — 
 Pardon — or I must weep. 
 
 " Some little minutes you have lost, 
 While I my gloves did seek ; 
 Then Carlo took my shoes in sport, 
 And spoiled them in his freak. 
 
 " So rubbers I must wait to warm, 
 And minutes flew away ; 
 Then coasting offered such a charm, 
 I yielded to its sway. 
 
 " But we 've no right to others' fime, 
 Our promise we should keep ; 
 Please pardon me. good friends and kind, 
 Pardon — or I must weep." 
 
 (All greatly applaud.) 
 SARAH. Pardon is granted. You have generously 
 canceled your obligation to us. Now, whose basket 
 
 shall we peep into next? 
 
 Harry. 1 wish ii might he mine. You all know I 
 am but "poor scholar," and sweep the school-room to 
 
A PICNIC. 29 
 
 pay my tuition bill. My braiu is as poor as my purse. 
 The teacher says, there is only one bump on it that will 
 pay for a college life ; so you see my choice of viands 
 for this picnic has been limited, and the dry bone I 
 bring you to pick, should be presented while the appe- 
 tite is keen from fasting. Do not infer from these 
 remarks that I undervalue Grade's savory dish. On 
 the contrary, 't is that which urges me to present mine 
 at an early hour. 
 
 Frank, the Farmer. I have no petition to make to 
 our kind hostess, but would simply suggest to her good 
 sense, the propriety of a farmer's dish next. 
 
 Sarah. The farmer's dish we will receive, hoping 
 it will strengthen the ultimates of life, so that we may 
 be able, later in the evening, to digest the wisdom of 
 our modest student. 
 
 Harry. I must abide the decision of our Queen. 
 Since she has denied my first wish, let me speak a second 
 one : let my offering be the dessert — a nut to crack. 
 
 Sarah. Very appropriate there. Will our Farmer 
 take his place here ? (He changes places with G-racie.~) 
 (Farmer places upon the table a iving.) 
 QAll smile.) 
 
 Agnes. We expected you would bring us some 
 cabbage and potatoes. 
 
 Gracie. No ; we expected a drove of pigs driven 
 in here. I heard them squeal a moment ago. 
 
 Farmer. Well, I have disappointed you both. A 
 farmer has to take everything in its season. He can 't 
 make hay in December, nor drive pigs to market in the 
 evening. What is in my mind to-day I have brought 
 
30 DRAMATIC STORIES. , 
 
 you. A farmer raises poultry, as well as pigs. I had 
 some hundred of the Shanghai hens — not to name the 
 crowers — and every morning, when I went to give them 
 their breakfast, I would find some of them missing. I 
 suspected a thief had found an entrance into my yard, 
 so I set a trap for him in the evening. In the early 
 morning a large cat owl, caught by one leg, was making 
 strenuous exertions to gain her liberty. I rushed for- 
 ward exultantly, exclaiming, " Rogue ! Thief! I have 
 you at last." Poor owl seated herself in the quietude 
 of despair, then fixed her great, round eyes upon me 
 reproachfully, and said, "'Tis true, you have meat 
 last. I am your captive. But don't be in haste to 
 finish your work of destruction — 
 
 *' But listen to me — for hear me ye must — 
 An innocent owl ye have laid in the dust ; 
 Thy ruthless hand hath determined my fate, 
 And plunged in despair my desolate mate. 
 
 " To ease your conscience, sir farmer, do ye say, 
 Thrice on your hens I ventured to prey? 
 The charge I admit — to the deed I had right, 
 For nature hath formed me to plunder by night. 
 
 " Ah, here is the rub — for the sake of poached egg, 
 You contrived to catch poor owl by the leg ; 
 But the deed is done, so me ye may roast, 
 And, in the meantime, I will drink you a toast : 
 
 " Here is hoping my mate will eat, by fourscore, 
 The very best hens that feed by your door ; 
 Here is hoping again, your hens will ne'er lay — 
 Never more may you find a nest in the hay." 
 
 This speech of my captive, with her fright and the 
 great exertions she had made to gain her liberty, was 
 
A PICNIC. 31 
 
 too much. Poor owl tumbled upon her back, and when 
 I cut the cord that bound her, she was no more — I held 
 in my hand a lifeless form, covered with feathers. Her 
 wing I bring, as an offering, to the picnic. 
 
 Agnes. 'T was too bad to kill such a sensible owl. 
 What a sense of justice she showed ! 
 
 Gracie. She showed a vindictive spirit. What a 
 severe toast she drank for jout benefit, Frank. I do 
 not think she was prepared to die. You should have 
 given her time for repentance. 
 
 Frank. She was too quick for me. I had cut her 
 prison-cord, and was just going to whistle the air of 
 " Liberty," when she fell into so sound a sleep I could 
 not wake her. She hurried off. I do not think she 
 had it in her heart to forgive me. 
 
 Susie. And she could not, Frank. Poor owl was 
 never born into the light of forgiveness. She was true 
 to her instinct. Let us be as true to our reason. Catty 
 owl had large, leaden eyes ; she could not raise them 
 to heaven, and learn the angelic lesson of overcoming 
 evil with good. Such wisdom is in reserve for us. We 
 have eyes of light that can traverse the world of mind. 
 
 Rosie. O, yes, Susie ; and we know right from 
 wrong — good from evil. And we can see the true and 
 the beautiful. Look at these flowers ! {Holds up her 
 bouquet.) 
 
 Sarah. We are greatly indebted to our farmer 
 friend. And now, if our traveler from the north will 
 raise the lid of his basket, we are prepared for another 
 treat. Mr. Field, will he walk this way ? 
 
 (Mr. Field lays upon the table a very small 
 phial of water.) 
 
32 DR AMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Gracie. O, Mr. Field, you have brought us a bottle 
 of Homoeopathic medicine. Who did you think was 
 sick ? 
 
 Mr. Field. I did not think any one was sick. We 
 were all to bring something of that which interested us 
 most, as our farmer said, to-day. So I have brought 
 you some water from the Falls of Niagara. 
 
 Rosie. O, traveler, did n't you break the Falls in 
 bringing such a bountiful fountain to our picnic? 
 
 Mr. Field. Do n't ridicule me, flower girl, till you 
 have knelt in reverence at the base of God's great 
 waters. This little phial holds all that I could bring 
 away; but the mighty whole is there. It was there — 
 it is there — it will be there forever. We, puny children, 
 come and go ; the great Falls, never. In their diamond 
 light, their rainbow circle, their perpetual motion, Ave 
 see the image of Him who holds their power in the hol- 
 low of His hand; and who is the same to-day, yester- 
 day, and forever. 
 
 Rosie. But, Mr. Field, you should have written a 
 poem there, for our picnic. Everybody that goes to 
 the Niagara Falls must write a poem. I have mine 
 half written now. 
 
 Mr. Field. Well, I advise you to burn it up, to 
 save yourself the blush that will mantle your cheek 
 when you stand before the great reality. But, I have 
 my poem. The very small phial of water I brought 
 away is typical of it: 
 
 " Thousands have come, beheld, and gone, 
 With admiration drank their fill, 
 And thousands, thousands yet unborn, 
 Shall feast their souls upon thee still." 
 
A PICNIC. 33 
 
 Many Voices. You have done well, Mr. Traveler. 
 
 Susie. 'T is a little too condensed, but we accept it 
 with gratitude. 
 
 Sarah. Will our thinker, Miss Bright, give us her 
 dish? 
 
 (Susan takes the center, and lays a dry leaf 
 upon the table.) 
 
 Harry. That dry leaf looks rather dry. My hard, 
 dry nut might with propriety follow it. 
 
 Susan. Our modest "poor scholar" may see that 
 there is a lesson of wisdom to be drawn from a dry leaf. 
 Early in the autumn, when the bright red and the 
 beautiful yellow leaves were fast falling to the ground, 
 a sadness stole over my spirit, and I broke from our 
 cherry tree this dry, withering branch. Then I felt a 
 presence near me, and these words fell softly upon my 
 ear: 
 
 " Though leaves are falling, falling, falling everywhere, 
 All the sweetest blooms of spring, 
 That open when the robins sing, 
 Are on the apple, plum, and pear, 
 And the cherry pure and fair, 
 They are all close to the branches bare. 
 Just see the smoothly-rounded forms, 
 Safely shielded from all storms 
 In these glossy, bright, brown buds." 
 
 Here I ceased to listen, and fixed my eye intently on 
 the wonderful bud, in which lies, deeply and mysteriously 
 concealed, the luscious fruit. And I saw in the little 
 brown buds, 
 
 " Prophecies of gentle days, 
 Of violet-beds and wild-bird lays." 
 
34 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Then, though the leaves have fallen, fallen every- 
 where, 
 
 11 And the wind is chill and cold, 
 And the snow lies on the ground, 
 And the year is growing old, 
 And the fields are bare," 
 
 do they not tell us, in sweetest tones, that spring's fair 
 days will come again ? 
 
 " Days of bloom — warm days of light, 
 Sunny skies and waters bright, 
 Singing brooks and gentle showers, 
 Mossy banks and smiling flowers ; 
 Yes, all the budding branches sing, 
 Winter leads to smiling spring." 
 
 Rosie. O, Miss Bright, your dry branch has opened 
 to us worlds of hidden wisdom. Who could have thought 
 so much of life and beauty was concealed in those dry 
 buds ! 
 
 Sarah. Yes ; we are very much indebted to Miss 
 Bright for distilling such an odorous extract from a dry 
 branch. Will Agnes, our singing nursery girl, open 
 her basket for us next ? 
 
 Agnes. With much pleasure. {She lays a doll on 
 the table.) I knew } r ou would all laugh at my offering. 
 This doll is only a waxen representative of the living 
 beauties of which I shall speak : 
 
 1 Is there aught more fair than flowers 
 Blooming in the light of May? 
 Than the birdlings in the bowers, 
 Singing all their lives away? 
 
 " Is there aught that beams more brightly, 
 Than the sunlight on the sea ? 
 Is there aught that skips more lightly 
 Than the lambkin o'er the lea?" 
 
A PICNIC. 35 
 
 Yes, I know what is fairer and brighter than even 
 beautiful flowers and golden sunbeams ; and I know 
 what skips more lightly in their innocence than lamb- 
 kin's o'er the lea : 
 
 " Little babies — they were given 
 By the Father of us all, 
 As a link 'twixt earth and heaven, 
 After man's unhappy fall. 
 
 " Dimpled cheeks and rosy faces, 
 Silken hair and laughing eyes — 
 These are nature's finest traces, 
 Here her greatest beauty lies. 
 
 " Little babies ! Father, bless them, 
 Keep them safe from every harm ; 
 Holy angels, kindly press them 
 To your bosoms, soft and warm." 
 
 Well, I bring to the picnic the babies — the brightest 
 link between earth and heaven. 
 
 Sarah. The babies are very welcome to our feast. 
 It would not be full without them. Now we are ready 
 for our flower girl. Will Miss Rosie walk this way ? 
 
 Rosie. (Places on the table a bouquet.') My offering 
 unlike the others, needs no human voice to speak for it. 
 'Tis itself a beautiful poem. It has been said by some 
 one, that music is the voice of God, and poetry — His 
 language. I offer these flowers as the perfect embodi- 
 ment of both. 
 
 Sarah. Thank you, Rosie, we accept your fragrant 
 poem. Now we are ready for the dessert. Will our 
 modest " poor scholar " bring in his dish of nuts ? 
 
 Harry. I think we have had a sumptuous enter- 
 tainment this evening. We are all satisfied. We crave 
 
30 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 no more. Then, ladies and gentlemen, if yon will with- 
 draw, I will sweep, dust the room, and put things to 
 rights here. 
 
 Sarah. Not at all. Are we satisfied without our 
 dessert ? 
 
 Many Voices. Come this way. 
 
 Harry. In the presence of all the luxurious wealth 
 displayed here this evening, I feel myself more than 
 usually pinched with poverty. I have but one gift. 
 The gift of numbers is too dry for a social picnic. When 
 I was a very little child, and I sat upon my mother's 
 knee, she taught me to say, 
 
 " Twice one are two, twice two are four, 
 And six are three times two ; 
 Twice four are eight, twice five are ten — " 
 
 And more than this I can 't do, so please excuse me. 
 (He starts to leave.) 
 
 Many Voices. No, no; come back — come back. 
 
 Harry. (Lays a dead mouse upon the table. A 
 general laugh and applause.) Mathematics are abstract 
 numbers — dry bones — hard nuts to crack. 'T was not 
 an easy task, to find a suitable representative of what I 
 wish to say, to lay upon your table beside the flowers and 
 babies. (Takes his mouse and places it close to the flowers, 
 and then lags the doll the other side of it.) You see this 
 mouse, 't is a representative of a live animal of the same 
 species. You have read in natural history that another 
 species of animals, called cats, Lave a strong partiality 
 for these little defenceless creatures that wo call mice, 
 and they often lie in ambnsh for them in a sly manner 
 and catch them. Now the nut I give you to crack is 
 
a picnic. 37 
 
 this : Supposing three wicked cats could catch three 
 defenceless mice in three days, how many days would 
 it take a hundred cats to catch a hundred mice ? 
 
 Gracie. A hundred days. 
 
 Harry. You are cloyed with the rich variety of dishes 
 you have had this evening. I knew you could not 
 digest mine. 
 
 Many Voices. One hundred days, of course. 
 
 Harry. You are wrong. I appeal to the presiding 
 genius of the evening. 
 
 Sarah. {Takes pencil and paper a moment.^) If it 
 takes three cats three days to catch three mice, it must 
 take one cat three days to catch one mouse ; therefore, 
 it must take a hundred wicked cats three hundred days 
 to catch one hundred defenceless mice. Am I right? 
 
 Harry. You certainly are, and your manner of 
 cracking the nut must satisfactorily prove it to all. 
 Now, may I be excused ? I 've done my best. 
 
 Sarah. You are excused. Accept our thanks. The 
 first day of next month, I shall hope to see you all here 
 again, bringing any friend with you that may like to 
 come. 
 
 Harry. Let "poor scholar" sweep the room to pay 
 his tuition. [Curtain falls. 
 
CANDY -PULLING. 
 
 OTfjaractcrs : 
 
 Grantville Ames, Hannah Hugh, 
 
 Hettie, his Sister, Joshua Earle, 
 
 Myrtle Lane, Fordyce Dewey, 
 
 Kate North, Capt. Orson. 
 
 Grantyille Ames alone, walking the stage in an angry mood and 
 excited manner. 
 
 [Enter Ms Sister.] 
 
 Hettie. Grant., I am glad to find you here. We 
 want you in the dining-room. We have a gay party 
 there. 
 
 Grant. Go, and enjoy it, then, sister, and not come 
 here to invite a thunderbolt into your midst. 
 
 Hettie. But, we want you to enjoy it with us. 
 
 Grant. Not a bit of it. I 've no heart for sunshine 
 this evening. 
 
 Hettie. What's the matter, Grantie? You look 
 like night in the Polar regions. 
 
 Grant. Gentle sister, leave me. Go, enjoy your 
 gay friends. Do you hear the angry howling of con- 
 tending winds outside ? 
 
 Hettie. No. I \e no ear for the angry voice of the 
 
 38 
 
CANDY - PULLING. 39 
 
 winds. I hear only sweet melodies. Come, join us, 
 and we will put your harp in good tune. 
 
 Grant. Touch not my harp. 'T is tuned by furies. 
 I will fight them alone. Leave me, sister; seek the 
 the sunshine. 
 
 Hettie. I must leave you, Grant., for the girls will 
 wonder at my delay; but I wish you would join us. 
 We are having a great candy -pulling, and we want your 
 assistance. 
 
 Grant. I am having a candy -pulling too ; but I must 
 pull it alone. 
 
 Hettie. Let me help you. 
 
 Grant. You cannot. Your ear is tuned only to 
 harmony. Away — away ! 
 
 Hettie. I go, then, but unwillingly. [Exit. 
 
 Grant. {Takes a letter from the table and reads.') 
 
 " Our wise scheme for sudden riches has proved a bubble. The com- 
 pany burst the day after we joined it. What money we invested, the 
 devil has swallowed. All is gone." 
 
 Well, Dan. uses strong language ; and I'm in a mood 
 for it. I have listened to many lessons on the Divine 
 Providence ; but I doubt if there be such a thing. 
 Chance is king of the day and king of the night, and 
 the whimsical old fellow is beyond the reach of the 
 keenest intellect. Two men start on a journey together, 
 one is safely led to a mine of gold ; the other, full of 
 ideas and high aspirations, is left to struggle with grim 
 want. I believe nothing, only this : Every man has got 
 candy to pull, and he finds it hard work, for he is as 
 likely to pull the wrong way as the right. 
 \Enter Hettie, pulling candy. ~\ 
 
40 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Hettie. Come, brother Grantie ; you do n't know 
 how much we do want you to help us. We have got 
 lots of candy, and 'tis hard to pull. 
 
 Grant. Day and night, summer and winter, play 
 and work, — we have all got candy to pull. Sister, 
 doesn't the pulling of so much candy distract your 
 mind ? 
 
 Hettie. It tires my arm, and I want you to help us. 
 
 Grant. Do not mind a little arm-ache. 1 would 
 relish that, if the head was char and the heart at ease. 
 
 Hettie. Join our party, and it will lighten your 
 head and rest your heart. Myrtie Lane lias just conic 
 in. Now, you cannot resist her attractions. She is in 
 one of her plaintive moods, and needs your presence to 
 make her eyes sparkle. 
 
 Grant. Myrtie Lane ! Do not mention her name 
 to me. Why is she in our home? What tempted her 
 
 here? 
 
 Hettie. And should not Myrtie Lane visit our 
 home ? She has been the mutual friend of our school- 
 days. She has followed you with interest through all 
 your college life; and, now, you say, "What tempted 
 her here?" 
 
 Grant. Yes, I say it; she ought not to be here. 
 But Myrtie cannot err; she lias a reason, and GrantviUe 
 Ames, in this tumult of feeling, cannot perceive it. 
 Has she inquired for me ? 
 
 Hettie. No. She came over to bring some medicine 
 
 to ma. 
 
 Grant. I knew she had a reason for coming. Now, 
 
 hurry back, or she will be gone. 
 
CANDY - PULLING. 41 
 
 Hettie. 'T is too bad that you will not help us pull 
 our candy. [Exit, 
 
 Grant. Pulling candy is play for the girls. Well, 
 I 'm glad my good sister does n't know the bitter candy 
 I am pulling. She speaks lightly to me of Myrtle Lane ; 
 says she is in our home. Her words came near stirring 
 me. The heart gave one bound, and then paused. An 
 angel is in my home. I know it. Sister tells me so- 
 But — well, I am shut out. Chance rules the day — a 
 most unjust and wayward ruler. I would blast the 
 demon from existence. He has given me no fortune, 
 no fame, no position in life. Were this all the wrong 
 he has done me, I could bear it. But, in every attempt 
 I make to rise, he pulls from underneath me the step- 
 ping-stone, then grins at my discomfiture. Even this 
 I might bear ; but his last satanic push is the drop too 
 much. Curse him, all ye powers of earth ! Curse him, 
 all ye powers of hell ! 
 
 [Enter Capt. Orson.] 
 
 Capt. O. Hold, my good friend! 'Tis well ye do 
 not call on heaven for a curse. {Takes him warmly by 
 the hand.') What has happened to you ? On whom are 
 you invoking this curse ? 
 
 Grant. The demon, Chance. He is ruler of earth, 
 if not of heaven, and I curse his black name. 
 
 Capt. O. My young friend, Grantville Ames, come 
 out of this fearful darkness. Seek again the light of 
 Providence. Hold on to your father's blessed faith. 
 
 Grant. My father's faith! 'Twas buried in the 
 grave with his body. The remembrance of it only 
 makes darkness the more blinding. My father had 
 
4:2 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 light to guide him ; his son is the victim of a cruel 
 despot. I writhe in these iron chains. I will burst 
 them or die. 
 
 Capt. O. Grant., be calm. Quiet your ruffled 
 feathers. 
 
 Grant. I can't do it, Capt. Orson. 
 
 44 There are times when in the heart 
 
 The storm of feeling rises high ; 
 And thoughts, like forked lightnings, dart 
 
 Athwart the spirit's gloomy sky. 
 When, passion wildly o'er the soul, 
 
 Holds high its power with demon pride, 
 And wisdom's voice has no control 
 
 To calm or check the swelling tide. 
 When all that 's holy, good, and bright, 
 
 And all that's beautiful and fair, 
 Within the spirit's world of light, 
 
 Lies wrecked in wild confusion there." 
 
 (He sinks into a chair, and rests his head on his hand.~) 
 Capt. O. My poor boy ! you are in troubled waters, 
 and your faith is weak. Do you remember when Peter 
 found himself sinking, he cried, " Lord, save me, or I 
 perish." 
 
 Gkant. I do remember; but I've no voice now. 
 Friend of my father, cry it for me. 
 
 Capt. O. The Lord doth not wait for the voice. 
 He saw thee sinking, and has sent me to bid thee be of 
 good courage. This evening, in my room, I was read- 
 ing His Word, to prepare myself for a child's Bleep, 
 when suddenly I was brought to a pause. I could not 
 continue, so I went back and read, " He shall give His 
 angels charge over thee, to bear thee up in their hands, 
 lest thou dash thy foot against a stone. " Again I paused; 
 
CANDY - PULLING. 43 
 
 I could read no more. My book was closed, coat and 
 hat put on, and I found myself out in the pitiless snow 
 storm. No chance brought me here. Speak, boy. I 
 have weathered many a storm at sea, and I can help 
 thee right thy sinking ship. 
 
 Grant. Capt. Orson, your kindness has stilled the 
 soul's tempest. I feel a calm, but no voice to speak 
 
 Capt. O. Grantville, I have traveled a long journey. 
 You see my frosty hair tells of many winters ; and if 
 you examine it closely, you will see a silvery warmth 
 there, that tells of many summers too. I have had my 
 youth, and it hath not passed from me ; it lives still, 
 and would enter into all your sympathies. If money 
 matters trouble you, my bank is at your service. If the 
 heart bleeds, — be patient, boy. You see your old friend, 
 a bachelor of seventy summers ; he was young once — he 
 can never forget. But, speak child ; I am here for it. 
 
 Grant. Shall I speak all ? May I be a child ? And 
 will you keep me safe ? 
 
 Capt. O. Speak all ; be a child. Let me stand in 
 your father's place. There is a void in my withering 
 heart that the freshness of your life may fill. 
 
 Grant. 'T is nearly a year since father died, and 
 left me in charge of mother and Hettie, with only a 
 small competency. I was impatient to increase it. I 
 dreamed of sudden wealth, and was fool enough to in- 
 vest all the money I could command in a miasmatic 
 bubble which has burst, and its noxious effluvia is al- 
 most suffocating to us, silly fools, that inflated it. I 
 had just learned of this, when a dispatch came, inform- 
 ing me of the loss of a vessel that father had sent to 
 
44 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 the West Indies, and no insurance. These two losses 
 were nearly our all, and I groaned over them, but still 
 kept up strong, hoping that I could take care of mother 
 and sister by my own exertions. I had already applied 
 
 for a prof essorship in B university, and was sanguine 
 
 of gaining it. While I held the first two missiles in my 
 hand, a third came : I was too young for the professor- 
 ship I sought. And here you find me, captain. 
 
 Capt. O. Well, I can right this ship easily. But, is 
 this all? Could a little matter of money so quake the 
 earth under your feet, as to make you reel like a young 
 sailor at sea? Be honest, Grantville. I am your con- 
 fessor. Make a clear conscience. 
 
 Grant. Tis not all. 'Twas the last bitter drop 
 that unnerved me ; and it came so unmerited, so un- 
 called-for. {Takes a letter from his pocket, and crushes 
 it between his hands.') Mean, cowardly offspring of a 
 mean, miserly mind ! Blast the deathly thing ! {Re 
 thrusts, angrily, the letter into his pocket again.) 
 
 Capt. O. Grantville, let me examine the sharp 
 sword that has pierced you ? 
 
 Grant. 'T is long, 't would weary your life : *t is 
 dirty, 't would soil your hands. In few words I can give 
 you the edge of it. You know the loveliest girl in 
 Kedron. I need not name her. Our birthdays are the 
 same; I am one year her senior. I remember, when 
 only two years old, rocking the pretty baby in her 
 cradle. When her mot her came to take her up, I fought 
 her away like a hero. I said, " Pretty baby is all mine." 
 This saying brought the house down with laughter, and 
 merry jokes were passed between the mothers, w Inch J 
 
CANDY - PULLING. 45 
 
 did not fully comprehend then, but I understand them 
 now. The pretty baby nestled herself cosily into the 
 inmost of my heart ; I have ever held her there in 
 worshiping love. She is my inner and better self; and 
 when this withering letter came from her father, wrench- 
 ing her from my life, with the one word "Never" it 
 made me what you found me — a fury- a madman — 
 raving and wild. 
 
 Capt. O. We will try and right this matter too. I 
 sympathize with you. I know it all — I feel it all. 
 Years has not blunted the heart's sensibilities. I had a 
 Myrtle once. She was my soul's life, and she is my 
 soul's life now; she was taken from me, and yet I hold 
 her. I only name this that you may understand that I 
 am a living man, and feel for you. Now to your angel ; 
 is she at home in the cosy nest you ha^e made so warm 
 for her ? 
 
 Grant. I know she is, and yet I have never ques- 
 tioned her. We have never talked of love ; the feeling 
 has satisfied us. 
 
 Capt. O. You say we, and speak confidently. 
 
 Grant. I speak what I know, and my knowledge 
 is deeper and surer than words could make it. Do I 
 not know that Myrtle Lane is all mine — was mine in 
 her cradle ? Her cruel father has come between us 
 with the "Never." Divide a heart, and the lungs soon 
 cease their play. Dr. Lane may do with his surgical 
 knife more than he intends. 
 
 Capt. O. What objections has the Dr. to your suit ? 
 
 Grant. I did n't know that he had any, until I 
 received his letter. It seems Joshua Earle, who has 
 
46 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 recently come into possession of two fortunes, has 
 sought his daughter's hand. The old man is dazzled 
 with the splendor of his wealth, and fearing lest I might 
 stand in Earle's way, he wrote me this very impudent 
 letter, evidently intending to make me angry, accusing 
 me of tricks that are as far from my nature as the North 
 Pole is from the South. He finished his abuse by 
 taunting me with poverty, and commanding me not 
 only never to cross the threshold of his door again, but 
 never to speak to his daughter, should I chance to meet 
 her. 
 
 Capt. O. Do you intend to obey his commands ? 
 
 Grant. I will never cross the threshold of his door 
 again, unless he is outside of it. 
 
 Capt. O. Are you sure of this, boy ? 
 
 Grant. I would walk over his head to see his 
 daughter. 
 
 Capt. O. Keep cool, Grantville. Your " pretty 
 baby" is my pet. The blood of my Myrtle is in her 
 veins, and her silly father shall never sacrifice her hap- 
 piness on the shrine of Mammon, rest in this assurance. 
 I have power, and will see to it. Now, one word of 
 money matters. Enter into no more speculations. 
 Whatever money you want, draw upon my bank; 
 there is a surplus there, and I am glad to find an outlet 
 for it. What are your plans ? 
 
 GRANT. I would like to travel a year, and then enter 
 upon my profession. 
 
 Capt. O. That is good. Travel a year, or more, as 
 you think it may be of use to you. I would visit all 
 the eminent hospitals. Fit yourself to stand strong on 
 
CANDY - PULLING. 47 
 
 the topmost round of the ladder of surgery. Your pro- 
 fession is a good one. Your mother and sister shall be 
 cared for in your absence. And pretty Myrtle's hand 
 I will guard. It shall not be given without the heart is 
 in it. I would sooner have it cut from her wrist. Call 
 on me in the morning, and we will have things all 
 arranged. 
 
 Grant. Captain Orson, I 've no words — 
 
 Capt. O. That 's good ; words are not needed now. 
 Good night. [Exit. 
 
 Grant. How suddenly has the brightest day dawned 
 upon the darkest night ! Only one hour ago, I was a 
 boiling cauldron of doubt, fear, dread, and hate ; now a 
 happy child of faith, trust, hope, and love. 
 
 [Enter Hettie, with candy in her hand.] 
 
 Hettie. Grantie, our candy is all pulled. Will you 
 have a piece ? 
 
 Grant. Thank you, dear sister ; I could not eat of 
 yours. Mine is all pulled too ; some day I shall treat 
 you to a piece of it, but not now ; age will improve it. 
 
 Hettie. I am glad you have got your candy pulled 
 straight, for you look happy now. Why did n't you let 
 me help you ? 
 
 Grant. Your soft hands are too delicate ; but I had 
 help. I could never have done it alone. How long did 
 Myrtle stay with you ? 
 
 Hettie. She was gone when I got back. She was 
 in great haste. She only came to bring ma some medi- 
 cine. But will you not come with me now? 
 
 Grant. Yes ; I am already to keep you good com- 
 pany. [Exeunt. 
 
48 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 SCENE SECOND. 
 
 Joshua Earle walking the stage, with hands behind him, and a 
 half-satisfied air. 
 
 Joshua. 
 
 " This world is all a fleeting show, 
 For man's illusion given." 
 
 So says the poet, and I believe he speaks truly. I doubt 
 if there is any reality in life. All the world envies me, 
 and yet I am restless. A fortune has just rained into 
 my hands, and what is it? I feel nothing; and yet it 
 has brought about me a wonderful change. I am now 
 surrounded with a host of admiring friends. Sometimes 
 they tire me. I have a large mansion of a house, all 
 elegantly furnished ; but it 's dreadful lonely there. 
 Young ladies, with their managing ma's, call on me ; 
 they bring me flowers, and, I suppose, they expect I 
 shall sigh over them ; but I leave them to wither on the 
 table. And they bring me honeyed words too. I under- 
 stand them ; they want to take possession of my hive. 
 What a world of honey-bees flit about me ! I am not 
 a fool ; I know some of them would sting me, if they 
 caught me. There is only one sweet bee that I could 
 tolerate here, and she flits from me. Her ambitious 
 papa says " Yes," in his blandest manner, and I know 
 why ; but she, fairy, angel, or whatever you may call 
 her, is not caught by gilded trappings. 
 
 [Enter Fordyce Dewey.] 
 For. I have come, my good old friend, to congratu- 
 late you. There is no end to the blessings a fortune 
 
CANDY - PULLING. 49 
 
 brings. And while I congratulate you, I have to con- 
 dole with many of the fair sex, who had indulged a 
 hope. 
 
 Josh. My fortune does n't add to my happiness. I 
 may get used to it by-and-by. When I was a salesman 
 in Derby's store, I had a purpose in life. Friends were 
 few then, but real ; and life was earnest and active. I 
 took hold of things, and they seemed substantial. 
 
 For. I should think you had enough now to feel 
 some substance. Your fortune has gained you the 
 prettiest girl in Kedron. Is not she substantial ? 
 
 Josh. The least of all ; I cannot reach her. She is 
 too etherial for my coarse hand. To be sure, her father 
 has given her to me; but what of that? She isn't 
 mine. She is n't one of those honey-bees that seeks a 
 fine hive. But I like her mighty well; her shyness 
 pleases me. When I try to say nice things to her, 1 
 get confused, she changes so fast ; sometimes her cheeks 
 are like red roses, and I take courage ; sometimes she 
 turns white like a winding-sheet, then, man as I am, I 
 tremble. 
 
 For. Why do n't you marry her at once, if you have 
 the old man's consent ? 
 
 Josh. When I named it to her, all the color left her 
 cheeks. I saw her shiver; one tear fell; then she 
 whispered, " Not yet ; }~ou and pa have made the bar- 
 gain ; you must wait a while for me. I do n't know 
 myself. I must try to do as pa wishes me to." Some- 
 thing like this she said, and I tell you my face was n t 
 very white. I felt the blood keep rising under my hair. 
 I guess we did n't either feel very easy in ourselves. 
 
50 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 She did n't move at all. I hitched round a good deal, 
 trying to find some words to say back to her ; hut when 
 I found I was choking, I gathered my boots together, 
 and said, "Good night, Miss Lane."' I haven't seen 
 her since. 
 
 For. You are a fool, Josh. Earle, with all your 
 money. If I were in your place, and wanted the girl, 
 I would marry her before the next new moon. 
 
 Josh. And I think you would have a sorrowful 
 honey-moon. No, Ford., I will not marry thai pretty 
 girl against her will. I would n't mind taking her 
 against her father's will, if she liked me. The liking is 
 what makes the marrying. I will wait for her awhile. 
 then gather up my boots once more, and listen to her 
 gentle whisper. I like her mighty well : and this liking- 
 does me good ; it 's a kind of feeling I encourage. 
 
 For. 1 should think it was rather dangerous busi- 
 ness for you. You may find this feeling troublesome, if 
 your fluttering bird continues to say, " wait." 
 
 Josh. But it is a good feeling, Ford. ; it is the only 
 hope I have in life. The fortune that has rained so 
 unexpectedly into my pocket doesn't amount to any- 
 thing. I was Josh. Earle before I had it, and I am 
 Josh. Earle now. Some people call me Esquire Earle : 
 but that calling amounts to just nothing. This feeling 
 that I was speaking of is something — it 's part of my- 
 self — and, as I said, 1 like to cherish it. 
 
 For. What will become of this feeling if .Miss Lane 
 should never like you ? 
 
 Josh. I am prepared for that emergency, and 1 
 (In n't much expect she ever will like me : but, as 1 said, 
 
CANDY - PULLING. 51 
 
 I like her mighty well — well enough to marry her. 
 Yet it takes two likings to make a real marriage, and I 
 detest shams — more especially since I have had a 
 glimpse of fashionable life. Ford., I tell you the world 
 is heartless, and them honey-bees that buzz round a 
 handsome hive are the most heartless of all. 
 
 For. In the beginning of this sensible speech, you 
 said you were prepared for an emergency. I am in- 
 terested to know in what way, for the knowledge may 
 prove of use to your poor friend sometime, who does 
 not stand much chance of ever being blessed with the 
 two likings you speak of. 
 
 Josh. Well, this is it : There is Betsey Lee — you 've 
 never seen her, Ford. Now, I know in our early days, 
 when we both went barefoot, and ate dry bread for our 
 supper, and a cold potato for our breakfast, she had a 
 liking for me, and I had a liking for her, too. We drank 
 water out of the same bucket, at the old well. She 
 called me Josh., and I called her Bets. ; and we always 
 looked after each other's comfort. When I broke my 
 leg trying to ride her grand'ther's old cow, she came in 
 and read iEsop's Fables to me. Them was substantial 
 times, Ford. 
 
 Ford. This country Betsey of yours would n't know 
 how to manage a splendid mansion, Josh. 
 
 Josh. Neither do I; but we would manage it in 
 our own way. Betsey has got a feeble ma, that would 
 grow strong in that large, airy south room. Then her 
 blind grand'ther could take the room back of it ; this 
 one is n't very pleasant, but, as long as he is blind, 
 't would n't make any difference to him. Her two 
 
52 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 brothers could have one of the upper rooms. Then 
 
 we "(1 find a nice room for her Aunt Sally. You t 
 Ford., if I get all them folks into my house, "t would 
 begin to seem like a home ; and 't would make them so 
 comfortable too. 
 
 For. Well, Josh., you are becoming a philanthropist - 
 Isn't there a room in your house somewhere for me? 
 I am poor. 
 
 Josh. If I get Betsey there, we will fit up one ex- 
 pressly for you. Now, I am beginning to get hold of 
 something. Life seems coming back; and I should n'i 
 wonder if Betsey was better for me than that pretty 
 bird I have been trying to catch. She is too much like 
 a sunbeam. Sometimes her light dazzles you ; and then. 
 without knowing why, you feel a blindness coming 
 over you. The last time I was there, I began choking. 
 She always calls me Mr. Earle; and she bows very 
 genteelly to me. Now, if I should go to see Betsey, she 
 would grab my hand between both of hers, and exclaim. 
 " Josh., I am so glad to see you." Well, if I was clear 
 of this last affair, I would start to-morrow night for 
 Betsey's home; 'tis only two days' ride from here. 
 Wouldn't she be glad to see me, though ? 
 
 For. You need n't travel so far as that to find a girl 
 that's glad to see you. 
 
 JOSH. Fie on all the girls here! There isn'1 one 
 of them cares a fig. for Josh. Earle; 'tis his hive they 
 want. There is two of them follow me everywhere 1 
 go. I 11 be blinded if I can guess how they track me. 
 
 n a do 1 '' wa\ 
 
 Ever yon hear of gals scenting a fellow i 
 
 FOR. I think some of them scent you since you had 
 yroilT fortune ? 
 
CANDY - PULLING. 53 
 
 Josh. That they do. They bore me to death with 
 their rna's bouquets. I '11 never accept another one 
 from any of bhem. I'm for Betsey now; there's two 
 likings there, and a marriage, may be. Farewell, my 
 pretty, trembling bird. You can't like me ; 't is n't your 
 fault. I 'm rather coarse — just right for Betsey. Ford., 
 what color paper do they w T rite notes on to genteel 
 ladies ? 
 
 For. Pink, to be sure. 
 
 Josh. I '11 write Miss Lane a note this evening. I 
 can never put courage enough into my boots again to 
 speak to her. Then to-morrow I am off for Betsey ; 
 won't she be glad to see me ? and the old folks too ? 
 I tell you, Ford., my hand will be squeezed enough 
 down there in Tarrytown. We '11 fix up a room for you 
 — Bets, and I will. 
 
 Foe. Josh., how is the feeling now that you like to 
 cherish ? 
 
 Josh. 'T is as warm as the sun itself. Now, Ford., 
 let me caution you in this matter. If you have a real, 
 live, true feeling in your heart, cherish it. 'T is a God 
 gift, and better than all the fortunes in creation. 
 [Enter Kate North and Hannah Hugh.] 
 
 Hannah. Esquire Earle, ma sent you a bunch of 
 her preserved grapes, with her compliments, and would 
 deem it an honor if you would spend the evening with 
 us. We are expecting a few friends in, and hope to be 
 able to make it pleasant for you. 
 
 Josh. Miss Hugh, you will please excuse me from 
 accepting your grapes, as I am out of tune this evening. 
 
 For. I think he has got the heart disease. He has 
 
54 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 all the symptoms of it : a rush of blood to the head, and 
 a confused feeling there, attended sometimes with a 
 choking sensation. 
 
 Hannah. Shall I tell ma she may expect to see you 
 this evening at our house ? 
 
 Josh. I must be excused, as to-morrow I start on a 
 long journey, and shall need this evening for prepara- 
 tions. 
 
 Hannah. It 's too bad. Come and see us when you 
 get back. I hope your journey may improve your 
 health. 
 
 Kate. Esquire Earle, will you accept these simple 
 flowers from my mother. You cannot have the sunc 
 objection to them that you had to the grapes. Flow lis 
 are a very appropriate offering to an invalid. 
 
 Josh. Please, Miss North, favor our poor friend .Mr. 
 Dewey with your ma's bouquet. He is so languishingly 
 fond of flowers, and I am, unfortunately, blind to their 
 beauty. I like cowslip blossoms, in the early spring, 
 for greens, and dandelions too, if they are not old. 
 
 Kate. Excuse us. Good evening. 
 
 Hannah. I trust we haven't intruded. Good 
 evening. \l£zeun&* 
 
 For. Esquire Earle ! The millionaire ! And treat 
 young ladies rudely. 
 
 Josh. Rudely! These simpering, buzzing bees saw 
 no rudeness in my words. If I don't hurry out of 
 town, they will be after me again with their poesies. 
 I shall bring Betsey back with me — the liking is the 
 marrying ; but then, there is a good old minister down in 
 Tarrytown that will tie the knot for us. I'll be a man 
 
CANDY -PULLING. 55 
 
 when I 've Bets, in the house, calling, in her own strong 
 way, " Josh., Josh." Come, go home with me, and 
 write the pink-paper note ; you are skilled in such 
 things, and I am a perfect blockhead. 
 
 Foe. I will write the pink-paper note with pleasure ; 
 but first answer me one question. I am deeply interested 
 in that nice feeling that you recommend me to cherish. 
 Now, you have loved two ladies passionately within the 
 last half hour is the love for both equal ? Have you 
 no choice ? 
 
 Josh. Friend Ford., you have put to me a mighty 
 nice question. The thing is just like this : I look up 
 into the clear sky; I see beautiful lights and shades 
 playing there ; I try to reach them, but I find there is 
 altogether too much of earth about me to rise so high. 
 I see a glorious star, I call it mine, but its brightness 
 dazzles my eyes. An angel is given to me ; I fancy I 
 am in heaven, gather up my heavy boots, and timidly 
 sit by her side. She speaks ; I am choking; I find her 
 atmosphere altogether too etherial for me. I am like a 
 fish out of water, and flounder in the same way until I 
 reach a stratum of air I can breathe freely in. Do you 
 understand me? If you do, write my pink-paper note, 
 then I 'm my own man again, and can lock arms with 
 Betsey Ann. 
 
 Fob. Come, then, let 's hurry off before any more 
 of the fair ones scent your track. [Exeunt. 
 
56 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 SCENE THIRD. 
 
 GRANTVILLE Ames seated at a table, arranging notes and papers for a 
 
 journey. 
 
 [Enter IIettie.] 
 
 Hettie. Dear brother, Grantie, how soon will you 
 come down into the parlor? Every moment seems lost 
 that yon are not with us. 
 
 Grant, {rises.) In fifteen minutes I will be there. 
 I have almost everything arranged for my journey now. 
 
 Hettie. Dear me ! your journey. 'T is so sudden 
 I can 't bear to think of it. Why don't you wait until 
 next week? 
 
 GRANT. If I do n't take the vessel that goes in the 
 morning, I should have to wait a long time for so good 
 an opportunity again. Then, the sooner I go the sooner 
 I shall be back. Keep up your courage, pet. Don't 
 forget your promise ; write me by every steamer, and 
 tell me everything that occurs here. 
 
 HETTIE. But, Grantie, how lonely ma and I shall 
 be without you ! And pa away, too ! 
 
 GRANT. O, not very; I shall write you often, and 
 the time will soon pass. If you keep every little mo- 
 ment tilled with some interest, they will all fly on swift- 
 est wings, and I shall be back here before you miss me. 
 I have Liven you my secret, take good care ol it. 
 
 Hettie. ['11 take care of your secret, and Myrtle 
 too. 
 
 Grant. That is a good sister. Keep Myrtle with 
 von as much as possible; she is lonely there with lie;- 
 
CANDY -PULLING. 57 
 
 father ; read to her all my letters, and tell me every- 
 thing yon can abont her. 
 
 Hettie. Shan't yon write her, Grantie ? 
 
 Grant. I am not quite sure. I mnst see her some- 
 way before I leave. I do n't know how to manage the 
 affair. Can 't you help pull my candy, Hettie ? 
 
 Hettie. Yes ; I will go and bring her home with 
 me to pass the evening. I must run before it is any 
 darker. Come down in the parlor soon. [Exit. 
 
 Grant. Possibly she can manage this for me, but I 
 do n't feel certain. The miserable old man there has 
 stepped in between us, with his " Never." Yet I will 
 see my pet before I leave America. Forty Dr. Lanes 
 cannot prevent it. I have n't seen her since that miserly 
 letter sprang out of the dust. 
 
 [Enter Myrtle Lane, dressed in tvhite, her 
 hair in ringlets over her shoulders.'] 
 
 Grant, (takes her hand excitedly?) The very air I 
 "breathe is alive with blessings. What good angel sent 
 you here, My r tie ? 
 
 Myrtle. 'T was not an angel, but plain Capt. Orson. 
 He asked me to call in here and get a book that he left 
 lying on the table. Now, which one is it ? 
 
 Grant. Lid he tell you I was here waiting to see 
 you? 
 
 Myrtle. No, he said nothing about you ; only asked 
 me to call for his book, and he would stay with father 
 while I was gone. Now, which book did he leave 
 here ? 
 
 Grant. Truly, the Captain has not forgotten his 
 early days, the dear, good friend ! 
 
DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Myrtle. Please. GTantie, tell me which of these 
 books belong to him, for I must hurry back and not 
 keep him waiting. 
 
 Grant. He has no book here, my dear Myrtie. He 
 has sent } T ou on a fool's errand, as far as the book is 
 concerned. Forgive this ; and I will bless the good 
 Captain as long as I live, for playing this pretty joke 
 on you. 
 
 Myrtle. This is n't like him. What does he mean 
 by it, Grant. ? 
 
 Grant. He means to lay me under everlasting obli- 
 gations to him. Moments are flying ; I must not waste 
 them. You found me here gathering up my papers. 
 Did you know I was going to start on a short journey 
 in the morning ? 
 
 Myrtle. No ; are you going to Southland again ? 
 
 Grant. Not to Southland, but very, very much 
 farther than sunny Southland. I start in the morning 
 for Europe. 
 
 Myrtle (starting). No, Grantie ; not to far-off 
 Europe? Not cross the wide Atlantic ? 
 
 Grant. That is my purpose. 
 
 Myrtle. And why? And why have you kept it a 
 secret ? 
 
 Grant. I have but just decided to go. I have kept 
 it no secret. The why I '11 tell you this evening; where 
 
 Call I set' you ? 
 
 M\ rtle. At father's. Can 't you come round there ? 
 Grant. Would your father be glad to see me ? 
 MYRTLE. Of COUrse he will ; and if you are going 
 to Europe in the morning, he will think ii very strange 
 
CANDY -PULLING. 59 
 
 if you do n't call and bid him good-bye. What makes 
 you ask that question, Grantie ? 
 
 Grant. I had a good reason for it. Did n't you 
 know he wrote me a letter ? 
 
 Myrtle. No ; what letter did my father write you ? 
 
 Grant. O, Myrtle, you know I rocked you in your 
 cradle. I fought for you then ; with your permission I 
 will fight for you now. 
 
 Myrtle. It does n't look much like it, going off to 
 Europe in this informal way. I suppose it was to give 
 me this information that the Captain sent me for a book. 
 Did he know you were here ? 
 
 Grant. Of course he did. Captain Orson is pulling* 
 candy for me, and I will bless him as long as I live. 
 He is converting an iron rod into a golden sunbeam. 
 Myrtle, the Captain says you are his pet. He speaks 
 boastingiy of a power he has to control your destiny. 
 
 Myrtle. He has made a pet of me all my life. I 
 think he rocked me in the cradle earlier than you did. 
 You know my beautiful shells and interesting curiosities ; 
 he brought them all to me from some foreign country. 
 He has had my photograph taken annually, ever since 
 I was a year old. 'Tis true, I am his pet. 
 
 Grant. You make me jealous of him. 
 
 Myrtle. Well, that 's funny. I am jealous of him 
 too ; he was in the secret of your going abroad before 
 I was. I do n't like it at all. 
 
 Grant. This evening I will explain all to you. I 
 think Hettie is at your house now, to invite you home 
 with her. Can 't you pass the evening with us ? 
 
 Myrtle. I had forgotten ; I promised Capt. Orson to 
 
00 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 pass the evening at his house. He is going to send his 
 carriage for me. 
 
 GRANT. Capt. Orson again ! This is all right, I am 
 invited there too. But what claim has he on yuu, 
 Myrtie ? 
 
 Myrtle. The claim of a long and true friendship. 
 He seems almost as near to me as father does. When 
 ma was living, he was at our house a great deal. Ma 
 always treated him like a brother. He was with her 
 when she died, and I heard him whisper to her then, 
 "I will watch over your darling*' — and he has. He 
 knows pa is full of business, and is from home a great 
 deal, so he just comes and puts his bushy head in at the 
 door, and sings out, " Myrtie ;" if I am busy, I answer, 
 " Here, Captain." " All well ? " he inquires ; and when 
 
 1 say " Yes," he rides off. 
 
 Grant. There is a pretty romance in his devotion 
 to you, Myrtie. I like it, yet am half afraid. Is there 
 not a mystery about it ? 
 
 Myrtle. Not much. All know Capt. Orson has 
 heaven in his heart; there is love there for everybody. 
 He is alone in the world ; has neither brother or sister, 
 no wife nor chick; so he pets your baby. (She takes 
 her handkerchief out of her pocket, and a small, pink note 
 foils to the floor. Grant, picks it up and gives it to hi r. 
 She laughs, and blushes.') 
 
 Gra nt. And you are my baby ? These flying reports ; 
 arc they false ? 
 
 Myrtle. What will you give me, Grantie, if I will 
 icad this billet-doux to you ? 
 
 Grant. All that I call mine, with one exception. 
 
CANDY -PULLING. 61 
 
 (She opens it and reads.*) 
 
 " Miss Lane: To reiieve you and myself from further embarrassment, 
 I write you this pink note. I am aware that the liking is more than half 
 the marrying, and I like you mighty well, and all the better for your shy- 
 nessr My liking is strong enough for the marrying, but yours, trembling 
 bird, is not ; and I yield, to a more favored wooer, all the claim to your 
 white hand that your father bestowed on me. I know you are a true 
 woman, and have the "blessed feeling" for somebody, and I advise you 
 to wait. With profound respect, 
 
 Joshua Earle." 
 
 (Both laugh.) 
 
 Geant. Myrtie, do tell me what made your father 
 do such a foolish thing ? 
 
 Myrtle. Excuse him, Grant. ; 'tis the only foolish 
 thing he ever did in his life. 
 
 Geant. Not yet. I have his letter in my pocket. 
 
 Myrtle. Read it to me ; exchange is fair. 
 
 Grant. 'T would hardly be in this case ; but I will 
 read it to you some time — not now. We will have no 
 clouds this evening. 
 
 Myrtle. I think my devoted friend will get tired 
 waiting for his book ; I have stayed too long. 
 
 Grant. No ; your worshiper is making a special 
 contract with your father ; your presence would embar- 
 rass them, believe me. 
 
 Myrtle. Not a bit of it will I believe. I see you 
 are curious about the Captain's interest in me. He has 
 had his romance ; I do not know much about it. It is in 
 a written manuscript, sealed. He says it is for me when 
 he closes his eyes in a ]ong sleep ; and he says he shall 
 leave me other treasures that I must take good care of. 
 I never question him. I think ma knew all, but she 
 
62 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 only told me a little. She had a sister, Myrtle — [was 
 
 mimed for her. Ma said I was just like her. This 
 Myrtle, Capt. Orson loved. There is a mystery and a 
 sorrow about it unrevealed. Now, Grantie, good-bye 
 till we meet at the Captain's. [Exit. 
 
 Grant. A mystery and a sorrow ; yes, I believe it. 
 The world is full of mysteries and sorrows. Life is a 
 mystery, and sealed with many seals, which a little 
 child only can open. 
 
 [Uxit, with his arms full of books and papers. 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 <£i)aracterg: 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dunlap, 
 
 Eli, James and Susie Dunlap, their Grandchildren, 
 
 Maud Clifton, a Granddaughter. 
 
 [Grandma and Grandpa.] 
 Grandma. This dumb old crutch ! now see, Grand- 
 pa, if you can keep it to yourself. I suppose I have 
 tumbled over it, in my lifetime, some ten thousand 
 times. Well, this is a sorrowful world, let people say 
 what they will ; the doors all squeak on their hinges ; 
 they are never iled. 
 
 Grandpa. I think if you had a little ile on your 
 tongue, Grandma, we should n't have so much squeak- 
 ing. 
 
 Grandma. Now, Grandpa, hold back your weari- 
 some philosophy; 'tis ill-timed. I would as soon stum- 
 ble over your blamed old crutch as to listen to one of 
 your lecterizing lecters. They affect me just Like the 
 galvanic battery. They set my nerves all on the jump. 
 And now, Grandpa, if you want to do anything, just 
 keep still. Susie, when did your Cousin Maud write us 
 she would be here ? 
 
 63 
 
(34 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Susie. 'T is to - day she is coming ; and I expect her 
 
 every minute. 
 
 Grandma. You do, do you? You look like it, with 
 your old ragtag of a dress on ! Why do n't you go and fix 
 up, instead of sitting there mending your gran'ther'a 
 stockings ? 
 
 Susie. Grammie, I am fixed up. {Rising.') Does n t 
 my hair look nice? See how smooth I have combed it ! 
 
 Grandma. Your hair looks well enough ; but then, 
 your old ragtag dress, — and sure as your gran'tiier's 
 crutch lives, you have on Jim's shot- '. 
 
 Susie. I know it, Grammie ; Jim said I might wear 
 them when Cousin Maud came. You know mine are 
 all worn out. Then these fit so nicely. {Holding up 
 
 her foot.) t 
 
 Grandma. Fit you, do they ? They are big enough 
 to put your granther's crutch into ; and I wish it was 
 there, then may-be the doors wouldn't squeak so much 
 on their hinges. 
 
 Grandpa. A little ile on your tongue might make 
 the doors turn easy on their hinges. 
 
 Grandma. Now, didn't I tell you to keep still if 
 you wanted to say anything ? If you will take care of 
 your crutch, 'tis all I ask of you. But, Susie, why 
 do n't you fix up before your cousin comes ? 
 
 Susie. Grammie, I have no better clothes than 
 these ; and I think as they are clean, Cousin Maud will 
 like them ; and then they fit me so well. 
 
 Grandma. They fit you as well as Jim's shoes do. 
 I wonder who they were made for? 
 
 Susie. They were made for Peggy Fatfoot. But, 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 65 
 
 Grammie, don't clothes always fit well when they are 
 big enough? See here! I can turn 'round in them. 
 And then, you know, I just put this red ribbon on to 
 show Cousin Maud I have done all I could for her. I 
 want she should love me, for I love her so much. Jim 
 says she is an angel of a lady. 
 
 [Enter Jim.] 
 
 Now, Jim, tell us something about Cousin Maud; 
 you have seen her ? 
 
 Jim. Yes ; and what shall I tell you? 
 
 Susie. Tell us who she is like. 
 
 Jim. She is like Grammie — all sunshine. 
 
 Grandma. Now, boy, stop your insults, or you will 
 feel your gran'ther's dumb crutch about your ears. 
 
 Jim. Grammie, I didn't mean it as an insult. You 
 know there is warm sunshine in your heart — only hid- 
 den by clouds. 
 
 Susie. Come, Jim, tell us about her; isn't she a 
 lady? 
 
 Jim. Not as much of a lady as my pet Susie ; but 
 she dresses elegantly, and has a mint of money. 
 
 Susie. I am glad of that, Jim, for money is a good 
 thing ; and I like elegant dresses ; their beauty reminds 
 me of roses and lilies ; but then they are not as pretty. 
 The Bible says that even Solomon in all his glory, was 
 not arrayed like the lilies. Do her dresses fit her well ? 
 You know, sometimes the dressmakers make them so 
 tight that the ladies suffer most awfully. I hope she 
 do n't wear her dresses so long that we shall tread on 
 them when we kiss her. But, Jim, isn't she an angel 
 of a lady ? 
 
DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Jm. Not so much of an angel as my dear Susie. 
 
 Grandma. Now, stop your nonsense, Jim. My 
 heart is just breaking to have Susie appear in that rag- 
 tag of a dress. She says she has no other. This is true 
 enough. But, child, put on my go-to-meetiir dress! 
 You shan't disgrace your family in this way. Put away 
 your gran'ther's old stockings, and fix up ! 
 
 Susie. Grammie, Cousin Maud will not look at my 
 dress. She will look straight down into my heart. 
 
 Jim. Bravo, my darling sister ! That is what ( Jousin 
 Maud will do ; and she will see more living beauty there 
 than her eyes ever rested on before. But, were not 
 these brawny hands of mine tied, I would clothe you in 
 a way worthy of your own pure life. Things are as 
 they are. It will not always be so. Now it takes all 
 my wages to pay the rent of this old tumbling house, 
 with the wood-bill and many oilier minor bills. When 
 Eli comes home things may go better. 
 
 Susie. And do you know I expect him this very 
 
 day? 
 
 Jim. And what makes you? 
 
 Susie. I feel such joy in my heart, I know he will 
 come. [Door -bell rings. 
 
 [Enter Em and Cousin Maud. J 
 
 Grandma (tumbles over the crutch). The dumb old 
 crutch! But welcome, my boy— welcome, although 
 trouble is here — your gran'ther's crutch is still living! 
 but how do you do'/ Not lame, I hope I 
 
 Eli. I am well, and I have brought home with me 
 
 ( Jousin Maud. 
 
 Grandma (embraces). Maud Clifton, my dear child! 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 67 
 
 You are my own Maud's daughter, and your Grandma 
 welcomes you to her humble home. I have a world of 
 things to say to you ; but first speak to Susie. She has 
 on her ragtag of a dress ; but do n't look at it. I tried 
 to have her put on my go - to -meetin' one, so she would 
 look like somebody ; but she 'd rather mend her gran- 
 'ther's old stockings. Now you have spoken to Susie, 
 speak to your poor gran'ther. I 've just got him to keep 
 still, as that is the only way for him to say anything. 
 And here is Jim. Now speak to him, though he do n't 
 deserve it, as he is forever insulting his grammie. Now 
 these tiresome ceremonies are all over, let 's know some- 
 thing how things come 'round in this way. Eli, how 
 did you happen to pitch upon this gay bird ? 
 
 Eli. 'T was my good fortune. We met, accident- 
 ally, in the cars. 
 
 Grandma. How did you know so fine a lady ? 
 
 Jim. He knew her by her resemblance to you. 
 
 Grandma. Stop your wearisome nonsense, Jim ! 
 Well, I must admit, notwithstanding that blamed old 
 crutch, there is some good luck in this fretting world. 
 Maud (talcing her hand'), you must be dumbstruck to 
 find us in this way of living ; but do talk and tell us 
 something. Some time ago, when you were living in 
 Cuba, we heard you were almost dead. 
 
 Maud. That was true, Grandma. 
 
 Grandma (tenderly embracing her). Then Hwas 
 true! — you were almost dead! The sun and moon be 
 praised that you did n't quite die. I was thinking about 
 a mourning dress for Susie when we heard that sad 
 news. But, tell us, how did it happen? (Eli, excuse 
 
68 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 my talking first to Cousin Maud ; you know I han't ever 
 seen her before.) But, child, how did it happen ? The 
 story came to us that you almost died of love : and that 
 is dreadful, you know ; we shed many tears over it. 
 
 Maid. Well, Grandma, you didn't get the story 
 right. I came near dying for want of love. 
 
 Grandma. What do you mean, child? Tiny said 
 Count Vantasi deserted you on your bridal day. 
 
 Maud. He did, Grandma, and as you heard, I almost 
 died ; but it was not with love ; it was with grief, mor- 
 tification, and anger. I shut myself into my private 
 room, and saw no one but my servant for three months. 
 I was vexed. I was terribly angry that Regal Vantasi 
 should dare to trifle with Maud Clifton ; and I vowed 
 vengeance on his heartless head. Oh, those were dark 
 days that I passed in that lonely room ! But they came 
 to an end — night with all its terrors gave place to 
 morning — and my life now is an unclouded day; it 
 knows no sorrow. 
 
 Eli. We can readily believe this, Cousin Maud, for 
 your happy face tells the story. But how the change 
 was wrought, from so dark a night to so bright a day, 
 Ave cannot conceive. 
 
 Grandma. This is true, Eli ; and now I '11 put your 
 gran'ther's crutch out of the way and listen to Maud 
 while she tells us how that terrible thunderbolt was 
 turned into perpetual sunshine. 
 
 Mat'D. Weary of my solitary room, I wandered 
 forth, one morning, into a beautiful grove. I seated 
 myself upon a mossy bank, meditating upon the heart- 
 lessness of the world. I was weary, and fell asleep. 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 69 
 
 And now passed before me three panoramic views. The 
 first was Regal Vantasi, counting two piles of money. 
 One, I saAV, was mine ; the other, Reina Burgess'. 
 Reina's was the larger pile ; and I saw my old lover take 
 this pile and walk off. This Reina was the lady he 
 married. 
 
 Eli. We understand what that view means, very 
 well. Now give us the second one. 
 
 Maud. 'Twas Maud Clifton herself, dressed in the 
 very bridal wreath she had prepared for her wedding. 
 She stood admiring Vantasi's stately mansion, his long 
 retinue of servants, and elegant equipage of horses, car- 
 riages, etc. 
 
 Jim. Well, what did you think of this scene ? Did 
 it satisfy your loving heart ? 
 
 Maud, It satisfied me there was no true love lost 
 in the long and dark night through which I had passed. 
 I ceased to blame Count Vantasi, while I rejoiced that 
 I was not his wife. 
 
 Grandma. I don't cease to blame him. I will 
 blame him as long as your gran'ther's crutch lives. 
 
 Maud. But you see, Grandma, our love was cast in 
 the same mould. We did not love each other. We 
 only loved some good, real or imaginary, that we might 
 gain by the marriage. 
 
 Grandpa. Well, child, go on with the third pic- 
 ture ; your old gran'ther is getting interested. 
 
 Grandma. Keep quiet if you Ve anything to say f 
 
 Maud. The third picture was beautiful beyond 
 description. 'Twas an angel, with golden stars about 
 her head. She was standing in an arbor of roses. I 
 
70 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 drew near to her, and she placed her hand upon my 
 head, saying", in soft, musical tones : " My child, you 
 are saved from a life of misery. Now, listen to me : 
 Love never seeks its own good. Its very life consists 
 in giving itself, with all it has, to another. It lives to 
 Mess ; and in blessing it finds that pure and satisfying 
 happiness that only angels feel." I awoke. 
 
 Grandpa. And what next? Maud, you interest 
 me. 
 
 Maud. I began life anew. I sought for that love 
 that blesses others. I clothed myself in the most sim- 
 ple attire, and went among all the poor and suffering 
 people I could find. I sympathized with them, and 
 tried to do them good. I cannot tell you all I did for 
 them ; neither can I tell you the needed rest and quiet 
 happiness that followed it. 
 
 Jim. Yes, Maud, you can tell all; tell us everything 
 you did, and what came of it! Did you find another 
 Vailtasi ? 
 
 Maud. Not another Vantasi ; and 1 could not, since 
 I was not the same silly, selfish Maud that found him 
 in former days. I found, now, an angel instead of a 
 demon, and I love him for himself. 1 love his pure, 
 noble, disinterested spirit. I love his clear intellect. 
 I can appreciate his fine taste. My heart grows in liis 
 atmosphere. But you smile, Jim. 
 
 Jim. Well, talk on! I like to hear you. This smile 
 does n't mean anything. I was only fancying myself this 
 wonderful hero, and a beautiful lady, witli a hundred 
 thousand dollars, kneeling and worshiping at my feet. 
 In my weakness, I should accept her as sure as day lot- 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 71 
 
 lows night. I have no doubt the heart of this valiant 
 knight of yours is full of love — I mean love of some 
 kind. 
 
 Grandma. Jim, stop your nonsense ! You shan't 
 trifle with your Cousin Maud in this sinful way ! 
 
 Jim. Grammie, I was only explaining the meaning 
 of an innocent smile that came of itself, and Maud 
 noticed it. I congratulate this fortunate man, and wish 
 I stood in his boots. 
 
 Susie. No you do n't, Jim ; and do n't talk so ; you 
 do n't want any better boots to stand in than your own. 
 Search the world over, their equal is not to be found. 
 
 Jim. My dear, poor Susie — I will quote Cousin 
 Maud's words — " my heart grows strong in your atmos- 
 phere ! " You are a precious diamond set in earth's 
 roughest clay. But this miserly setting does not tar- 
 nish the purity of the gem. I feel a power in the very 
 marrow of my bones equal to create a better surround- 
 ing for my loving sister. 
 
 Susie. Jim, do n't talk in this way. I 've got things 
 enough ; and I '11 work to help you take care of gran'- 
 ther and grammie ; and you know they are all we have 
 to see after. Eli can take care of himself, and Cousin 
 Maud has everything she wants. 
 
 Eli (stretching himself up very tall and laughing}. I 
 hope I can do a little more than take care of myself. I 
 have not been idle these three years. I have finished 
 learning my trade. 'Tis a good one. I can convert it 
 into a pile of money. Jim will find he has an arm to 
 help him, now I have come home. We together can 
 clothe you in silks and satin, my Susie, and give you 
 
72 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 nice slippers. I should think those you have on were 
 rather too large and heavy for a gentleman's daughter 
 to wear ! 
 
 Susie. Eli, these shoes are Jim's ; but then they fit 
 me nicely (holding them up) ; they are easy to my feet. 
 
 Jim. My smile interrupted Cousin Maud. Now let 
 us listen again to her interesting stoiy. 
 
 Maud. Well, Jim, my hero does not know that I 
 have any money. He believes me poor, like himself; 
 and he is entirely dependent upon his art and industry, 
 not only to support himself, but two orphan sisters 
 beside. He is an artist, standing on the topmost round 
 of the ladder of his profession. You see him early and 
 late, with his pencil and brush. He has a fine percep- 
 tion of the beautiful ; and, beside this, he has a proud, 
 independent spirit. He loves to give much better than 
 to receive. He thinks he can support me like a lady, 
 besides his two sisters. I have deceived him. He thinks 
 me poor ; so you see I am in a difficulty. I do n't know 
 what to do. 
 
 Jim. Let me help you, dear Coz. 'Twill give me 
 pleasure to relieve you. I know a pretty girl that 
 would be willing to 'share your money with me. Will 
 you let us do you the favor ? 
 
 Maud. You are too good, Cousin Jim. But I will 
 tell you the plan I have in my mind. 'T is this : To 
 give all my money to grandpa. 
 
 Jim. That is a grand plan. I like it. Now, Grandpa, 
 you will remember me? 
 
 Grandpa. I will hear the child's orders before I 
 promise to remember anyone. 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 73 
 
 Maud. Well, Grandpa, I will put my property all 
 into your hands. I have my papers with me. When 
 Count Vantasi was my suitor he turned from me because 
 my pile of money was too small. That has proved well. 
 But I must take good care that my noble Henrike does 
 not turn from me because the pile of money is too large. 
 
 Jim. Your style of talking is unique, Maud. You 
 are original as our grammie is. 
 
 Grandma. Hush up, Jim ! Maud, please go on ! 
 your gran'ther is quiet, but he feels interested. I 
 would n't wonder if this affair should strengthen him 
 up so much that he would walk without his dumb 
 crutch. But we won't talk about his crutch now, 
 since things seem brightening up. Jim, put your fist 
 in your mouth ! Now, Maud, what else ? 
 
 Maud. Well, I will give all my money to grandpa , 
 and when Henrike and I are married, and have enjoyed 
 love in a cottage long enough, I want he should buy 
 us General Barton's elegant mansion. The General's 
 grounds and shrubbery, you know, are very beautiful. 
 I want them all. Grandj)a, will this be asking too 
 much of you ? 
 
 Grandpa. No, my child. To serve you in this way, 
 or any other, will give me a taste of youth again. 
 
 Maud. I want you should send a deed of it to Hen- 
 rike in the most secret manner possible. Just write 
 upon the margin: "A gift from the all -loving and 
 all -wise Providence." He must never know from 
 whence it came. I want him to stand in his relation- 
 ship to me — the giver. He will like it better, and so 
 shall I. You may buy the place as soon as it is conven- 
 
74 DRAMATIC STORIES." 
 
 Lent for you ; but do not send the deed until you have 
 a quiet sign from me. 
 
 Jim. I'll bet, Cousin Maud, you do not keep that 
 secret two days after your fortunate lover receives his 
 magnanimous present. 
 
 MAUD. I shall never tell him until we are so closely 
 united in love that we do not know the one from the 
 other — 'till all mine is his, and his is mine. (Opening 
 her valise, and taking out a picture, gives if to grandma.} 
 This is Henrike's likeness. 'T is his painting, too. He 
 sent it to you for a present. He said it was the best 
 thing he could do, next to coming himself. How do 
 you like it ? 
 
 Grandma (pats on her spectacles, looks at it, then 
 gives it to grandpa, around whom they all gather). He 
 does n't look grand enough for you, Maud ; but then I 
 suppose he will answer, if you like him. The liking is 
 the main thing. That 's what I married your gran'ther 
 for, and I never repented the day. 
 
 Maud. Grandma, do you think I like Ilenrike ? 
 
 Grandma. Your manner of talking and doing things 
 seems kind of like it. 
 
 Maud (opens her valise again, takes out a beautiful 
 wreath made of orange blossoms, and puts if mi grandma's 
 head, over her large ruffled cap). This is a wreath to 
 crown your wedding-day. 
 
 GRANDMA. My -wedding -dag, child! That day, 
 with all its glowing light, has long since passed, and 
 the blamed old cruteh, with many a heartache, has 
 come in its place. 
 
 MAUD. But this is your golden wedding-day, Grand- 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 75 
 
 ma, and here is a purse for you. It will buy you that 
 pretty cottage near General Barton's, and we will live 
 side by side. 
 
 Grandma. Maud, Maud ! Well, things are getting 
 golden. Susie, I will give you that red dress that I 
 wear to walk out in. But what shall we do with your 
 gran'ther's crutch? 
 
 Maud. O we will take the good old crutch with us, 
 and in your new home you will learn to step lightly 
 over it. 
 
 Grandma. And 't is a good old crutch (picks it up). 
 It has been a dead and dumb tiling fur me to fret over. 
 Many times it has saved your gran'ther's feelings. I 've 
 never fretted at him, good man. 
 
 Jim. And the crutch has been a good thing to hold 
 over my head, Grandma ! 
 
 Grandma. But it never hurt you. 
 
 Jim. Only frightened me terribly. 
 
 Grandma. Maud, this purse is too much fur me. I 
 am a poor sinner. Give it to your gran'ther if you have 
 the heart to give it to anybody. 
 
 Maud. In giving it to you, I give it to him ; you 
 and Grandpa are one. 
 
 Grandma. When the crutch is n't between us. 
 
 Maud. And we will have the crutch changed to 
 gold ; then it will stand between you no more. Troubles 
 and crosses patiently borne, only serve to make you 
 more and more one. 
 
 Grandma. I understand your lesson, Maud. Maud 
 Clifton is my own Maud's daughter. She teaches me 
 to bear the trials of life patiently, and they will become 
 
76 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 blessings. Well, your old grammie will fret no move. 
 If she can't step lightly over the crutch, she will walk 
 around it. Susie is crying, sure. 
 
 Susie. No, I 'm not crying, Grammie ; the tears 
 only blind my eyes. I am so glad for you and gran'thcr. 
 
 Grandma. You may be glad, chicken ; for you will 
 have an egg in the nest. 
 
 Jim. And shall I, Grammie ? 
 
 Grandma. Jim, now your gran'ther and me have 
 become so suddenly rich you may stop bothering us. 
 
 Jim. Then I would be the same as dead. 
 
 Grandma. Go on with your nonsense, then ; I can 
 bear that better than your death ; but you have got a 
 few drops of blood in your veins that are a leetle too 
 high colored. 
 
 Jim. The neighbors all say, Grammie, that I am like 
 you. 
 
 Grandma (aside — Well, I did use to like fun). Now, 
 Susie, go to my drawer and get that pair of black silk 
 gloves ! I '11 give them to you. 
 
 Maud. Keep them, Grandma ! I am going to take 
 Susie under my particular care. The diamond that 
 stands in Jim's shoes may cast them aside. I will see 
 to her setting. I will take care of her ; and Jim and 
 Eli may save their hard-earned money to share with 
 the patient lasses that are waiting for them. 
 
 Grandma. That 's good luck fur the boys ; for it 's 
 been hard on them to take care your gran'ther and me. 
 To be sure, they would heir our property; but then 
 that's in the future. Jim, you had better go 'round, 
 this evening, and tell Angeline Meadows that we have 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 77 
 
 become suddenly rich. She will feel so interested, you 
 know. And there is little Betsey Hopper, that you 
 use to spark about, Eli. She has grown to be a splen- 
 did lady. You can't go to see her to - night ; but when 
 we have seen you some, you can go. We have been so 
 taken up with Maud that we have n 't looked at you at 
 all. Do n't feel neglected, Eli. 
 
 Eli. Not a shadow of it. I have been taken up 
 from the earth too. Your golden wedding has proved 
 a great day for us, Grandma. 
 
 Grandma. Yes, I had no idea what a golden wed- 
 ding was ; but few people live to see it. The sooner 
 you secure your mate, Eli, the sooner yours will come 
 'round. 'T is a wonderful thing ! I could never have 
 dreamed of it. But Maud has done it. She is a noble 
 child. She is an angel. My blood is in her veins, and 
 she do n't disgrace it. Maud has changed your gran'- 
 ther's crutch to gold. Happy days are coming. Susie, 
 let us sing ! Gran'ther's crutch is running ! Ding, dong, 
 ding ! [ Curtain falls. 
 
THE DANDY PRINCE. 
 
 (Characters : 
 
 Mrs. Boulders, a poor Widow. 
 
 Anna Nichols ) . _ , ... , 
 
 „ ^ T \ her Grandchildren. 
 
 Fanny Nichols ) 
 
 Job Layton, Mrs. Boulders' Friend. 
 
 Elsey Grey. 
 
 Nat Grey. 
 
 Mrs. Boulders, alone, seated, with her spectacles in one hand and snuff- 
 box in the other. Dress, shabby and antiquated. 
 
 Mrs. Boulders. If Mr. Scraper sets me into the 
 street, he sets me there — that's all there is of it. I 
 can 't pay my rent — I 've nothing to pay it with. Patty 
 do n't send me any money ; she knows the month lias 
 come round. I s'pose she has forgotten her poor ma. 
 My dear boy, Zeke ; when his letters came, Mrs. Boulders 
 lived, not in this cobweb shanty, — she lived in a house, 
 and had tea to drink. My boy, Zeke ! If the good 
 God would let me know where his head rests "t would 
 lighten up my troubles a deal. But, as 1 said in the 
 beginning, if Mr. Scraper sets me into the street, fa 
 me there ; 't is n't so bad as being thrown out of the 
 window. I shall see more of heaven's sunlight than I 
 see in this room. He will have a pretty good lift to 
 get me down stairs, but I shan't fight him any. 
 
 78 
 
THE DANDY PRINCE. 79 
 
 [Enter Elsey.] 
 
 Elsey. Grandma, what shall I get you for your 
 supper ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I have only ten cents. Strange, how riches 
 are heaped up in piles for some fat bones to feast on, 
 while many hungry ones are starving. How is your 
 ma ? Has she anything for her supper ? If she has n't 
 I will divide my stew with her. 
 
 Elsey. Ma has so much pain to - day, she can 't eat 
 any supper. 
 
 Mrs. B. That is good — pain is a comfort to keep 
 one from starving. But, my poor Elsey, have you any- 
 thing ? 
 
 Elsey. Do n't worry about me, Grandma ; I can do 
 well enough. I am young, you know ; and when I 've 
 nothing else to eat, I suck my fingers. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, you are young, and it almost breaks 
 my heart to see poverty pinching the bud. It do n't 
 hurt me : my thread is almost spent. Elsey, poor child, 
 there is none of my blood in your veins, but you call 
 me grandma. That word, and the kind way you speak 
 it, keeps me alive. My own have deserted me ; you 
 have stood 'twixt me and death ;; and yourself a poor 
 child with a sick ma to take care of. 
 
 Elsey. Do n't fret, Grandma ; something good will 
 come to us. I 'm not hungry. The Shepherd will take 
 care of his flock. 
 
 Mrs. B. You blessed child ! Your pious talk has 
 brought comfort to my aching heart many a dark night. 
 Take this ten cents and buy for you and me ; it must 
 make our supper and breakfast. After that, I '11 want 
 no more. 
 
80 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 ELSEY. What do you mean, Grandma ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I mean, Mr. Hardbones is going to set me 
 into the street to-morrow; and if he sets me there, 
 he -'ll set me there — I shan't fight him. 
 
 Elsey. I '11 fight him, and Nat will fight him. Mr. 
 Scraper shall never set you into the street — never — 
 never. 
 
 Mrs. B. If he sets me there, he '11 set me there. 
 All my Little duds here I' 11 give to you. 
 
 Elsey. He shall never set you there, Grandma. The 
 very earth itself would cry against it ; 't would open 
 and swallow him up. 
 
 Mrs. B. I do not think it would cause an earth- 
 quake. My old bones might quake some. I hope he 
 won't let me fall on the stairs. 
 
 Elsey. Grandma, do n't speak such a thing again. 
 I '11 not let Nat go away to look for jobs to-morrow. 
 We '11 guard your door. Mr. Scraper ! He is Hani- 
 bones. We'll throw him into the street — 'twill do 
 him good. 
 
 [Enter Fanny and Anna Nichols, gaily 
 dressed.] 
 
 Fanny. Does Mrs. Boulders live here ? 
 
 Mrs. B. She does. 
 
 Fanny. Can I see her? 
 
 Mrs. B. If you open your eyes you can. 
 
 Fanny. {Aside. Good gracious ! this can't be grand- 
 ma.) Are } r ou Mrs. Boulders ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I use to be Mrs. Boulders in my better 
 days; I'm nobody now. To-morrow I am to be set 
 into the street. If Hardbones sets me there, he '11 set 
 
THE DANDY PRLNCE. 81 
 
 me there. But you, fine birds, have mistaken the door : 
 pass along to your kind — there is nobody and nothing 
 here for you. 
 
 (Anna covers her f 'ace. ) 
 
 Fanny. (Aside. What did ma send us to such a 
 place as this for ?) We want to see Mrs. Boulders. 
 
 Mrs. B. She isn't at home. To-morrow you'll 
 find her in a large garden, ready to receive her friends. 
 If Hardbones sets me into the street, he '11 set me there. 
 
 Fanny. Do you remember your daughter, Patty ? 
 
 Mrs. B. To be sure I remember her. She was a 
 good girl to me once ; she has forgotten her poor old ma 
 now, and her lonesome heart is breaking. If he sets 
 me into the street, he sets me there — I shan't fight him. 
 
 Elsey. (Aside. I '11 fight him ! He shan't do it.) 
 
 Anna. (Takes Mrs. B.'s hand.') Patty hasn't for- 
 gotten you ; we are her children ; she sent us here to 
 take you home with us. 
 
 Mrs. B. (Puts on her spectacles : she looks first at one 
 and then the other.) I do n't know as you are Patty's 
 children — you look like strange birds to me. Where 
 did you come from ? 
 
 Fanny. We came from New York city. Ma lives 
 there, and she wants you to come and live with her. 
 Will you go home with us to - night ? 
 
 Mrs. B. (Puts both hands to her head.) It aches 
 here. Set me into the street. Live in New York — 
 Patty's children — I don't know — go to-night — 
 where is Mrs. Boulders ? I can 't find her. Elsey ! 
 
 Elsey. I am here, Grandma. 
 
 Mrs. B. Give me a glass of water. Now I begin to 
 
82 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 see again. If you are Patty's children, what made you 
 come after your poor grandma in such trim ? 
 
 Anna. Do n't you like our dress, Grandma ? 
 
 Mrs. B. It don't look like dress at all. I did n't 
 dress my Patty so ; I made her life easy ; I did n't tie 
 anything on to her back. Do n't it make you tired? I 
 see, poor things, you can 't stand very straight. 
 
 Fanny. It 's the fashion, grandma. 
 
 Mrs. B. You must speak loud ; my ears are getting 
 rusty. 
 
 Fanny. I said it was Hie fashion. In New York all 
 ladies dress so. 
 
 Mrs. B. I can 't go home with you then ; my old 
 back is n't strong enough to carry any extra burden 
 that your Dandy Prince orders to be borne. I *ve read 
 about this dandy tyrant in the newspapers, but I did n't 
 know my dear Patty lived tinder his terrible n i 
 Why do n't the people revolt ? 
 
 Fanny. They do n't want to : they like it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Does my Patty like it ? 
 
 Anna. Yes, Grandma ; every lady likes it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Great thunder ! What is the world coming 
 to? And my Patty — my sensible Patty — likes it! 
 This tyranical dandy of yours is worse than old Hard- 
 bones. Old Hardbones only asks what belongs to him, 
 but this dandy grinder would grind the life out of a 
 body, and without any good coming of it. Does he 
 order your boots to be made in thai way '.' 
 
 Anna. In what way. Grandma'/ 
 
 Mrs. P>. Don't you see'/ Maybe he blinds the eyes 
 of li is subjects. He squeezes your toes into a \ ice and 
 
THE DANDY PRINCE. 83 
 
 sticks a long stopple under your heels. How do you 
 walk ? 
 
 Fanny. We walk well enough. 
 
 Mrs. B. You had better sit down. I han't got 
 many chairs ; but you can sit on that box. Elsey, get 
 that roll of corn plaster for the girls, — they '11 need it. 
 
 Fanny. Grandma, will you go home with us to-night ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I 've got corns now. I could n't wear such 
 things on my feet. Then I 'd never have such a little 
 butter spatter on my head, and a great cushion tied on 
 behind. If I were young and lived in your country, I 
 would raise an army of sensible women — I would be 
 their general — and we would march on this dandy 
 prince of yours ; we would n't leave a green feather 
 in his head till he gave us freedom. Ameriky is a free 
 country. Why do n't my Patty leave New York and 
 move into Ameriky ? I can't bear to have my gal suffer 
 so much. QShe wipes her eyes.~) 
 
 Anna. New York is in America, Grandma ; and we 
 are all free there. We need n't dress so unless we 
 choose. 
 
 Mrs. B. That is the worst part of it. I knowed 
 something about this awful tyrant before I see Patty's 
 children. I read the newspapers, and I know this dandy 
 prince addles the brains of his subjects. They believe 
 what he says is a humane law. If he tells them to 
 have a spike put through their ears, they all laugh, and 
 say, how nice ! I 've heern tell how pretty young gals 
 will sit still in a chair, and never move nor make any 
 objection, while one of his learned subjects runs a spike 
 through the ear. Ever see any of this brutality there ? 
 
84 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Anna. 'T is n't brutal, Grandma ; it do n't hurt much. 
 
 Mrs. B. (Wipes her spectacles; then, with the help 
 of her cane, raises herself on to her feet, and looks close to 
 Fanny s ears.) Well, the cow ma} r jump over the 
 moon now ! My Patty's children ! Elsey, help me into 
 my chair again — there now — here I am safe. Take 
 this ten cents, make it go as far as you can for you and 
 me. If old Hardbones sets me into the street, he sets 
 me there ; I shall have my freedom. 
 
 Anna. (Takes her hand kindly .) Grandma, go home 
 with us. You can wear just what clothes you havi a 
 mind to. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, that is possible, but not certain. My 
 Patty had sense when she was with her ma ; } T our dandy 
 prince, it seems, has addled her brains ; he might addle 
 mine, but I do n't believe he would. 
 
 Anna. No, he would n't, Grandma ; you can wear 
 what you have a mind to. 
 
 Mrs. B. But then I must see my Patty and her 
 children suffering martyrdom every day. Your grand- 
 ma has a tender heart. 
 
 {Enter Mr. Layton.] 
 
 Mr. L. Does Mrs. Boulders live here ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Her shadow is here ; she herself is being 
 ground to powder between old Hardbones and the 
 tyrant Dandy Prince. {Puts her hands to her head. ) 
 Elsey, get me some water. Would you like to see Mrs. 
 Boulders ? 
 
 Mr. L. That is my express object in coming here. 
 
 Mrs. B. ( Wipes her spectacles, and looks through 
 them.) I do n't know who you be, but you set niv heart 
 
THE DANDY PRINCE. 85 
 
 all a -jumping. Maybe you know something of my dear 
 boy, Zeke. 
 
 Mr. L. I do ; I have brought you tidings from him. 
 
 Mrs. B. (screams.) Elsey — Elsey — help me. (She 
 faints. Elsey bathes her head with water, unties her 
 cap strings. Anna holds a bottle of hartshorn to her 
 nose. She revives.) Elsey, keep close by me. 
 
 Elsey. I will, Grandma ; I '11 take care of you. 
 Nothing shall hurt you. 
 
 Mrs. B. You blessed child ! Mr. , I do n't 
 
 know your name — but your voice sounds kind of home- 
 like. Maybe I 've seen you before ? 
 
 Mr. L. Have you forgotten your old friend, Job 
 Layton ? 
 
 Mrs. B. (She takes his hand and kisses it.') Have I 
 forgotten my old friend ? Not by a wheat -field. The 
 dandy prince has dressed your face after one of his 
 whims, so I did n't know my dear old friend. You and 
 my boy Zeke has played many an hour together, and 
 now you have brought me tidings of him. Job, Job, I 
 am glad to see you. Elsey, bring that box here for Job 
 to sit on ; here, close to me. I ha n't got many chairs. 
 That long box, Patty's girls can sit on — 'twill be 
 some help to their poor feet. 
 
 Fanny. Our feet are well enough, Grandma. 
 
 Mrs. B. These are Patty's girls, Job — (Mr. L. bows 
 politely to them) — and this, Elsey, is the child that has 
 kept life in my body these last days. Bring the chip 
 basket, Elsey, and sit close by me ; there, now we are 
 all fixed, I am ready to hear tidings. I can bear any- 
 thing. I 've worn this black string round my neck two 
 
»b DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 years, mourning for my boy. I know'd something had 
 happened to him 'cause he did n't send me anything. 
 But, Job, if I do n't stop talking, I shall never hear of 
 my poor Zeke. 
 
 Mr. L. You have worn mourning for him two years? 
 'T was two years ago he was taken sick ; one year ago 
 I found him, and stayed with him while he lived. His 
 last thoughts were for his mother. 
 
 Mrs. B. Then my dear Zeke has gone to his pa. 
 Well, they were fond of each other. I "11 soon be with 
 them, too. My Patty won't miss me. I do n't know if 
 the dandy prince will let her wear a black string for 
 me — 't is just as well. Elsey and Nat can wear one. 
 
 \Enter Nat, shabbily dressed.'] 
 Well, Nat, I am glad you have come ; sit here, close to 
 me. I have n't but one chip basket. 
 
 Nat. I 've got my heels with me. {Sits on his heels 
 close to Mrs. Boulders.) 
 
 Mrs. B. Now, Job, tell me all about my boy. This 
 Nat, here, is Elsey's brother. If any good comes to me, 
 they shall share it. If evil, I '11 bear it alone. If old 
 Hardbones sets me in the street, he '11 set me there, and 
 I '11 sit alone. If my boy has sent me anything, il' "t is 
 but a penny, I'll share it with these children. Speak 
 on, Job. 
 
 Mr. L. Your son trusted all his papers to my care. 
 His business was a good deal confused ; I have beeo a 
 year in getting it straightened ; it is completed now, 
 and there is a small sum of money left for you. 
 
 Mrs. B. O, Job! my old friend, Job! Is there enough 
 to pay you for your trouble and give me two dollars for 
 
THE DANDY PRINCE. 87 
 
 Mr. Scraper ? 't is his due for the last two months' rent. 
 'T will save him the trouble of carrying me down stairs. 
 I am heavy, and he might let me fall. 
 
 Mr. L. You have a pile of money, Mrs. Boulders, 
 and you deserve it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Job, take well your pay before you give 
 anything to me. Zeke was your friend. 
 
 Mr. L. My pay was given me by Zeke ; all that 
 was left was for you. These were your son's last words 
 regarding business matters : — " Job," he says, " friend 
 of my early days, my mines and all that is connected 
 with them I give to you ; the rest of my property you 
 must sell for cash and take it to my dear mother. Take 
 it to her yourself, and assist her in making herself com- 
 fortable with it." So here I am, at your service. Your 
 property is at your disposal. To-morrow I shall move 
 you from this old shell of a building to a home worthy 
 of the mother of Zeke Boulders. 
 
 Mrs. B. Will there be money enough to pay two 
 dollars to Mr. Scraper ? he is so impatient. 
 
 Mr. L. (Throws a pile of bills into her lap.) Here 
 is money enough to last you until I return to-morrow 
 for you, with a carriage. 
 
 Mrs. B. (Wipes her spectacles.') Job, can you spare 
 me all this ? Here is a two dollar bill, Nat ; take this 
 and run round to Mr. Scaper, 't will save him some 
 trouble. And this is a five, Elsey ; take it to your ma 
 as quick as you can ; perhaps 't will ease her pain, so 
 that she can eat some supper. Now, Job, those two 
 burdens are off my mind, tell me how much my dear 
 Zeke sent me, that I may know what I can do. 
 
88 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mr. L. That little roll of bills I gave you is some 
 odd change that belongs to you. You have a hundred 
 thousand dollars beside, to do just what you please with. 
 
 Mrs. B. Job, Job, help me to do good. I am rich 
 in my old age ; 't is but a short time I shall want money. 
 I must do what good I can. I will give Elsey and Nat 
 and their ma a nice home. 
 
 Fanny, Grandma, sha n't you remember your Patty 
 and her children ? 
 
 Mrs. B. To be sure I shall. Here is a five for each 
 of you, to buy you some shoes without a squeeze at the 
 toe and a stopple at the heel. Go home now, and tell 
 my Patty that I shall never live in a country thai is 
 ruled by a dandy prince. Tell her to come to the land 
 of liberty, and accept good sense for her guide, and we 
 will share our goods together. 
 
 Fanny. Mr. Layton, did n't Uncle Zeke send any- 
 thing to my mother ? 
 
 Mr. L. He spoke kindly of your mother. 
 
 Fanny. And sent her nothing ? 
 
 Mr. L. He gave all to your grandmother. He said 
 that was more fit — she might have the pleasure of doing 
 what she chose with her own. 
 
 Mrs. B. Go home, girls, and be sensible. Your 
 grandma is a. just and generous woman. My son knew 
 what he was doing. The first thing I shall do will be 
 to buy the freedom of my Patty and her children. 
 
 [Curtain drops. 
 
THE SHENSTONE SOCIETY. 
 
 (Characters: 
 
 President, Secretary, and Treasurer, with a Society of Boys and 
 Girls — the Girls dressed in white. 
 
 The motto of the Society, " Each for the Other," written in large, golden 
 letters, is suspended over the stage. A table in the centre, with some 
 chairs. Curtain rises ; twelve little girls — some standing, some seated. 
 
 Sylvia. I am so glad they let little girls belong to 
 the Shenstone Society, I think it is the best society in 
 the world. 
 
 Mattie. So do I. We have such good times here. 
 I never enjoy myself so much anywhere else. 
 
 Mary. I don't think our society is the best one in 
 the world. 
 
 Sylvia. Do n't you have a good time here Mamie ? 
 
 Mary. Yes, I enjoy it very much, and I know we 
 all enjoy it ; but this does n't make it the best society 
 in the world. 
 
 Bess. You are right, Mamie. I think the Masonic 
 Society is better than our Shenstone ; then, the Tem- 
 perance Society is better. My mother used to belong 
 to the Abolitionist, and that is a great deal better, 
 because its object was to free the slave. 
 
 89 
 
90 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 [Enter President, Secretary, and Treasurer — 
 
 take *< <Us.\ 
 
 Sylvia. Miss Winslow, is n't our society better than 
 the Temperance Society ? 
 
 Miss W., President. We will compare their merits. 
 What is the motto of the Shenstone Society? 
 
 .Many Voices. "Each for the Other." 
 
 Miss W. Well, we all understand that this means 
 we are to live for each other. In all that we do, we 
 are to try to make each other happy.* and should any 
 one of us become intemperate, it would frustrate all our 
 work. So you see it is superior to Temperance societies, 
 for it serves all their use, and does more. 
 
 Bess. Miss Winslow, it is n't as good as the old 
 Abolitionist Society was, is it? 
 
 Miss W. I think it is better. Let us hear our motto 
 again. 
 
 Many Voices. " Each for the Other." 
 
 MlSS W. Do you not see, just in proportion as we 
 live our motto, we are doing a greater work than the 
 Abolitionist did? A member of our Shenstone Society, 
 with its motto so warmly alive in his heart that it comes 
 forth into every act of his life, could never hold a slave. 
 Our Shenstone Society is an Abolitionist society. It 
 commences its work deep, destroying the root of the 
 evil ; we are slaves to self-love ; our society is form, d 
 for the purpose of abolishing this tyrannical power. 
 
 Mary. I understand it. If the slavemaster loved 
 and lived our motto he would never hold a slave in 
 bondage. 
 
 Sylvia. I was right. Our Shenstone Society is the 
 
THE SHENSTONE SOCIETY. 91 
 
 best society in the world. If everybody loved our 
 motto, I think we should have heaven on earth. 
 
 Miss W. We should, Sylvia ; and if everybody loved 
 our motto, we should have no more woes ; we should 
 need no prisons ; there would be no inmates for an 
 alms-house. Give Love an abiding place with us, and 
 all evils flee far away, and heaven is here. 
 
 Sylvia. How delightful it would be to live in this 
 world then. We should n't need to die to go to heaven, 
 because it would be right here at home. Let us all be 
 Abolitionists, and unite our forces against Self-love. 
 Miss Winslow, is n't Self-love the captain that leads an 
 army of smaller forces ? 
 
 Miss W. Yes, Sylvia ; Self-love is the head. Let us, 
 in our Shenstone Society, concentrate all our energies 
 against this evil, and we shall make good progress in 
 the work of reformation. 
 
 Sylvia. Although our society is the best one in the 
 world, we are too small to do anything in so great a 
 work. We can only be happy here together. 
 
 Miss W. You are mistaken there, Sylvia. The 
 efforts we make here, in our little society, will be felt 
 throughout the world. Move a drop of water in the 
 mighty ocean, and every sister drop feels a thrill. 
 
 Sylvia. I do not understand this. 
 
 Miss W. You can understand that one drop of rain, 
 falling upon our dry and parched fields, does good. 
 
 Sylvia. A little good. 
 
 Mary. And many drops will do much good ; but 
 each drop comes by itself. So each of us, little Slien^ 
 stone girls, will be a drop of rain, and do a little good. 
 Is n't that the way for us, Miss Winslow, to do ? 
 
92 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 MlSS W. 'Tis the only way — each do what she 
 can. 
 
 Bess. Miss Winslow, may I a^k a question ? 
 
 MlSsW. Certainly; sociability is the right hand of 
 our society. Ask what you please. 
 
 Bess. My father belongs to the Masonic Society, 
 and he thinks it is the best society there is. Do you 
 believe our Shenstone Society is as good as the Masons ? 
 
 Miss W. I think it is much better. They do n't Let 
 little girls belong to the Masons, nor women either. 
 
 Sylvia. That is selfish in them, is n't it? 
 
 Miss W. It appears so. If they have a good, they 
 ought to share it with us. 
 
 " Ceasing to give, they cease to have, 
 Such is the law of love." 
 
 [Enter two little girls dressed in blue."] 
 
 Bess. Then, you know, they have a nice secret. 
 
 Miss W. So have we. 
 
 Many Voices. Do n't tell ; there are strangers here. 
 
 Miss W. Mary, lead forward these little girls. 'Tis 
 Lueilla Day and Kittie Hoar ; we are glad to see you. 
 
 Lucilla. I want to join your society. I have brought 
 ten cents, is that enough ? 
 
 Miss W. That is enough for little girls ; fathers and 
 mothers, and aunties and uncles, pay twenty-five. Give 
 your money to our secretary, Miss Barton, and she will 
 give you the badge of our society. (Presents the new 
 member a blue ribbon, ivith the motto of the Bocu ty written 
 on it in gilt letters.) The society may repeat to this 
 new sister our Shenstone motto. 
 
 All. " Each for the Other." 
 
THE SHENSTONE SOCIETY. 93 
 
 Miss W. Will you, Lucilla Day, adopt this as your 
 motto ? 
 
 Lucilla. I will. 
 
 Miss W. Does your little friend here want to join ? 
 
 Lucilla. She does ; but she has n't any money. 
 
 Miss W. " Each for the Other " is our motto. Kittie 
 Hoar wants to join our society. She has no money. 
 Are there ten little girls present, that could each give 
 her a penny? 
 
 Many Voices. I will — I will — I will. 
 
 Miss W. Those that say " I will," may raise a hand. 
 I count seven ; there are seven cents promised for Kittie. 
 I shall feel very happy in giving the other three. 
 
 Lucilla. I will give one. I did n't think to raise 
 my hand. 
 
 Miss W. Then there is two left for me to give. 
 Kittie can join our society next month, when her friends 
 bring the money. 
 
 [The Treasurer, Mr. Russel, rises.~] 
 
 Mr. Russel. Miss President, allow me to advance 
 the money on my own responsibility. I will trust the 
 honor and honesty of the little ladies that have pledged 
 themselves, a month. (Gives the money to Kittie.') 
 
 Kittie. Thank you. 
 
 Miss W. Kittie may pass the money to the Secretary. 
 (She receives the badge.') 
 
 Miss W. The society may give again our motto. 
 
 All. "Each for the Other.' 
 
 Miss W. Does Kittie Hoar accept this as her motto ? 
 
 Kittie. She does. 
 
 Miss W. Perhaps you have heard that our socie y 
 nas a secret? 
 
94 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Lucilla. We have ; and we want to know what it is. 
 
 Miss W. Place each of you a hand in mine. That 
 is right. Will you keep our secret safe ? 
 
 Both. We will. 
 
 [Enter a company of Boys.'] 
 
 Miss W. Good evening, boys. You are in time. 
 We have just received two new members into our 
 society. The secret is now to be revealed. Kittie and 
 Lucilla may take their position in the middle of the 
 stage. The girls may take hands and form a half-circle 
 round them. The boys may take their position behind 
 the girls. That is right. We could n't get along if we 
 had n't boys belonging to our society. They make a 
 fine back-ground for our delicate flowers ; and a strong 
 wall of defence, too. Lucilla Day and Kittie Hoar, if 
 you feel willing to receive the secret of our society, and 
 think you are responsible for its safe keeping, raise your 
 right hand, and repeat our motto. 
 
 Both. " Each for the Other." 
 
 The Secrerary (rises; she holds in her hand two 
 sealed letters; gives one to each of the girls). Kittie 
 Hoar, the ten cents you have paid into this society 
 as the fee of your membership, I have sealed in this 
 envelope. I have done the same with yours, Lucilla. 
 Now, answer my questions. Do you know poor Mrs. 
 Lonely ? 
 
 Both. We do. 
 
 Miss Barton. Do you know where she lives? 
 
 Both. We do. 
 
 Miss Barton. Do you know she is deaf and very 
 poor? 
 
 Both. We do. 
 
THE SHENSTONE SOCIETY. 95 
 
 Miss Barton. Do you know in one side of her house 
 there is a hole for her eat to enter ? 
 
 Both. We do. 
 
 Miss Barton. To-morrow morning, before the sun 
 rises, take these envelopes (they are directed to her) 
 and slip them through the cat-hole. If you promise 
 secrecy, raise your hand. 
 
 (Both raise a hand — a general laugh, 
 and the circle breaks.} 
 
 Ben. Drake. Is n't our secret a good one, Lucilla ? 
 I think it is number one. Each of us has done the 
 pretty deed you are to do to-morrow morning. Do n't 
 be behind time ; you will find a big company at the 
 corner waiting to escort you on duty. You know Mrs. 
 Lonely is deaf; there is no danger of her hearing us. 
 
 Fred. Hunt. 'T is fun to hear the old lady inquiring 
 all over town about the mystery ; but she do n't say 
 much now. She finds it of no use — our secret is safe. 
 She says the money that comes through the cat-hole, 
 pays her rent and buys all her wood. You know there 
 are over a hundred members, and we pay our fee 
 annually, so she gets a good deal. 
 
 Lucilla. I think 'tis a good secret; but if the 
 Shenstone Society gives all this money to poor Mrs. 
 Lonely, what do they pay for the trees and flowers 
 with? 
 
 Miss W. I will explain that to you. We have 
 entertainments in this hall once a month ; they are 
 interesting ; the room is crowded with listeners. All 
 that do n't belong to the Shenstone Society pay twenty 
 cents at the door. 
 
96 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Kittie. What makes you let the members of the 
 society in free ? 
 
 Miss W. The members provide the entertainment. 
 
 Kittie. I can 't do anything. 
 
 Miss W. You are a good singer, Kittie. We shall 
 let you join the Shenstone Glee Club. 
 
 Lucilla. What can I do ? 
 
 Miss W. You can take part in the dialogues. There 
 are many ways here that you can make yourself useful. 
 Next month our dialogue is "The Gold Snuff-box." 
 You and Kittie can come then without taking a part in 
 anything; wear your badge, that will give you admis- 
 sion. 
 
 Kittie. O, I am so pleased to belong to the Shen- 
 stone Society. What fun we shall have ! 
 
 Miss W. There is one thing more I must tell you. 
 You have seen the Shenstone Park ? 
 
 Lucilla. I have walked in it a great many times. 
 
 Miss W. Did you notice the shrubbery and flowers 
 there ? 
 
 Lucilla. I did ; they look beautiful. 
 
 Miss W. Every member of the society plants a t ire 
 or bush there, and each takes care of his own. and in 
 this way they are all taken good care of. Now. you 
 and Kittie may plant there your favorite shrub; Miss 
 Barton will show you your ground. 
 
 Lucilla. I will plant a rose-bush — a moss rose- 
 bush. 
 
 Kittie. And I will plant a lilac. Will that do? 
 
 Miss \V\ Yes; plant what you like, and do nor for- 
 get to take care of it. The first evening of next month 
 
THE SHENSTONE SOCIETY. 97 
 
 is a public entertainment. The middle of the month 
 comes our social meeting like this. Now, you under- 
 stand all about our society. Form yourselves into a 
 circle again. What is our motto ? 
 
 All. " Each for the Other." 
 
 Miss W. Now, if Mr. Russel will lead in music, we 
 Will have a good-night song. 
 
 (All sing.') 
 
 " Bright, rosy day has gone to her rest, 
 And covered her face with the shadows of night — 
 Shadows all gemmed with glittering stars, 
 And cheered by the beams of soft moonlight. 
 So we '11 sing her a song of sweet lullaby, 
 We will sing her a song of good-night ; 
 Good-night, rosy day — good-night, good-night, 
 Cheered with the beams of soft moonlight. 
 
 " Now, patient friends, go home to your rest, 
 Go, yield drooping eyes to the shadows of sleep — 
 Shadows all bright with innocent dreams, 
 And safe 'neath the watch that angels keep. 
 So we '11 sing you a song of sweet lullaby, 
 We will sing you a song of good-night ; 
 Good-night, patient friends — good-night, good-night, 
 Safe 'neath the watch that angels keep. 
 
 [Curtain falls. 
 
BRINGING BACK THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Mrs. Dale. Sam Carter. 
 
 Dick and BENNY, her Sons. Mrs. Keats. 
 
 Betty Oaks, Mrs. Dales servant. Mr. Low. 
 
 [Mrs. Dale and Benny.] 
 
 Mrs. D. Now, Benny, my dear child, do n't trouble 
 yourself any more about the rabbits. The first chance 
 your father has, he will buy you another pair. 
 
 Benny. Father is full of business, he will never find 
 another pair; besides, he can't find any so pretty as 
 mine were. Ma, what do you think became of my little 
 white bunnies ? 
 
 Mrs. D. I think they must have wandered off so far 
 that they didn't know the way back. 
 
 Ben. That could n't be. If they went off, we should 
 see their little tracks in the snow. Some wicked boy 
 has taken them. 
 
 Mrs. D. Do n't think about your bunnies, Benny. 
 You have enough other things to amuse yourself * ith. 
 
 Ben. I haven't much lefl now. Some wicked man 
 drove his wagon wheels over my little * heelbarrow and 
 broke it ; Dick out elf my h<>r>e*s tail, and that isn't 
 
 98 
 
BRINGING BACK THE SUNSHINE. 99 
 
 pretty to look at ; he spoiled Kitty, too, when he cut 
 her ears off. 
 
 Mrs. D. Do n't mind these things, Benny. You 
 are getting to be a large boy ; to-morrow you will be 
 nine years old — almost a man. 
 
 Ben. I do n't want to be a man yet : and when I 
 am, I hope I sha n't have as much trouble as I do now. 
 Yesterday, you know, I was blind. My forehead is sore 
 yet where I ran against the bureau, trying to find the 
 door. Dick is a bad boy. I wonder Avhat made him 
 think to drop tallow from the candle on to my eyelids 
 when I was fast asleep ; then, when I waked up I 
 could n't open them. 
 
 Mrs. D. Dick does a great many things there is no 
 accounting for. He is full of mischief ; but then, he 
 loves you, Ben ; you know he made your wheelbarrow. 
 
 Ben. I know it, and it took him a good many days 
 to make it, and that is what made me feel so bad when 
 it got broke. I love brother, Dick, and I wish he was a 
 good boy ; do n't you, Mamma 
 
 Mrs. D. Dick is n't a bad boy, but he loves fun, 
 and this oftentimes leads him too far. It leads him into 
 mischief. But he is growing older, and will soon see 
 the folly of it and correct himself. 
 
 [Enter Betty, with shawl on.~\ 
 
 Betty. Mrs. Dale, I have just come in to say that I 
 am after leaving you. And I am breaking my heart, 
 too. That boy Benny, I love more than myself; and 
 the swate babie — I am dying to part with it. As I 
 said, my heart is breaking. 
 
 Mrs. D. Betty, you have been with me ever since I 
 
100 DRAMATIC STOKIES. 
 
 kept house ; "t is nineteen years. What has happened 
 
 now, that we must part? Is your old friend, Mike, 
 after you again ? 
 
 Betty. No, missis, no ; I wouldn't go with Mike, 
 he has too many childers. If I marry any man. it -hall 
 be a young one and good looking. 
 
 Mrs. D. What is it, then ? 
 
 Betty. (Looking frightened around the si<t ; ic~) Your 
 house is haunted. I have heerd noises before that 
 scared me, but last night I seed the old fellow himself 
 I was so scared my hair jumped straight up and my 
 knees jumped down. I was eowld as a gravestone. 
 
 Mrs. D. What was it, Betty? 
 
 BETTY. That is the question. The wisest of nun 
 can 't answer it. Nobody can tell what kind of stuff a 
 ghost is made of. 
 
 Mrs. D. O Betty, you are very foolish , there an- 
 no gliosis. 
 
 Betty\ I know you are a woman that spakes the 
 truth always, but I must believe my own eyes first. I 
 saw the awful, frightful thing. 'T was a graveyard ghost 
 — all white. 
 
 Mrs. D. If you saw anything, it might have been 
 Dick, with a sheet over his head. 
 
 Betty. 'T was no Dick, and no sheet. It was a 
 very tall ghost : his head looked like a ball of fire. 
 
 [Enter Dick. <7r- ss( •/ as << <jh<>*t. Bettv. %cr< ams <m>] 
 catches hold of Mrs. Dale. Benny is frightened "ml 
 hides behind the <l<>m\] 
 
 MBS. I). Dick, my misguided boy, when will you 
 learn w isdom ? 
 
BRINGING BACK THE SUNSHINE. 101 
 
 [Dick throws off his disguise.'] 
 
 Dick. Excuse me, mother ; I did n't expect to find 
 you and Betty here, and Benny too. 
 
 Betty. (Takes hold of his arm and shakes him.') You 
 wicked crather ! You frightened the life out of my 
 body last night. Dick Dale, if your soul was in purga- 
 tory, Betty Oaks would n't say masses for it. You are 
 not your mother's son — you are a big bundle of mischief 
 glued together to torment the life out of a body. (She 
 shakes him again.) What do you say for yourself, you 
 spongie tater ? - 
 
 Dick. I say, I am so perfectly ashamed of myself 
 and my meanness that I wish I was a veritable ghost, 
 that could be annihilated. 
 
 Ben. Brother Dick, you are a bad boy ; almost as 
 bad as the one that stole my bunnies. 
 
 Mbs. D. Dick, what did tempt you round here in 
 this frightful dress ? 
 
 Dick. My evil genii, Mother. I expected to meet 
 Sam Carter here and frighten him a little, for fun. He 
 will be here soon. 
 
 [Enter Sam.] 
 
 Sam. What is all this, Dick ? Have you been play- 
 ing the ghost ? 
 
 Dick. Yes, Sam, and it was intended for your benefit. 
 Mother, and Benny, and Betty have spoiled my fun. 
 
 Sam. Better have it spoiled this way than a worse 
 one. I have in my pocket father's revolver ; 't is loaded. 
 I have always said I would shoot the first ghost I met. 
 
 Betty. Do it, Sam, but do n't shoot Dick ; spake 
 first, before you let go your bang. 
 
102 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mrs. D. My child do n't deserve this kind plea from 
 you, Betty. 
 
 Betty. O, I would spill my own blood before 1 
 would have a drop of Dick's wasted. 
 
 Ben. Sam Carter, if you shoot brother Dick, I 11 
 knock you down. 
 
 Sam. Well, Dick, I do n't see but what you have 
 friends enough, after all your mischief. Should I play 
 half the tricks you do, I should be expatriated. 
 
 Betty. That is true ; for you are not clever like as 
 our Dick is. I would never let anybody beside himself 
 have a second chance of putting the cat into my dinner 
 pot. He is a good boy. There is nothing under the 
 earth, nor over it, that he can 't do. {She catches holds 
 of his arm, and shakes him with all her power .) Dick, 
 if I could shake the evil out of you, I would worship 
 you as a saint. You are going to make some day my 
 ideal of a gintleman, and when that day comes I wish 
 Betty Oaks was a young lady. (Shakes him agaiti.) I 
 wish I could shake the devil out of you. 
 
 Ben. Do n't shake him so hard, Betty ; he made my 
 wheelbarrow. Dick, to-morrow is my birthday. 
 
 Dick. I know it, Benny. Here is three dollars for 
 you to buy Captain Gray's three rabbits: they are 
 prettier than yours were. I saw him to-day ; he said 
 you might have them for three dollars. 
 
 BEN. I shan't take this money. Dick: "t is some 
 you have been all the year working for, to buy a fiddle 
 with. I want the rabbits, but I will not let you give 
 
 me this money. You are the best boy in the world, 
 
 Dick. 
 
BRINGING BACK THE SUNSHINE. 103 
 
 Betty. That is true of him. 
 
 Dick. I haye the best mother in the world ; the 
 best little brother ; and the best friend in Betty. 
 
 Betty. You are so good yourself, Master Dick. 
 
 Dick. Here, Benny, take this money, and enjoy 
 your rabbits. 
 
 Ben. I will not take it, Dick. Some wicked boy 
 killed my rabbits, and I will do without them. Buy a 
 fiddle with your money • I want something else of you 
 for a birthday present. 
 
 [Enter Mr. Low.] 
 
 Mb. Low. (Presents Mrs. Dale a bill.') Please give 
 this to your husband ; 't is a bill of fifty dollars for the 
 damage done to my best cow. Some one tied a tin pail 
 to her tail last night, and she was so frightened it has 
 completely ruined her for milk. Your son's reputation 
 is such that there is no question about the rogue. Good 
 evening. [Exit. 
 
 Dick. I am innocent of this charge, Mother. He 
 said it was done last night. Betty can testify that I 
 was at home, entertaining her, then. 
 
 Betty. I can testify to Dick's innocence in all 
 things. 
 
 Mrs. D. Dick, will you not learn a lesson now ? 
 'T is your reputation that brings this charge upon you. 
 
 Dick. Mother, I am learning very fast this evening. 
 [Enter Mrs. Keats.] 
 
 Mrs. Keats. Mrs. Dale, can I see your son Dick ? 
 
 Mrs. D. This is my son Dick. 
 
 Mrs. K. Master Dick Dale, my daughter Susie has 
 a bad sprained ankle. Will there ever come an end to 
 your playing tricks upon the school girls ? 
 
104 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Dick. I am sorry Susie has a sprained ankle. Can 
 I do anything for her ? 
 
 Mrs. K. You can do as much as to pay the doctor's 
 bill. 
 
 Dick. Why do you expect me to pay the doctor's 
 bill? 
 
 Mrs. K. Was it not you that challenged her for a 
 race on that ice, on purpose to see her fall ? 
 
 Dick. How much is the doctor's bill ? 
 
 Mrs. K. 'T is one dollar. I am a poor woman and 
 cannot well afford to pay it. 
 
 Dick. (Gives her a dollar.') Will this exonerate me 
 from blame in tempting your daughter to an ice-race ? 
 
 Mrs. K. 'T is the least you can do. 
 
 Dick. I might call upon her, and, in person, offer 
 my sympathy. 
 
 Mrs. K. Do n t mock us, boy. [Exit, 
 
 Ben. Dick, was that dollar some of the money you 
 have been working so hard for all winter ? Was it some 
 of } r our fiddle money ? 
 
 Dick. Yes, Benny, and here is three dollars of it for 
 you. Go, get those pretty white rabbits. 
 
 Ben. I sha n't take your money, Dick. The boy 
 that stole my bunnies ought to get me some more. 
 
 Dick. Good brother Benn}^, I am a mean boy. I 
 have been a hector to you ever since you opened your 
 eyes to the light of this world, and yet you stand here 
 to-night, with your baby list, threatening to knock 
 down big Sam Carter if he shoots my ghost. 
 
 BEN. And I will ; and Betty will help me. Do n't 
 you shoot brother Dick, Sam. 
 
BRINGING BACK THE SUNSHINE. 105 
 
 Sam. I should n't dare to, with you as his defender. 
 
 Dick. But, Benny, take this money — 'tis your 
 birthday present. 
 
 Ben. I do n't want such a birthday present from 
 you, Dick. 
 
 Dick. What do you want ? 
 
 Ben. I want you should bring back the sunshine. 
 
 Dick. Have I carried it away, Benny ? 
 
 Ben. Yes, Dick. I have heard ma say that you took 
 away all her sunshine. And when I go into the kitchen, 
 and Betty can 't find her things in their place, and she 
 goes for her glasses, and they are all stuck up with putty 
 so she can 't look through them, she says, " That devil 
 of a boy, Dick ! he takes away all my sunshine." And 
 when I put on my shoes of a cold morning, in a hurry, 
 to get to the breakfast table as quick as father does, 
 and feel little shot in the toes, so that I can 't walk, I 
 say, " That devil of a boy, Dick ! he takes away all my 
 sunshine." Now, Dick, bring back the sunshine ; bring 
 back the sunshine for my birthday present. 
 
 Dick. How shall I do it, Benny ? 
 
 Ben. (Hesitates.) Do n't play the devil any more. 
 
 Dick. I am so thoroughly ashamed to-night, I be- 
 lieve I shall never do it again. Benny, I am going to 
 turn round. I will not take the sunshine away from 
 the whole household again ; and what I have taken 
 away I will try to bring back. I know the wicked boy 
 that murdered your bunnies. I know where he is now. 
 
 Ben. Where is he ? Where is he, Dick ? 
 
 Dick. Sam Carter has a revolver — he can shoot 
 him. 
 
106 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Ben. No, Sam sha n't shoot him ; he may shoot him 
 if he do n't pay me for them, so that I can buy some 
 more. 
 
 Dick. If he pays you for them, will } r ou forgive him ? 
 
 Ben. Yes. 
 
 Dick. Well, I am the wicked boy ; and here is the 
 money to buy more. 
 
 Mrs. D. Dick ! Dick ! 
 
 Dick. I am not so bad a murderer as it seems. I 
 shut them up, just to frighten Benny ; then I went over 
 to uncle's, and forgot to let them out ; and when I came 
 back they were dead. I was very sorry ; and if Benny 
 will forgive me this time, I will promise to bring back 
 the sunshine as far as I can. 
 
 Ben. And that is my birthday present. Sunshine 
 for ma, sunshine for Betty, and sunshine for me. 
 
 Dick. And when I bring any more clouds, let Sam 
 Carter shoot me with his revolver. 
 
 Betty and Ben. No, no ! Never, never ! 
 
 \_Exeimt. 
 
 THE SEQUEL. 
 
 Betty. (Scouring knives.) What an angel Ox a boy 
 our Benny is ! Who but his pure self would ever 
 think of asking such a birthday present — " Bring back 
 the sunshine." And he asked it for his ma and Betty 
 too. And what a wonderful deal of it Dick has brought ! 
 He was born a budget of fun, and he used to take it all 
 to himself, robbing everybody about him of the comfort 
 of life. Now he shares it so generously the house is 
 
BRINGING- BACK THE SUNSHINE. 107 
 
 full of sunshine ; he just keeps me laughing so much, I 
 can hardly do my work. I should n't wonder if my hair 
 turned red again. Then his ma — she is growing young 
 every day, and she ought to. What a wonderful woman 
 she is ! She not only gave birth to the babyhood of 
 Dick, but her long patience has made him over again. 
 She has never knocked Dick round, as some mothers 
 do their budgets of mischief. Many times she has said 
 to him, " Dick, will you never learn wisdom?" How 
 sorry the poor boy would look when he saw he had 
 given the best of mas pain ! And I believe Betty Oaks 
 has helped him some in kicking away the devil. I never 
 told all the tricks he played on me, and I never knocked 
 him but once, and then I cried more than he did. Well, 
 Dick Dale is the most remarkable boy there is in the 
 country ; and I should n't wonder if he made the most 
 remarkable man. He '11 never forget his friend Betty, 
 and he ought not, for I have helped make him. 
 
 [Enter Benny, with a new sled in Ms handJ] 
 
 Ben. Betty, did you ever see such a boy as Dick is ? 
 He has made me a sled. 
 
 Betty. Benny, all these things come from your ask- 
 ing for that birthday present. How in the name of all 
 the taters of Ould Ireland did you happen to think of it ? 
 
 Ben. I wanted it so much I could n't help think of 
 it. Now, Betty, we do n't have any more trouble, do 
 w e ? 
 
 Betty. Not a shadow of it. And then, Dick gives 
 ns just as many surprises as he use to ; but they are so 
 different. You see, Benny, these warm overshoes he 
 gave me ? he bought them with some of his fiddle 
 
108 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 money. I found them one day, wrapped up in a paper, 
 in the dinner pot, where he use to put the old eat. 
 Ben. I saw them, Betty. Bui the sunshine thai 
 
 he brings is the best of all. I beard father tell ma last 
 night she was growing handsome. She said, it was not 
 her fault, for she had so much sunshine she could n't 
 help it. 
 
 Betty. Do n't you think, Benny, I am growing 
 young, too? Did you know Dick said he would invite 
 Mr. Screechy round here to see me ? And Dick never 
 tells a lie. 
 
 Ben. Maybe lie is down in the kitchen now ; some- 
 body is there, and wants to see you. 
 
 Betty. What kind of a looking man is he ? 
 
 Ben. O, he looks old as our old cat. He lias got no 
 hair on his head ; he has got no teeth ; he has got but 
 one eye ; and he is lame. 
 
 Bitty. That's him. Why didn't you tell me he 
 was in the kitchen, and wanted to see Miss Oaks, 
 sooner ? 
 
 Ben. He said he was in no hurry. Betty, he looks 
 awfully. I would n't put my glasses on to look at him. 
 
 Betty. (), his looks is nothing, Benny. Dick and 
 your pa both say he is a good man : and 1 am gelling 
 kinder lonesome ; and he owns a good cow, too. But 
 I must go down. If In; isn't in a hurry, I am. 
 Benny, this is bringing back the sunshine of my early 
 
 days. I feel so young : do I look well? 
 
 Ben. Yes. Betty, you look like the sun itself — but. 
 
 that Ugly old man ? 
 
 Betty. (>, he'll turn Into sunshine. [ Exeunt. 
 
THE BUMBLEBEE. 
 
 (Efjaracters: 
 
 Mrs. Butters. 
 
 Betsey, her Grand-daughter. 
 
 Mr. Noit, a Stranger. 
 
 Six little Girls dressed in white, and Six Boys. 
 
 Mrs. Butters and Betsey on the Stage. 
 
 Mrs. Butters. This is a great day ; 't is the seven- 
 tieth anniversary in the history of Polly Onion, now 
 Madam Butters. Three -score years and ten is the 
 measure of her days — honored indeed with such a long 
 pilgrimage. Two -score years and five she walked side 
 by side with her good man, Tim Butters ; and he was a 
 good man, had only one fault — he liked to have his 
 own way, and he would have it, in spite of Polly Onion. 
 Well, that was manly in him. I notice all men like to 
 have their own way— and women. Let them alone. I 
 gave Tim his share of trouble. I hope he rests now. 
 Betsey Butters, put away that book, and talk to your 
 grandma. This is her birthday. It must be celebrated. 
 
 Betsey. I know it, Grandma. I thought about it 
 all day yesterday, and I know it will be celebrated, but 
 I can 't tell how. I had a dream last night. 
 
 109 
 
110 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mrs. B. You did? Why didn't you tell me of it 
 before you ate your breakfast? 
 
 Betsey. It will come to pass all the same. Grandma ; 
 it will come to pass I know, but I can *t tell how. 
 
 Mrs. B. Betsey Butters, I notice you have on your 
 red dress this morning, and a red rose in your hair. 
 
 BETSEY. And I notice, Grandma, you have on your 
 green dress, and your cap with a wide ruffle and trimmed 
 with green. 
 
 Mrs. B. I alers wears this green suit on my birth- 
 day — alers since your good grandpa died. I know 
 what green signifies. I ni not without hope — hope for 
 some young joy in this world, and hope for lasting joy 
 in the other. But, Betsey Butters, I do n't know what 
 red signifies. 
 
 Betsey. It signifies love, grandma ; and now you 
 know why I wear it to-day. 
 
 Mrs. B. You love your grandma; well, that is a 
 good thing, since you 've no pa and ma to love. But 
 what about your dream, Betsey Butters? Let 's have 
 it, even if 't is after breakfast. Your dreams are about 
 as true as a bumblebee. 
 
 Betsey. I saw six little white lambs in your bed- 
 room ; you were asleep there on the bed. Your hair 
 was bright and shining and laid in ringlets on your neck. 
 and on the pillow ; your cheeks were round and rosy : 
 you looked beautiful. Grandma : just like a baby. The 
 lambs played all round your bed: after awhile they 
 jumped upon the bed and put their nose^ close to 
 your face Then you grew more beautiful, Grandma. 
 They walked all over you, but they didn't wake yen. 
 
THE BUMBLEBEE. Ill 
 
 for there seemed to be no weight to them. While I 
 was looking at them, six white cloves came into the 
 room, and they kept flying about over your bed. Then 
 I saw rainbow lights, and -flowers all about the room. 
 
 Mrs. B. What else ? 
 
 Betsey. Nothing more, Grandma. I tried to come 
 and get into the bed with you, and that woke me. 
 
 Mrs. B. O, Betsey Butters, why didn't you tell me 
 that nice dream before breafast ? 
 
 Betsey. I didn't like to, Grandma. You looked 
 beautiful ; and the lambs, and the doves, and the rain- 
 bow lights and flowers. But you must n't go away yet, 
 you must n't leave me alone. I am afraid of the dream. 
 
 Mrs. B. O, Betsey Butters, you need not be afraid 
 of the dream. It is a nice one — better than the bumble- 
 bee. It clo n't mean that I 'm going to leave you. 
 
 Betsey. What does it mean, Grandma ? 
 
 Mrs. B. It means, I have a little grandchild on my 
 birthday that is blessing my life with her pure innocent 
 affections and bright heavenly thoughts. I smell now 
 fragrant flowers and see rainbow lights. 
 
 Betsey. You make me glad, Grandma ; for I was 
 afraid of my dream, and the more so because last evening 
 I saw the moon over my left shoulder ; and this morn- 
 ing, when I first saw the cat, her tail pointed to the 
 north. 
 
 Mrs. B. We will not mind those common signs ; 
 something may come of them, but nothing of any ac^ 
 count. This morning, you know, when you went out 
 to pick up some chips, you fell into the muddy ditch ; 
 we will balance that against the cat's tail pointing 
 
112 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 northward. The signs from cats' tails never mean any- 
 thing very exalted. Cats are of low origin. The goblet 
 you broke this morning was bad luck enough to square 
 off the account with the moon over your left shoulder. 
 These things done with, now lets look at the bright 
 ones. Your dream is being fulfilled every moment. 1 
 am asleep as it regards all the cares and perplexities of 
 this world. I have taken a burden and yoke upon my 
 shoulders that is easy to bear. I feel about me inno- 
 cent lambs, and I see white doves. Betsey Butters, 
 this beautiful dream of yours is enough to celebrate this 
 my seventieth birthday. Do n't you want some maple 
 sugar ? There is some in the cupboard. 
 
 Betsey. I cannot eat maple sugar to - day, somehow. 
 I feel as if something was going to happen. 
 
 MRS. B. Well, there will, Betsey Butters. There 
 alwers does on my birthday. Just seventy years ago I 
 celebrated the day, by coming into the world. Sixty- 
 nine years ago to-day I had my first tooth. I was lazy 
 about getting my teeth. Sixty -eight years ago to-day 
 my mother gave me a brother. Fifty years ago to-day 
 we had a great celebration — your grandpa and 1 Mere 
 made one. 
 
 BETSEY. What do you think will happen to-day. 
 Grandma ? I know something will. 
 
 Mrs. B. I count greatly on (lie bumblebee. I 
 never knowed one on 'em to tell a lie ; and tins one. 
 Betsey Butters, was a tremendous lively one : just as 
 quick as I opened the door this morning, he came buz- 
 zing straight into my face. I tried to drive him away, 
 but he would n't go ; he kept buzzing close to one ear, 
 
THE BUMBLEBEE. 113 
 
 then the other, as if he were talking love to me. Some 
 stranger will be here before night, I am sure. Let him 
 come, we are ready, always ready, for whatever may 
 come on my birthday. I hear a tapping at the door. 
 
 (Betsey opens it. Enter six little girls, dressed in 
 white, each with a bouquet of flowers in her hand ; six 
 little boys follow, with small baskets on their arms. They 
 form a half- circle round Mrs. Butters. The girls 
 ■present their flowers : one of them says — 
 
 Mrs. Butters, we knew it was your birthday, and so 
 we brought you some flowers. Will you accept them ? 
 
 (The boys present their baskets, and one of them says — 
 
 What the girls knew, they told us boys, so we fol- 
 lowed in their flowery footsteps, and have brought you 
 some fruit : please accept our offering. 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed I will. Blessed children ! 't is such 
 as you the Lord took in His arms when He was on 
 earth. This is your dream, Betsey Butters. 
 
 Betsey. I see it, Grandma, and we thank the good 
 children very much. 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed we do. These gifts from my little 
 friends delight me ; they make feel young like them. 
 Now, children, when your birthdays come round, send 
 a pigeon's wing to Madam Butters. Will you remem- 
 ber it ? 
 
 Many Voices. We will. [Exeunt children. 
 
 Betsey. Grandma, this is the interpretation of my 
 dream. But I still feel as if something else was to 
 happen. 
 
 Mrs. B. The bumblebee's stranger is to come yet. 
 That will finish the day. Does my cap look all right, 
 Betsey Butters ? 
 
114 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Betsey. Yes ; and you look handsome, Grandma, 
 for an old lady. 
 
 Mrs. B. And you look handsome, for a young girl, 
 Betsey Butters. I hear a tap at the door again — this 
 is the bumblebee's stranger. Let him in. 
 
 (Betsey opens the door. Enter Mr. Noit, a tall, well 
 dressed old gentleman.) 
 
 Mr. Noit. Have I the pleasure of seeing Mrs. But- 
 ters ? 
 
 Mrs. B. {Rising.} I am Mrs. Butters. Please be 
 seated, sir. 
 
 Mr. N. Mrs. Butters, do you remember your old 
 friend, Ethan Noit ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed I do. {Offers her hand.) And I 
 am glad to see him. This is my seventieth birthday. I 
 was expecting you. 
 
 Mr. N. That is pleasant. I thought to surprise you. 
 Many years have passed since we met, and yet I see in 
 Mrs. Butters, Polly Onion — the pretty girl that I loved 
 in the freshness of youth. You are a widow now, I be- 
 lieve. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, I have been a widow three years. 
 
 Mr. N. And do you manage to keep life always 
 cheerful ? 
 
 Mrs. B. With the help of my dear grandchild. This 
 is Betsey Butters ; she is the only child of my son Ethan 
 Butters. She is a dear girl, and keeps my heart warm. 
 1 could not live without her. 
 
 Mi:. Noit. I see in her dimpled cheeks and clear 
 black eye something of Polly Onion. Impressions made 
 on the plastic heart of youth never fade out. My Mar- 
 
THE BUMBLEBEE. 115 
 
 tha died two years ago ; since then I have passed many 
 a lonely day. My children are all married ; I am alone. 
 In the quiet evening hours, I live in the distant past. I 
 sit on the mossy slope in the pale moonlight ; the air is 
 laden with the sweet breath of the honeysuckle, rose 
 and mignonette ; the wakeful katie-dids are making 
 merry with their fiddles ; I sit upon the mossy slope, 
 with the prettiest black-eyed maiden by my side that 
 ever made Eden a paradise. (Mrs. Butters wipes a 
 coming tear.) I see, dear Polly, the past is not all faded 
 with you. Do you remember the sad moaning of a dove 
 we heard that evening ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I remember it well ; the sound has been 
 too often repeated for me to forget. 
 
 Mr. N. You believed in signs then, and half made 
 me believe them too. Your influence over me in those 
 days was wonderful. I heard the strange cooing of the 
 dove, and that was all ; you interpreted it, Polly, but, 
 I think, falsely. Still, you made me believe, and sent 
 me away as one whom Heaven had banished from 
 paradise. I have wandered long in the cold and dark — 
 my heart hath found no rest, no home ; so I come back. 
 Will you banish me again ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Ethan, my thread of life is almost finished ; 
 this is my seventieth birthday. 
 
 Mr. N. I have counted your birthdays each year as 
 they came. Polly, with my wife and my children, I 
 could not forget you ; and the remembrance was no sin. 
 I did what I could to make Martha happy ; I did what 
 I could for my children. They have all left me. I am 
 alone. Do you hear the sad moaning of a dove to-day, 
 Polly ? 
 
116 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mrs. B. No. 'Twas my father's voice then. He 
 
 had given me .to Mr. Butters, and I was not fn i . and 
 the dove moaned. 
 
 Mr. N. And you are free now. Polly? 
 
 Betsey. No, sir, she is not free now ; she is my 
 grandma ; she belongs to me. 
 
 Mr. N. My dear child, 1 rejoice that she is ypur 
 grandma. I would not separate her from you foi all 
 the gold in the mines of this earth. I only propos • to 
 be company to you and her. I will serve you both, in 
 doors and out. I will keep a carriage for you to ride 
 in, and a Darkie to drive you. Whatever Bessie want.-, 
 that money can buy, she shall have. Now, will yon 
 not leave your grandma free to act for herself? I >o not 
 make the dove moan again. 
 
 Betsey. Grandma is free. She is the only grandma 
 I have. She must be happy. You mustn't teaze her. 
 
 Mr. N. Pretty bird, I will not teaze your grandma. 
 I teazed her once ; it did no good; the dove moaned, 
 and I was sent away. I only ask her if she will send 
 me away again ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I named my only boy, Ethan Noit. The 
 Lord hath taken him from me. 
 
 Mr. N. Thank you, Polly, for that fond remem- 
 brance. Ethan Noit of your early days is with you 
 again, repeating his heart's pleadings. 
 
 M as. B. Is it not too late, Ethan ? 
 
 Mr. N. Never too late, Polly. True love never 
 grows old. Lei our lasi days be our happiest. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ethan, do you think we shall have any 
 last days? 
 
THE BUMBLEBEE. 117 
 
 Mr. N. No ; we are but just beginning our existence 
 in this mundane world. Then, Polly, be mine forever. 
 Youth is before us, and heaven near. Girl of my heart, 
 let us cross the threshold together. 
 
 Mrs. B. Take my hand, Ethan, and be it as you 
 say. The dove moans no longer. [ Curtain falls. 
 
AM I ONE? 
 
 characters : 
 
 Mrs. Dow, a Widoiv. Charles Carey. 
 
 Peter and Robert, her Sons. Grace Barton. 
 
 Alice Dow, her Niece. Mr. Pender. 
 
 Mrs. Dow, sitting alone upon the stage, dressed in black, with an open 
 book in her hand. 
 
 Mrs. Dow. 'T is three long years since I have been 
 a heart-broken mourner. 'Tis five since my husband 
 died. I sorrowed then, but not without hope ; tears 
 fell, but there was no bitterness in them ; I was lonely, 
 but there was peace in the loneliness. I knew that my 
 good man was in the blessed home prepared for him, 
 and I knew he would wait at the gate for his Mary. 
 But when my darling Robbie took himself from me in 
 that dark night, my heart broke. It will not be com- 
 forted. 'T is of no use for Mr. Pender to speak to me 
 kind words ; I cannot listen to him. 'T is of no use for 
 him to talk to me of love and youth. My heart is bro- 
 ken, and I will wear this black crape as the symbol of 
 my grief until I cross the shining ri\ er. 
 ( Enter Mi:. Pender ; shakes li«n<ls with Mrs. Dow.) 
 
 Me. PENDER. Still in your dark weeds. Why will 
 you cherish grief? 
 
 118 
 
AM I ONE? 119 
 
 Mrs. D. 'T is the all of my life ; leave me in it ; I 
 would have nothing else. Mr. Pender, you speak 
 kindly words, but kindness oppresses me now. My boy 
 Robbie is lost — lost for this world and the other. His 
 mother's heart is broken. How gladly would she die 
 for him ! 
 
 Me. P. Since you cannot do this, why not make a 
 sensible woman of yourself, and live for one who would 
 gladly fill Robbie's place ? 
 
 Mrs. D. Mr. Pender, your words are powerless. 
 No, not so, — for they give pain. I have grown old in 
 grief. A mother's heart, all unsatisfied, is consuming 
 me. 
 
 Mr. P. Since I cannot serve you in one way, com- 
 mand me in any other. What can I do for you ? 
 
 Mrs. D. Bring back my lost boy. 
 
 Mr. P. Give me a pledge from your finger, and I 
 will search heaven and earth to find him. {She gives 
 her ring.) You will see me no more till I bring to your 
 arms your truant child. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. D. He is a good man — may the Lord help 
 him in his search ! But I have no hope ; my heart is 
 broken ; I can only wait and weep. But Grade's let- 
 ters are some comfort. {Takes a letter from her pocket, 
 and reads.) 
 
 " Do not yield to despair, my dear friend. Hope on, and trust ever. 
 Our dear Robbie will return to us endeared a thousand - fold by his long 
 absence." 
 
 Blessed child ! If I could only see her. But her father, 
 as if he were afraid my presence would contaminate her, 
 took her away the same week I lost my boy. But I 
 
120 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 have her weekly letters. She was young when Robbie 
 gave her that lock of hair, with the charge not to for- 
 get. And she does not forget ; she loves my boy, and 
 her love, buoyant with hope and cheerful with trust, 
 may prove the magnetic star to light his wandering feet 
 home. His mother's love is an agony of despair ; it 
 cannot help him ; it only makes his way dark and 
 troubled. But dear Gracie ! Her love is lighted with 
 hope, and strong with trust. Robbie, my boy, do you 
 not feel the charm ? Come home. 
 
 {Enter Alice Dow.) 
 
 Alice. Dear Auntie ! always sad. Why will you 
 not be a little cheerful for my sake ? and more so for 
 poor Peter. He says, since Robbie went away, you ta ki- 
 no notice of him ; that his home is so gloomy he does n't 
 like to stay under its roof. 
 
 Mrs. D. I suppose it is; and he is over at your 
 house almost every evening. I trust you to make him 
 happy. I never loved him as I did Robbie ; he is 
 cold and taciturn. Robbie was so affectionate and 
 social. 
 
 Alice. But Peter is good ; he never ran away ; he 
 is always true and kind. 
 
 Mrs. D. Yes, that is nry Peter — true and kind. 
 The sun is true and kind in its wintry light ; it never 
 ceases its shining ; but who grows warm in its heartless 
 beams? Peter is cold, selfish. Forgive me, my son; 
 you are kind to your mother in your way — but you are 
 Peter. The boy of my heart, my wild summer boy, my 
 pet lamb, is wandering in a strange fold. O Good Shep- 
 herd ! bring him home. 
 
AM I ONE? 121 
 
 Alice. Auntie, if you trusted that Good Shepherd 
 you would not feel the lonely wretchedness you do. 
 
 Mrs. D. That is a merited rebuke, Alice. I accept 
 it kindly. But when Peter tells me there is no use in 
 fretting for Robbie ; that he has shown himself a bad 
 boy, and do n't deserve my love, I feel like a swelling 
 volcano, ready to send forth fire and smoke. O, Peter's 
 cold philosophy chills me ; he knows nothing of love. 
 Robbie, my darling, are you not cold and hungry in that 
 far-off fold ? 
 
 Alice. Auntie, do try to leave him with the Good 
 Shepherd that guardeth every fold. 
 
 Mrs. D. I do leave him there ; I must leave him 
 there. But this leaving does not help the heart's agony. 
 
 Alice. Perhaps you do not leave him in the right 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. D. Alice, your words probe deeply ; I do not 
 think I leave him at all. How can I ? He is a part of 
 my being. Robbie, come home ! 
 
 Alice. Aunt Mary, I had a letter from Gracie yes- 
 terday, and I came round here to tell you what she 
 says. She is going to visit me next week. She wants 
 to talk with you about a plan her father has for her. I 
 do n't know what it is, but I think it is something that 
 troubles her. 
 
 Mrs. D. The cold, hard-hearted man is trying to 
 make her forget Robbie, I know. 
 
 Alice. He has always done this, and I do not know 
 as we ought to blame him. Gracie is his only child, 
 and he loves her dearly. When Robbie was at home, 
 you know he was wild and reckless. Do n't you remem- 
 
122 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 ber how he coaxed Gracie up on to that high scaffold ? 
 She was dizzy, and came near 1'alling and breaking her 
 neck. There was no way for her to get down bat to 
 fall into his arms. Cousin Robbie was a rogue. lie use 
 to race his horses when Gracie rode with him, to test 
 her courage. We ought not to blame Mr. Barton very 
 much if he does try to have her forget. 
 
 Mrs. D. I do blame him. Robbie liked fun, but Ik* 
 was a good, generous -hearted boy, and so kind and 
 loving. 
 
 Alice. It was not very kind in him to run away and 
 break his mother's heart. 
 
 Mrs. D. He did not mean it. He could never bear 
 to see his mother suffer. Come home, dear boy ■ Mr. 
 Pender thinks he can find him. 
 
 Alice. Yes, I met him on the way here. He says 
 he will search heaven and earth, but he will find Robbie. 
 Auntie, why don't you try to be more cheerful, and 
 leave off this mourning dress? I think Mr. Pender 
 could see better to find the runaway if you did n't look 
 so dark. 
 
 Mrs. D. I can 't help his eyes until he brings me 
 Robbie. 
 
 Alice. Have you promised him a reward if he does, 
 Auntie ? I guessed as much, he is so determined. 
 
 Mrs. D. All that I have — all that I am — I will 
 give the man that brings me my boy. 
 
 Alice. Uncle Pender ! I only anticipate the day. 
 I know he will win the prize. lie will not sleep until 
 lie does. 
 
 [Enter Peter. ] 
 
AM I ONE? 123 
 
 Peter. Mother, what is the scapegrace up to now ? 
 I see in the morning paper there is five thousand dollars 
 reward offered to any person that will give information 
 concerning Rob. This card is to be copied into every 
 paper in the United States and California. What is the 
 harum - scarum boy doing now, that such a reward is 
 offered for his head ? I will never give my hard - earned 
 money to save him from prison if he merits it. 
 
 Mrs. D. Hush, Peter ! Smother your chilling 
 thoughts. Have you no heart ? 
 
 Peter. I have heart enough, but I will not let it 
 make a fool of me. But what do you suppose this great 
 sum of money is offered for ? Rob's height, form, and 
 face are all minutely described. Has he been up to 
 some deviltry ? What does it mean ? 
 
 Mrs. D. It means, your mother has a friend more 
 thoughtful of her comfort than you are, Peter. 
 
 Peter. Gracie has no five thousand dollars to give. 
 If Rob is n't a fool, he will come home and claim the 
 reward himself. But he may not dare to come — he 
 was always full of mischief. 
 
 Alice. Cousin Peter, you are rocky ; what makes 
 you so hard ? You have a heart ? 
 
 Peter. Yes ; but it is made of flint. 
 
 Alice. And flint strikes fire, but it takes a skilful 
 hand to do it. Fanny Earl knows the art. Now, do n't 
 droop your head, Pete. 
 
 Peter. But what does this mean about Rob ? 
 
 Alice. Do n't be alarmed. There are more magic 
 hands in the world than Fannj^'s. I hope the generous 
 reward will bring Robbie from his hiding place. I would 
 
12-4 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 give all I am worth to see him. Let 's go and read the 
 advertisement. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE SECOND. 
 
 Charles Carey. Grace Barton. 
 
 Grace. I didn't expect to meet you here, Mr. 
 Carey ; I came expecting other friends. 
 
 Mr. Carey. I trust my presence is not disagreeable. 
 I have sought a long time an opportunity of seeing you 
 a few minutes alone, but you seem to shun me. 
 
 Grace. I have a reason for it. 
 
 Mr. C. Not a good one. You have acknowledged 
 to your father that my character is unexceptionable ; 
 that you have been very happy in my society ; that you 
 have seen few persons that you enjoy more. Then why 
 should you shun me ? 
 
 Grace. Mr. Carey, please don't press me to answer 
 your question. Did you enjoy the concert last evening? 
 
 Mr. C. No. I heard as one that did not hear. I 
 saw you there with our mutual friend, Mr. James. 
 
 Gn ACE. Mr. James said the music was line : you 
 know I do not profess to be a judge in thai department. 
 
 Mr. C. I wish you did not in some others of more 
 importance. Gracie, you are a mystery that I cannot 
 solve. You are not handsome. 
 
 Grace. I know it ; but you are, Mr. Carey. 
 
 Mr. C. That is my misfort line. A handsome gentle- 
 man is not acceptable to homely ladies ; they prefer 
 roughs and Shallows. But you have a cross eye. 
 
AM I ONE? 125 
 
 Grace. That depends upon the company I am in. 
 I can look straight if I choose. 
 
 Mr. C. If yon will look straight at me for a moment, 
 perhaps I can read you. 
 
 Gracie. I will not. 
 
 Mr. C. Please do, and I will grant you any request 
 you may make. 
 
 Grace. Will you cease persecuting me ? 
 
 Mr. C. O Gracie (pardon me), Miss Barton, do not 
 call my devotion to you persecution. Why do you per- 
 sist in treating me thus ? To be rejected by a plain, 
 uneducated mechanic's daughter does not humble me — 
 it almost maddens me. It maddens me to see you make 
 such a fool of yourself. Have you no sense ? 
 
 Grace. Sense enough to know when I am in the 
 presence of a gentleman. 
 
 Mr. C. That is an assumption, but I will grant it, 
 if you will answer me one direct question. Have you 
 a heart of your own ? 
 
 Grace. I have not yours, and you deceive yourself 
 if you think I have. Educated gentlemen are sometimes 
 ignorant upon certain very nice subjects. 
 
 Mr. C. Will your wisdom please enlighten one of 
 them ? 
 
 Grace. Love is Heaven's most sensitive flower, and 
 only blossoms in freedom. It feels, but does not speak. 
 
 Mr. C. Then I must love you in silence. 
 
 Grace. You do not love me at all. You are a fash- 
 ionably educated gentleman ; you are a master of many 
 languages ; master of the natural sciences ; understand 
 all the quibbles of law ; you can plead as eloquently 
 
1:26 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 for the wrong as for the right ; you can talk about love 
 and devotion, 
 
 Mr. C. Go on, Miss Barton ; your enthusiasm makes 
 you almost handsome ; your cross-eye becomes fixed; 
 speak on. 
 
 Grace. You can use hard, rough words to a lady. 
 You can stoop to ridicule and sarcasm to gain a point. 
 
 Mr. C. Indeed I would to gain the heart and hand 
 of Gracie Barton. Teach me my lesson : I will be an 
 an apt learner. 
 
 Grace. Go home, then, and unlearn the many falses 
 that you have learned. Be a true, and sincere, and gen- 
 tle, man. Mr. Carey, give me the hand of friendship ; 
 do not let us talk of love ; it will not be talked of ; it 
 must he felt. You do not love me ; I cannot love you. 
 We can interest each other ; you can teach, and I can 
 learn ; but you do not know what love is. In this I am 
 your superior ; in nothing else. Now let us be friends. 
 
 Mr. C. Tell me first, Gracie, and tell me truly, do 
 you love another ? 
 
 Grace. No gentleman but yourself has ever talked 
 to me of love. Three years ago, a wild, warm-hearted 
 boy gave me a lock of hair — he looked straight into 
 my cross-eye until it became fixed — he only said, 
 "Gracie, don't forget." This is all, Mr. Carey. I 
 cannot forget. Please do n't ask me any questions: let 
 us be friends. 
 
 Mr. C. Will you not tell me the name ? 
 
 Grace. Do not ask me. Do not speak of this. 
 Father thinks 1 have forgotten ; keep my secret : give 
 me your promise. 
 
AM I ONE? 127 
 
 Mr. C. I wish I were the wild, warm-hearted boy; 
 but you have my promise. 
 
 Grace. Thank you, Mr. Carey. Now let us be 
 friends. 
 
 Mr. C. As you say. 
 
 [They take hands. The curtain falls. 
 
 SCENE THIRD. 
 
 Robert Dow alone, walking the stage with an open letter ^n his hand. 
 
 Rob. Am I one ? or am I two ? I am a mystery to 
 myself. After three years' lonely and painful wander- 
 ing, I stand again in my native village, have walked 
 beneath the elms that shaded my childhood, have seen 
 
 the vine -covered cottage Beating heart, be still ! 
 
 Am I one ? or am I two ? Conflicting emotions tear 
 me. Mother, dearest mother, the boy — your wayward 
 pet — is at your feet. "Forgive, forgive!" he cries. 
 Down, down, distracting thought ! Does she live ? Hath 
 grief hilled her ? Am I one ? A devil, an angel, both 
 are in this bosom. Fight on, fight for victory, good 
 angel ; the Lord is on your side ; He proclaimeth peace 
 when the battle is won. Fight on to the last — yield 
 not an inch of ground till a oneness is complete. {Looks 
 at the open letter in his hand.) This will not do. I 
 must nerve myself for the meeting. {He reads.) " Five 
 thousand dollars if the information is satisfactory." I 
 can make it satisfactory. I can tell him where he may 
 find Robert Dow. But I must be prudent ; must learn 
 why such a sum of money is offered for a runaway. 
 
128 
 
 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Possibly some villain wants to lay his burden upon my 
 back ; but I do not believe this. I have faith in human 
 nature ; and this means that I have faith in the good 
 and the true. The devil shall be slain and the oneness 
 come. But if a brother seeks my life, I forgive him as 
 I hope to be forgiven. (Looks at his watch.) The hour 
 is here. Mr. Pender, I am ready to see you ; but I 
 must be prudent ; I have money enough in my pocket 
 to take me back to my far-off hiding-place. Mother, 
 dear mother, if she lives, come what will, I am her boy. 
 [Enter Mr. Pender.] 
 
 Mr. Pender. {Bows politehj.) Do I meet Mr. Bush ? 
 
 Rob. I answer to that name. 
 
 Mb. P. Then we will proceed to business. Can you 
 give me the whereabouts of Robert Dow ? 
 
 Rob. I can. 
 
 Mr. P. Can you guide me to his place of residence? 
 
 Rob. I can. 
 
 Mr. P. This is sufficient. When you have done it, 
 the promised reward is yours. 
 
 Rob. This may be sufficient for you but not for me. 
 I am too much interested in the safety of Robert Dow 
 to betray his hiding-place until I know why so Large a 
 sum of money is offered for him. 
 
 Mb. P. Has the young man committed a crime, that 
 he fears to reveal himself? 
 
 Rob. Guard your language, Btranger ! Impute not 
 a shadow of crime to the son of Mrs. James Dow. 
 
 Mb. P. I do not. I reverence and respect thai suf- 
 fering lady too much to question the honor of her son. 
 
 Rob. Does she live ? 
 
AM I ONE? 129 
 
 Mr. P. If the anguish of a mother's despair may be 
 called life, Mrs. Dow lives. 
 
 Rob. (walks across the stage, and in low tones says, 
 Thank God for this.) Mr. Pender, please tell me in 
 few words why this sum of money has been offered for 
 the discovery of Rob. Dow. I know him well, and can 
 take you to him ; but first answer me this question. 
 
 Mr. P. Sympathy for his suffering mother has 
 prompted it. 
 
 Rob. Is the mother still a widow ? 
 
 Mr. A. She clings to the black veil until she finds 
 her lost boy. It is for him she mourns. 
 
 Rob. Has she not another son ? 
 
 Mr. P. Yes — Peter; but he is little comfort to her 
 since Rob ran away. 
 
 Rob. Is not this son kind to her ? 
 
 Mr. P. Peter is kind to her in his stony way ; but 
 Mrs. Dow refuses all kindness, all comfort, until her lost 
 boy comes home. So show me where he is, and the 
 reward is ready for you. 
 
 Rob. What assurance have I of this ? 
 
 Mr. P. I will deposit a check of five thousand 
 dollars in the hand of a third person. 
 
 Rob. Very well ; let the thing be done. 
 
 Mr. P. Excuse me a moment. If you have no ob- 
 jections, I will now present the brother and mother, 
 with two young ladjr friends. 
 
 Rob. As you please. (Exit Mr. Pender) My 
 mother ! She cannot know me. I was a boy when I 
 left her ; I had a boy's slender form, a boy's soft face ; 
 now I am stout and heavy ; my face is browned with 
 
130 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 tlic tropical sun and covered Avitli a man's moustache : 
 in)- hair is Long and uncombed ; ii has grown curly, too, 
 in the southern breezes. Mother will not see her wild 
 hoy in the thinking man. My voice — her quick ear 
 will detect that — I cannot change it. I must keep 
 silent. She must not know me yet ; I am not prepared. 
 I would meet her alone. And Pete is to be with her ; 
 that is well. His cold eye will not know me. The 
 two young ladies — who may they be ? One is Cousin 
 
 Alice, and the other Be still, bounding heart ! 
 
 Little Cross-eye could not remember the wayward hoy 
 so long. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Dow, Peter, Cousin Alice, Grace 
 Barton and Mr. Pender.] 
 
 Robert. ( Takes from 1m pocket a pencil and paper and 
 quickly icrites.) To-morrow evening I will make the 
 revelation. (He gives the paper to Mr. Pender, who 
 reads it aloud.) 
 
 Mrs. D. Stranger, gentleman, do not keep us in 
 this terrible suspense. Speak now. Give us your 
 secret. 'T is a mother's aching heart that pleads with 
 you. 
 
 Rob. (In choking voice.') Madam, will you raise 
 your veil ? 
 
 (GRACE is faint and tiuks into a chair. ALICE fans 
 her.) 
 
 MRS. D. T will never raise this black veil from my 
 Pace until my wandering boy routes home. These eyes 
 nl" mine shall never see sunlight again until they look 
 upon Robbie. Robbie, my boy. — Robbie, your mother's 
 
 heart is broken. Come home! come home ! 
 
AM I ONE? 131 
 
 GRACE (rises slowly, gently takes Mrs. Dow's hand, 
 places it to her lips, then raising her veil, says) Robbie is 
 here ! 
 
 Robbie falls on his knees before his mother, 
 
 [The curtain falls. 
 
THE BIRCH. 
 
 (E J) a car tens: 
 
 Mrs. Crossbar. Mr. Carlos Bumper, PhrenJogist. 
 
 Nicodemus, her Son. Pat Riley, Waiter. 
 
 Mr. Solomon Candid. Joel Tarbox, Sheriff. 
 Hosea Goodnow, his Nephew. 
 
 Mrs. Crossbar, with a large hickory stick in her hand, lookng about 
 
 the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Crossbar. Strange what has becomeof Nick. 
 He 11 catch it when I find him. Should n't wider if I 
 break that boy's temper ; I 've been at him thee twelve 
 years. I began on him when he was six maths old : 
 have nl forgot his sticking up his back in tie cradle. 
 Didn't he feel my flat hand that day? Wei, I han't 
 spared the rod ; I han't spiled my boy thai ay. But 
 he 11 get lots more afore he 's broke. This is he biggest 
 birch I ever found. (Looking at it with atirfaetionJ) 
 Won't he get it! There 's a pleasure breking a boy 
 in, though sometimes lis hard work. Ni<£ is getting 
 strong. 
 
 [Enter Mr. Candid.] 
 Mr. Solomon, have you seen my boy, Nicl anywhere? 
 I have got a job on hand to do for him, a» m\ fingers 
 
 L32 
 
THE BIRCH. 133 
 
 ache to get hold of the work. I '11 do it up handsomely, 
 won't I ? 
 
 Mr. Candid. I have n't seen your son anywhere ; 
 but what has happened ? 
 
 Mrs. C. You know I 'm his ma. His pa — well, I 
 don't know whatever became of his pa — but he left the 
 headstrong vagabond to my care, and I am bringing 
 him up straight. Solomon was a wise man, and you 
 know he said, " Spare the rod and spile the boy." I 
 do n't mean to be guilty of spiling Nick. Won't I give 
 it to him when I get hold of him ? 
 
 Mr. C. Solomon's proverb is greatly abused. I 
 would repeat the words to you that our Saviour spake 
 unto Peter : " Put up again thy sword into his place." 
 
 Mrs. C. Not until I have staggered the devil in 
 Nick. I 'm his ma. 
 
 Mr. C. Do you love your son ? 
 
 Mrs. C. 'Twon't do to stop to think about love ; we 
 must use the rod or spile the boy, and I do n't mean to 
 spile mine for the want of a little hot mustard. 
 
 Mr. C. I have six boys, and I never had a birch in 
 my house ; my boys never disobey me ; they give me no 
 trouble. 
 
 Mrs. C. I guess they have got a go©d ma. 
 
 Mr. C. You have guessed right there — they have a 
 good ma. She often stops to think how much she loves 
 them. 
 
 Mrs C. And I '11 bet she birches them when their 
 pa is out. To live in the house with six boys and never 
 birch them ! ! ! I 'd like to see the woman that could 
 do it. 
 
134 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mr. C. Call round and talk with my wife ; she will 
 be happy to give you her secret. Perhaps it would 
 help you in the management of your son. 
 
 Mrs. C. I want no help, and I want no advice. I 
 should like a little more strength in my arm, and I 
 should like to be a little spryer in finding the sly fox ; 
 he is getting more cunning every day, but his ma is 
 able to settle up accounts yet. I always put on till he 
 begs like a drowning man. Well, there is some satis- 
 faction in it, when one's temper is up to the biling pint. 
 
 Mr. C. Mrs. Crossbar, I hope you will not be able 
 to find your son ; you are ruining him. You are un- 
 worthy the name of mother. 
 
 Mrs. C. And you are unworthy the name you bear, 
 Mr. Solomon. How did you get it ? You called Solomon^ 
 and yet you would spare the rod and spile the boy ! 
 Good bye to you. [Exit. 
 
 Mr. C. I believe there never was a proverb so much 
 abused as this one of Solomon's. How many selfish, 
 ungovernable parents apply it as a soothing syrup to a 
 sensitive conscience. After passion has subsided they 
 are painfully aware of having abused power; then they 
 seek relief in Solomon's soothing syrup. I would like 
 to teach these parents to apply the rod to their own 
 tempers first, then they may be wise to train the im- 
 mortal germs entrusted to their care. 
 
 [Enter NlCODEMUS, in tattered elothes.'] 
 
 Nic. Please, sir, have you Been my mother any- 
 where ? 
 
 Mr. C. Why do you seek your mother ? 
 
 NlC. And I do n't seek her. I would sooner seel? a 
 
THE BIRCH. 135 
 
 hungry tiger. I am hiding myself from her. Please, 
 have you seen her ? 
 
 Mr. C. Who is your mother ? 
 
 Nic. She is Mrs. Crossbar. She carries a big hick- 
 ory stick in her hand. She goes out washing when she 
 is 'nt birching me. 
 
 Mr. C. What does she birch you for ? 
 
 Nic. That is more than I can tell. Sometimes I 
 know ; sometimes I do n't. It comes all the same. 
 
 Mr. C. Do you love your mother ? 
 
 Nic. What should I love her for ? I would sooner 
 now meet a drove of wild cats than meet that fierce 
 woman. But tell me, sir, have you seen her ? 
 
 Mr. C. She was here a moment since, inquiring for 
 you. (Nic. starts to run.) Stop, poor child ; I will 
 protect you. There is a law in our country to protect 
 animals from the abuse of man. I feel a law in my 
 heart to protect a weak child against the abuse of a 
 woman — I will not say mother. The word is too sacred 
 to be applied to this being. 
 
 Nic. I tremble ; I think she is close here. Some- 
 times she seems to spring up out of the ground ; I can 't 
 hide from her anywhere. I can 't bear her cudgel now, 
 sir, my back is too sore ; feel of the ridges there. (Mr. 
 Candid feels of the boy's back.) 
 
 Mr. C. Barbarous cruelty ! And this in a land of 
 civilization ! a Christian land ? The blood of Abel 
 crieth from the ground ; I hear the sad moan. Child, 
 will you leave your mother ? 
 
 Nic. She is no mother to me — she 's a tiger. 
 
 Mr. C. Will you put yourself under my protection, 
 and obey me as my boys do ? 
 
136 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Nic. Yes, sir. Do n't you hear that woman coming? 
 
 Mr. C. If she comes here, she shall never strike 
 you again. I have six boys ; they all obey me, and 
 they love me. I never struck one of them. 
 
 Nic. I should like somebody to love. I hear her 
 coming. Save me ! save me ! ( Catches hold of Mr. C.'s 
 arm.) 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Crossbar, in a rage.'] 
 
 Mrs. C. O, you black rascal ! I have found you at 
 last. You have given me a deal of hunting ; that 's no 
 matter — your bones can settle for it. Do n't hang like 
 a coward to that gentleman's coat-tail; follow your 
 ma ; you know who she is ; she understands settling 
 accounts. 
 
 Nic. (In a loud and terrified voice.) I '11 never fol- 
 low you again. I 'd sooner follow a raging lion into its 
 den. 
 
 Mrs. C. (Walks passionately round the stage.) You 
 impudent puppy ! this gentleman put courage into you, 
 but I will hound it out. I know my business — I 've 
 had practice. 
 
 Mr. C. Mrs. Crossbar, I have taken this helpless 
 child, with his lacerated back, under my protection. I 
 had six boys this morning ; I have seven now. They 
 are all my lambs. I am their shepherd, and I will guard 
 my whole flock. No dog shall touch the back of one of 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. C. Scoundrel ! thief ! robber ! AVho are you, 
 Solomon Candid, that dares rob a woman of her child ? 
 But you can 't do it. You could as easily take a cub 
 from the mouth of a bear, as to take that child from me. 
 
THE BIRCH. 137 
 
 Give me my own, or 1 11 birch your six saplings till 
 they can 't stand on their feet. I '11 do for them the 
 work their ma is too cowardly to do. 
 
 Mr. C. (Rings a bell. Enter Pat Riley.) Patrick, 
 step across the street and order the sheriff over here. 
 
 Pat. Yes, sir ; I '11 do it. [Exit Pat. 
 
 Mr. C. Woman, I see you are an unsafe person to 
 run at large — my lambs would be in danger. 
 
 [Enter Sheriff.] 
 Sheriff take this woman into safe custody ; let her wait 
 her trial ; I will appear as witness against her being a 
 safe person to walk the street. 
 
 Sheriff. Woman, follow me. 
 
 Mbs. C. I never followed a man yet, and I do n't 
 think I shall begin now. 
 
 Sheriff. I am an officer of the city, and must do 
 ray duty. If you refuse to follow, I have brother offi- 
 cers within call, and I have handcuffs in my pocket. 
 
 Mrs. C. I vow vengeance on that black robber there 
 and his six cubs ; they shall become acquainted with 
 Crossbar. The good old proverb shall not be trampled 
 under foot, with no one to defend it, while I live. I '11 
 have my own. (She shakes her fist at Mr. Candid.) 
 I '11 fix him so he '11 never get me into a scrape like this 
 again — the cowardly puppy. 
 
 Sheriff. Come along. 
 
 Mrs. C. I never followed Crossbar, and I '11 not 
 follow you. Go, give your orders to your own slave 
 wife. 
 
 (Sheriff rings the bell. Mrs. C. runs off the stage, 
 and Sheriff folloivs her.') 
 
138 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 [Enter Me. Bumper.] 
 
 Mr. Bumper. Good evening, Mr. Candid. I have 
 brought } r ou a ticket of admission to my lecture this 
 evening. Is phrenology popular in this place ? 
 
 Mr. C. People here are somewhat awake to an in- 
 terest in it. I think you will have a good house. Put 
 your hand on the head of this boy, and tell me what 
 you think of him. 
 
 Mr. B. (feels of Nick's head.) This is a remarkable 
 head. Boy, you will make something in life ; you will 
 make a mark; and much will depend upon surrounding 
 influences whether the mark is good or bad. I find 
 here large combativeness, large destructiveness, and 
 very large casualty. His moral qualities are all full, his 
 self-esteem is large; he would not very quietly bear 
 an insult ; he would not patiently bear oppression ; he 
 is very conscientious ; has a great sense of justice. He 
 would make a good soldier, give him the right side to 
 light on. 
 
 Mr. C. You think he has a good head, and ought 
 to be a good boy ? 
 
 Mr. B. He has a fine head ; his firmness is small ; 
 he wants a kind friend to stand by him, to steady him 
 a little. Boy, what is your name ? 
 
 NlC. Nicodemus Crossbar. 
 
 Mr. B. Well, I will give } t ou a word of advice — 
 set your mark high. Never do a mean thing; never 
 speak a falsehood ; and never act one either. Be faith- 
 ful in the discharge of everything you undertake to do. 
 You have the capacity to fill honorably a high position; 
 but you have seen trouble. Can I do anything for you? 
 
THE BIRCH. 139 
 
 Nic. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mr. B. What are you in want of ? 
 
 Nic. A friend — somebody to trust — somebody to 
 love. 
 
 (He sinks doivn upon the carpet, and covers Ids face 
 with his hands. Mr. Candid kindly helps him up, and 
 seats him in a chair. ,) 
 
 Mr. C. What is the matter with you, Nick ? 
 
 NlC. (Places his hand on his stomach.) I am very 
 tired. It aches, here. 
 
 Mr. C. Have you had any supper ? 
 
 Nic. No, sir. 
 
 Mr. C. Did you have any dinner ? 
 
 Nic. No, sir. 
 
 Mr. C. And your breakfast? 
 
 Nic. I had my breakfast yesterday morning ; since 
 then I have heen all the time hiding ; and the longer I 
 hide the more am I afraid of that woman. 
 
 Mr. C. Where did you sleep last night ? 
 
 Nic. I didn't sleep anywhere ; I hid myself in a 
 barrel. 
 
 [Mr. Candid rings the bell. Enter Waiter.'] 
 
 Mr. C. Pat, give this boy a supper ; give him a good 
 one; He 's my boy ; I '11 pay the bill. 
 
 Nic. Is n't the woman out there ? 
 
 Mr. Pat, what became of that woman that was here ? 
 
 Pat. She ran into the street, and the sheriff after 
 her. 
 
 Mr. C. You are safe, Nick ; she shall never lay her 
 hands on you again. You are my boy, my seventh son ; 
 I will take care of you. Go with Pat. 
 
 [Exeunt Pat and Nic. 
 
140 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mr. B. That boy lias a remarkable head ; I would 
 like to watch its development. With a kindly training 
 he will make a reformer — a philanthropist. Bnt great 
 suffering is written on his face. I am in haste now. 
 When I am at leisure, I would like to know his history. 
 I can help him, and would like to, — that is, if he is in 
 need of a friend. 
 
 Mr. C. I would like to talk with you about his 
 capacity or fitness for some particular niche in life. I 
 am much interested in him, and have told him he was 
 my boy. I will stand by him. 
 
 Mr. B. That is right. Good evening. I am in 
 haste. [Exit. 
 
 [Enter Hosea Goodnow.] 
 
 Hosea. Uncle Solomon, father sent me round to ask 
 you if you could send him a good honest boy, to open 
 his shop mornings, and sometimes carry bundles ? 
 
 Mr. C. I think I can, Hosea. I have an honest boy 
 on my hands now that I want to get a good place for. 
 I want to put him where he will be treated very kindly. 
 I do not care about any compensation : I will see to 
 that part. I want this boy to have a genial home. 
 
 Hosea. If he is a good, neat boy, father will take 
 him into our family ; and ma, you know, makes a warm 
 home for everybody under her care. 
 
 Mr. C. Tell your father I will see him in the morn- 
 ing. I have a boy for him. 'Twill be just the place 
 for poor Buffering Nick. Hosea, you are a kind-hearted 
 boy, and your little sister is a bright ray of sunshine. 
 All is right. [Exit Hosea. 
 
 [Enter NlCODEMUS.] 
 Well, Nicodemus, have you had a good supper? 
 
THE BIRCH. 141 
 
 Nic. Yes, sir, thank you ; I feel better. 
 
 Mr. C. I will take you to the tailor's, and then you 
 shall go home with me and pass the night. In the 
 morning, after you are rested, we will talk of your 
 future. That woman shall never strike you again. You 
 shall never sleep in a barrel again. I am your friend. 
 I will stand by you as a father. All that I ask in re- 
 turn is, that you will try to be a good boy. 
 
 Nic. I will be a good boy. I have always said, give 
 me a chance and I would be a good boy. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Crossbar, hair flying, looking wild and 
 furious. She grabs NlCK. Two sheriffs follow with 
 handcuffs.) 
 
 [Curtain falls. 
 
THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. 
 
 (Characters : 
 
 James Lightheart, Betty Ridecap, 
 
 David Goodyear, Polly Dwight. 
 
 James (alone, feels of his head and limbs'). Well, I 
 do n't know who I am. There has a wonderful change 
 come over me since yesterday. Yesterday I was a brave 
 boy — but not now. To-day, I am a coward — I am 
 afraid of a shadow — I tremble at the rustle of a leaf — 
 I start at the slightest creaking of the door. [Enter 
 David — he starts.] How you frightened me ! 
 
 David. I see I did. You used to be a brave boy. 
 What has happened to you that you are afraid of your 
 old friend? Have I changed into a bugbear? 
 
 James. No, you are not changed. The change is 
 in me. In one night's time, I have become a coward. 
 I confess it with shame. 
 
 David. What are you afraid of? Has some big 
 bully whipped you? 
 
 James. No; I was never whipped in my life, and 
 I 'm not afraid of it. 
 
 David. Will you fight? It might revive your 
 courage. You were once brave. 
 
 142 
 
THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. 143 
 
 James, I was never afraid until last night. I 
 quiver and shiver now when I think of it. (David 
 accidentally lets a book fall. JAMES starts.) 
 
 David. Well, something has had hold of you, that 
 is certain. The simple falling of a book makes you 
 start like some old, nervous woman. Let us have a 
 good fight, and that will make a man of you again. 
 
 James. I never fight, as you know, David. I never 
 could see use or fun in it. But I was never a coward 
 until now. 
 
 David. That is true. Everybody that knows James 
 Lightheart, knows he is a brave boy. We have all seen 
 his courage. When every other boy ran, he stayed to 
 save a child from the bite of a mad dog ; and he came 
 near being drowned once, in doing a kindness for Miss 
 Ridecap. (James starts.') Well, what is the matter 
 with you ? Are you sick ? You look pale. 
 
 James. I am not sick, unless I am sick at heart. 
 
 David. But what made you start just now. There 
 is nothing here, and I did n't drop a book. 
 
 James. I am fearfully changed. The simple mention 
 of a person's name startles me t 
 
 David. Unburden your soul, Jim • make a clear 
 confession — I will keep it safe. 
 
 James. Do you know this, David? (He takes a 
 golden snuff-box from his pocket.) 
 
 David (looks at it). No, I 'm sure I do n't. 
 
 James. Well, 'tis this golden snuff-box that has 
 metamorphised me. You have volunteered to be my 
 confessor ; now listen to my story, and keep it safe. 
 
 David. I give you my word for it. 
 
144 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 James. Just one year ago yesterday, I found Uncle 
 Joe's pocket-book in our garden. It contained a thou- 
 sand dollars. You know he lives three good miles from 
 here. I showed mother what I had found, and asked 
 her if I might eat my supper before I took it round to 
 Uncle Joe. She said "yes." 'T was a cold night —I 
 shall never forget it. I had a long walk. When I went 
 into Uncle Joe's room, he was walking the floor, look- 
 ing anxious and pale. I gave him the pocket-book. 
 He grabbed it as a starving dog would a bone. After 
 looking to see if the money was safe, he said, w ' AVhere 
 and when did you find this?" I answered, "in the 
 garden, at four o'clock this afternoon." Now, David, 
 what do you suppose he gave me for my honesty and 
 my long tramp ? 
 
 David. Half there was in the pocket-book. 
 
 James. He gave me a hard scolding ; called me a 
 lazy blockhead for eating my supper before I ran to him 
 with the pocket-book. When I got home that night, 
 with aching fingers and weary limbs, I said to myself, 
 the time-honored adage, " Honesty is the best policy," 
 will not stand a test. 
 
 David. And that was a hard lesson ; but it hap- 
 pened a year ago. What has it to do with the coward 
 of to-day, and the snuff-box ? 
 
 James. It has much to do with it — everything. 
 'T is the cause of all my suffering last night. If 1 should 
 go to State's prison, Uncle Joe will be very much to 
 blame. 
 
 David. Explain yourself, Jim; don't keep me in 
 this terrible suspense. I shall soon be trembling. I m 
 
THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. 145 
 
 ready for a start now. What of State's prison? (A 
 window falls. James tries to hide himself, .) James, do 
 speak out. What is the matter ? 
 
 James. Well, I feel like somebody beside myself. 
 Am I Jim Lightheart ? Do you know me, David ? 
 
 David. No, I do n't know you. Please introduce 
 yourself. 
 
 James. I am the mean, wicked boy that found Betty 
 Ridecap's golden snuff-box last night. 
 
 David. Well, if you know it is hers, why do n't 
 you return it to her ? 
 
 James. This is just what I have concluded to do, as. 
 soon as I come fairly to my senses. 
 
 David. Why did n't you return it last night ? 
 
 James. That 's a pointed question, David. I have 
 learned two lessons within the year. Uncle Joe taught 
 me to disrespect the old adage — I just despised it; and 
 when I found Miss Betty's snuff-box of gold, I said to 
 myself, Jim Lightheart knows a better policy than 
 honesty, and I put the found treasure into my pocket, 
 and walked leisurely home. I had no appetite for my 
 supper. I did not enjoy my mother's company, so I 
 seated myself on the door-sill, to watch the coming of 
 the stars ; but I soon forgot to look at them. I began 
 thinking. The night grew dark, and my thoughts grew 
 darker. Puss came, in her usual friendly way, and 
 rubbed against me ; I screamed, but on finding it was 
 Pussy, I took her into my lap, and kept her for company. 
 Next, I felt a hard blow on my forehead ; this frightened 
 me terribly, and I ran into the house. O, David, how 
 changed I am ! 
 
146 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 David. I should think so. But what struck you on 
 your forehead? 
 
 James. I thought at the time that all the powers of 
 darkness had consolidated themselves into a fist of iron ; 
 but since reason has begun to return, I think it was a 
 bat. You know they are birds of the night, and I sup- 
 pose they thought I was one of them, and what 1 took 
 to be a blow on my forehead, was intended only as 
 a recognition — perhaps an introduction — into their 
 society. 
 
 David. I am glad to see a little fun left in you, Jim ; 
 'tis a good symptom — Lightheart will triumph yet. 
 
 James. I begin to think he will, since I have spoken 
 to you about this hellish affair. I am using strong 
 terms, David, but it 's all from hell, and smells of brim- 
 stone. I begin to feel better — light dawns. I know 
 what I shall do before I sleep another night. O, last 
 night ! 'T was awful ; full of hobgoblins. 
 
 David. How did your hobgoblins look, Jim? 
 
 James. Do n't make fun of it, David. I shiver now, 
 when I think what I saw and felt. In the first plate, 
 when I went to bed I had become such a coward I was 
 afraid to blow my light out, so I got into bed with it 
 burning. A long while I laid there, looking steadily at 
 it, hoping in this way to silence thought. 'T was of no 
 use. I had put the snuff-box under my pillow, for safe 
 keeping. When I was just sinking into a sleep, a mouse 
 ran along in the ceiling. I sprang for the snuff-box, 
 screaming, M You shan't have it/' This awoke me, and 
 again I fixed my eyes upon the light. And now, with- 
 out seeming to be asleep, I saw, standing in the corner 
 
THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. 147 
 
 of my room, a giant. His skin was black, his mouth 
 was open; and such teeth! and such a large throat! 
 O, I shudder to think of the spectre ! 
 
 David. Well, what did this fine-looking gentleman 
 say to you ? 
 
 James. He had in his bony hand a large iron rope. 
 He took a step towards me, and began to spit fire. I 
 tried to run, but could not move ; then I tried to scream, 
 but could utter no sound. Now, this evil thing made 
 a noose of his iron rope, and threw it towards me, 
 calling out at the same time, " You black thief! " 
 
 David. Did this policeman catch you, Jim ? 
 
 James. No, I was too quick for him. I gave a 
 jump, which awoke me. Now darkness was in the 
 room ; my candle had burnt down into the socket. I 
 covered my head with the bed-clothes, to protect it 
 from the fist of iron ; and not only this, I was fearful I 
 might see that demon again. I laid awake some hours, 
 then fell into another fearful sleep. Now, I was in 
 terrible cutting pain — I writhed in agony. When I 
 tried to call mother, I saw a doctor standing beside my 
 bed. His nose was so long it almost touched my face ; 
 his eyes were like two balls of fire ; he held a long tube 
 in his hand, and made me open my mouth \ then he put 
 the tube into it, and began blowing snuff down my 
 throat ; and he growled out, " 'T is a case of life or 
 death." I felt as if I was suffocating, and made another 
 jump. This awoke me, and how thankful I was to see 
 the sun shining ! 
 
 David. Well, Jim, you have been treated very 
 harshly for your folly, and your Uncle Joe is all to 
 blame. 
 
148 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 James. I thought so at first, but not now. David. 
 When I carried home Uncle Joe's pocket-book, I did n't 
 see things in a clear light. I had always been taught 
 that " honesty is the best policy." Sou know this time- 
 honored adage, in some hidden way, conveys to the 
 mind an idea of a reward. Still, I don't know as 1 
 expected anything from my uncle. If he had spoken 
 kindly to me, and then thanked me, I believe I should 
 have felt satisfied. It was his rough manner and his 
 ingratitude that wrought the mischief. 
 
 David. Your Uncle Joe was very much to blame. 
 Ingratitude is a crime almost as great as dishonesty. I 
 do n't forgive him ; he has caused you all this trouble. 
 
 James. Not exactly, David. I do n't think my uncle 
 acted the part of a Christian gentleman, in his rude 
 manner; but, then, in the end it may do me good. It 
 led me to do a wicked act, which has brought, as a 
 consequence, much fear and suffering, and this fear and 
 suffering has led to much thinking ; and I believe I 
 have thought things clear. This time-honored adage 
 will not bear the light of these latter days. One \\ Old 
 must be changed. Instead of best, read only, and you 
 will see a saving difference. " Honesty is the only 
 policy." 
 
 David. Well, Jim, that little change does make a 
 difference — honesty is the only policy. This pins it 
 tight. Let Uncle Joe bluster as much as he pleases, 
 there is no driving an honest boy from the track with 
 this adaffe in his head. 
 
 o 
 
 JAMES. So you see. David. Uncle -Ice Mas net the 
 only cause of my being hung with an iron rope, and 
 
THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. 149 
 
 filled with snuff. I was leaning on a faulty adage ; but 
 it is righted now. Honesty is the only policy, and all 
 the snuff-boxes in creation, tied to all Uncle Joe's 
 scolding, could never tempt me again to sleep over 
 what is not rightfully my own. Now, I will go and 
 carry Miss Betty Ride cap her lost treasure, and then I 
 shall be myself again. Will you go with me, David? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE SECOND. 
 
 [Enter Betty Ridecap.] 
 Betty (greatly distressed}. Well, this is more than 
 I can bear. I can 't be resigned to it any way. When 
 our minister told us the last days were drawing nigh, 
 and urged us so make ourselves ready, he found Betty 
 Ridecap one of the most cheerful and resigned of his 
 people. (I didn't believe all the minister said.) (Feels 
 in her pocket^) But this thing I do believe, my gold 
 snuff-box is gone, and I am just distracted. I will never 
 take another pinch of snuff, until I find my box. 'T was 
 my great-gran'ther's — 'twas a family relic. I can't 
 bear the loss. I can 't bear such trouble now ; my hair 
 already shows the touch of winter's frosty fingers, and 
 one night more of such suffering as I had last night, 
 and my head is as white as chalk. But I do n't care 
 about my white head, nor my suffering, so I can get my 
 box again. I 'd give half my farm for it. I am all dis- 
 tracted. I suppose some of them city blacklegs have 
 been round here. 
 
150 DRAMATIC BTOBIES. 
 
 [Enter Polly Dwight.] 
 
 Polly. Miss Ridecap, my mother sent me round to 
 invite you over to our house this evening. Mr. Drum- 
 mond is going to be there, and you understand what 
 that means, without any explanation. 
 
 Betty. Dear, dear me! How opposites do some- 
 times meet ! First a great trouble — almost more than 
 any Christian can bear — then a joyous surprise coming 
 on top of it, is enough to craze one. Polly, I do n't 
 think I can appear to any advantage to-night. It might 
 just upset the whole affair. I am distracted. You see, 
 I am so distracted, I should talk to Mr. Drummond 
 about my snuff-box half the evening. If he should say 
 anything nice to me, I could not answer him becom- 
 ingly. You see I am just distracted. How do I look ? 
 
 Polly. You look distracted. What has happened 
 to you ? 
 
 Betty. Well, then, I do look distracted! It will 
 not do to see Mr. Drummond in this way. It might 
 upset the whole thing. How many children has he ? 
 
 Polly. Six. But what is the matter with you ? 
 
 Betty. And how large is his farm ? 
 
 Polly. A hundred acres — mortgaged. But what 
 is the matter? What has happem id ? 
 
 Betty. (Puts her hand in her pocket.^ It is gone ! 
 Do you know anything how soon he wants to be 
 married ? 
 
 Polly. Miss Ridecap, I should think you were not 
 only distracted, but crazy — wild. Your eyes look 
 strained out of your head, and your hair — well, il looks 
 as if you had wound it round a distaff, for grandma to 
 
THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. 151 
 
 spin into thread. Mr. Drummond has never said that 
 he wanted to be married at all. He simply said he 
 would like the opportunity of meeting you, so ma has 
 invited you round to our house this evening. 
 
 Betty. Well, I do n't believe I had better go. 
 Tell Mr. Drummond I am engaged at the parson's 
 to-night. My eyes look too bad, of course. My hair I 
 could fix — I would n't mind going to the barber's for 
 that ; but the barber, you know, could n't fix my eyes, 
 and there is no oculist in town. Get me excused ; your 
 ma can manage it for me. Fix upon another evening. 
 She might say I have fifty-six acres and a half on my 
 farm, and 't is n't mortgaged. Say it is an heir-loom ; 
 do n't say anything about the snuff-box. 
 {Enter James and David.] 
 
 James. (Presenting the snuff-box.') Miss Ridecap, 
 I have brought you your gold snuff-box. (Betty raises 
 her hands.) I found it last evening in the woods, half 
 hid under the leaves. Excuse my not returning it to 
 you sooner. 
 
 Betty. And that I will, Master James Lightheart. 
 Heaven be praised, and the earth, and the moon, and 
 the stars ! (Polly, tell your ma I will be round there.) 
 James Lightheart, I was just saying, I 'd give half my 
 farm for this same box. (Takes a pinch of snuff.) And 
 I '11 keep my word. Which half will you have ? 
 
 James. I will not have any of it, and only regret 
 that I did n't bring the box to you last night. 
 
 Betty. We '11 not talk about that. To be sure I 
 suffered enough. You know this box was my great- 
 gran'ther's ; I set my life by it. Of course I could n't 
 
152 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 sleep, when I did n't know where the precious thing- 
 was. If I had knowed it was in your safe keeping, I 
 should have rested easy. Some wicked people would 
 have kept it; I knowed enough of human nater to be 
 aware of this; and I was just distracted. I took my 
 cai idle-lantern, and raked all over my chip-yard at 
 twelve o'clock last nicdit. 
 
 David. Did you think you lost it there ? 
 
 Bettie. I knew I did n't lose it there ; but one 
 must do something when one is distracted. 
 
 James. Miss Ridecap, do you forgive me for keeping 
 it over night? 
 
 Betty. Have n't I said I did ? It 's an old Baying, 
 that an honest man is the noblest work of God; and, 
 verily, I believe an honest boy is nobler. But, James. I 
 am going to give you something. I have got the best 
 dog in the town, but then he is my guardian ; I would 
 not feel safe without him — may-be I shall have a dif- 
 ferent one, but this is not settled yet. My Maltese cat 
 I think lots of — but then }-ou would n't ; she is kind 
 of grown to me. I '11 tell you what I 11 give you. 
 David may go along with } t ou, and you may take your 
 choice out of my six steers. Will that satisfy you? 
 That white-face one, they sajs will make a noble ox. 
 
 James. I shall not be satisfied to take anything but 
 your pardon for my delinquency. Honesty is the only 
 policy ! 
 
 Betty. Well, James Lightheart, we don't know 
 what may happen. You Bee my hair is frosty; if I die 
 with my name Betty Ridecap, attend my funeral a-- first 
 mourner; my will I shall leave in rny secretary drawer. 
 
THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. 153 
 
 We do n't know what may happen. Should you get 
 an invitation to a wedding, be sure you accept it, and 
 bring David along with you. We do n't know what 
 may happen. Mr. Drummond has three girls and a 
 nice farm. But, James, all these advantages lie in the 
 future ; I should feel better to give you something now. 
 What will you have ? 
 
 James. Your pardon for my remissness. Beside 
 this, I only ask for the brave spirit that honesty always 
 brings. 'T is getting late, I must go. Good evening. 
 {Shakes hands with Betty.") 
 
 [Exeunt James and David. 
 
 Betty. Now, Polly, say to your ma I will be round 
 there. 
 
 Polly. Shan't I arrange your hair for you ? 
 
 Betty. Not a bit of it. I '11 step into the barber's, 
 and let him touch it up a little with the color of youth. 
 I would n't practise deception, but then it 's right to 
 look as young as you can on an occasion like this. It 
 only comes once is a lifetime. I think I shall look 
 handsome to-night, for I feel so happy — a kind of 
 grateful feeling sets my heart all a-dancing. I have 
 my snuff-box. {Takes a pinch.) I should like to sing 
 some of Tom Moore's sentimental poetry, but I have n't 
 time now. Matters press ; let us hurry on. [Exeunt. 
 
CATNIP TEA 
 
 (Characters: 
 
 Miss Tubs, Quack Doctor. Lillie Burgess, his Cousin. 
 
 Miss COB, Traveling Agent. ElfELINE PURINGTON. 
 
 Mr. Pound, an Invalid. Sally Mint. 
 
 Peter Burgess. Abraham Tayntor. 
 Dolly and Phcebe, his Sisters. 
 
 Dolly and Phcebe Burgess, dressed for a dancing party. 
 
 Dolly. I hope we shan't have to wait here very long 
 for Peter ; my ears are just aching to hear the thrill of 
 music. 
 
 Phcebe. My feet are aching to move in time to it. 
 I never feel so good as when I am dancing. There is 
 something in music and motion with it that hushes 
 every stormy passion. A man with murder in his hearl 
 couldn't dance; and if a girl comes on to the floor 
 filled with envy and jealousy, she would, in less than a 
 half hour, have danced it all away. One is in love with 
 everybody when dancing. 
 
 Dolly. This is true, Phcebe. Ma, you know. Baid, 
 at the supper table to-night, if she fell well enough, 
 she would like to step into the hall for a half hour, it' it 
 were only to see the smiling faces there. 
 
 154 
 
CATNIP TEA. 155 
 
 Phcebe. I wish she could. All is harmonious in a 
 dance. Music is harmony. Then, motion to it or with 
 it brings us into a complete oneness. 
 
 Dolly. O yes ; but there is a prejudice against it 
 in the minds of many, and this arises from so many fast 
 people abusing it. The day is coming when the parlor 
 dance will take the lead in all forms of recreations. 
 [Enter Lillie.] 
 
 Lillie. Cousins, I have come in to look at you. I 
 like to look at you in your white dresses and flowers. 
 Peter says he will take me with him when I am sixteen 
 years old. I have got to wait four years for that plea- 
 sure ; but I do n't think I will stand still all this time. 
 I can hop in the parlor dances, in the school -yard, and 
 in the croquet ground. 
 
 Phcebe. What is Peter doing, Lillie, that he keeps 
 us waiting here so long ? Do you know ? 
 
 Lillie. Yes ; he is waiting for Dan to warm the 
 the horses' bits, they are all frost. I think Cousin 
 Peter is a good -hearted fellow ; he says, Old Jack shall 
 not suffer from any impatience of his to get to the 
 dance. I like to see a man take such good care of a 
 horse's mouth. Peter will be blessed for this ; my 
 heart blesses him now. 
 
 [Enter Dr. Tubs, a large old woman, with saddle bags 
 on her arm.~\ 
 
 Dr. Tubs. I thought I 'd just look, gals, afore you 
 started, to see if you were dressed warm. (Looks them 
 over.') Wal, 't will do tolerably well ; 't is n't so much 
 matter about it, seeing I 'm in the house. If anything 
 happens to you in the hall, send the waiter quick for 
 
156 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Dr. Tubs ; I shan't charge you anything for my services, 
 seeing I am boarding with your ma. 
 [Enter Peter.] 
 
 Peter. You here, Dr. Tubs ? Will you go to the 
 dance with us? 
 
 Dr. T. I 'm a little too heavy for a dance now. I 
 will send these bills instead. Each of you take one. 
 ( Gives them.') Stick them up in the most sightl}' place 
 you can find. There is a deal contained in these pieces 
 of paper. But you are in a hurry; go, tell everybody 
 you see that Dr. Tubs 's in town, for one week only,- say 
 she is the seventh child of a seventh child, and takes 
 docterin' the natral way. 
 
 Dolly. I will remember you ; good night. 
 
 Dr. T. Lillie, child, call your cousins back a moment : 
 I 've a word for them. 
 
 [Lillie calls; they return impatiently.'] 
 I want to caution Peter about letting you get sweaty. 
 Gals are made of delicate stuff, and must be seen after. 
 When you come home, take a drink of catnip tea ; I will 
 leave some standing on the table. Go now, and re- 
 member all I 've said, particularly about my being the 
 seventh child. Now, Lillie dear, have you any ail about 
 you ? 
 
 Lillie. No, ma'am ; I 'm perfectly well. 
 
 Dr. T. Come, let me feel your pulse, you may be 
 mistaken. Little gals like you are not very wise ; they 
 must be seen after ; you don't get a chance like this 
 every day to be doctored. It will cost you nothing — 
 I shall turn it in for my board. 
 
 Lillie. I am perfectly well, Dr. Tubs; I never felt 
 a pain in my life. 
 
CATNIP TEA. 157 
 
 Dr. T. That is no assurance that you never will. 
 Come, let me feel your pulse. (She counts aloud, one, 
 two, three, up to ten.) Well, I understand your case ; 
 't is latent, to be sure ; you are not now suffering, yet 
 the wisest man on earth can 't tell how soon some ma- 
 lignant disease may break out ; and a woman can 't tell 
 either. I 'm a seventh child of a seventh child, and I 
 can 't tell if you will be in health to-morrow. So, you 
 see, it 's best to take precaution. Do n't you sometimes 
 feel a pain in your left side, under the shoulder blade ? 
 
 Lillie. I never felt a pain in my life. 
 
 Dr. T. That proves, then, what I said — your disease 
 is latent. (The old woman takes many parcels from her 
 saddle bags and lays them on a table : sits down.) Now, 
 Lillie, can you remember what I tell you ? Steep this 
 in a quart of soft water, drink a glass of it three times 
 a day, eat such food as you like — let it be cooked; 
 sleep on a good bed, and get up in the morning when 
 you wake. Can you remember all this ? 
 
 Lillie. I do n't think I shall try very hard. I '11 
 not take medicine before I 'm sick ; and I doubt if I 
 take much if I am. 
 
 Dr. T. Well, gals are always foolish ; they need a 
 deal of looking after. I '11 leave this paper with you ; 
 't won't cost you anything ; I '11 apply it on board. 
 
 Lillie. What kind of medicine do you give, Dr. 
 Tubs? 
 
 Dr. T. That 's a pinted question. If I belonged 
 to the faculty, I should n't tell you ; for a good reason, 
 too. Since my art all lies in this, — I'm the seventh 
 child of a seventh child, I can speak freely. My art, 
 
100 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 you see, is patented ; no one can copy it, no one can 
 take it from me. To speak as learned ones speak, no 
 one can infringe ; I am clean above their reach. 
 
 Lillie. Do you give homoeopathic remedies ? 
 
 Dr. T. Lar, no, child ; there 's no power in them 
 ar little pills. They are not worth the trimming of one 
 of your finger-nails. My medicine is wonderful ; 'tis 
 a great panacea that cures all diseases. It just searches 
 the system through ; it goes into every corner ; it 
 reaches from the worst case of consumption to a wart 
 on the end of the nose. It cures everything. 'T is just 
 ruining all life insurance companies. 
 
 Lillie. Do you give mineral medicines, Dr. Tubs? 
 
 Dr. T. Mineral medicines! mineral medicines! I 
 do n't dabble with those dangerous tools. I ni the 
 seventh child of a seventh child — these few words tell 
 my stor}'. 
 
 Lillie. But you give some medicine ? 
 
 Dr. T. To be sure I do. My medicine is tremend- 
 ous powerful, and yet it will not harm a cat. Did ever 
 you know a cat to die before its time came ? Cats are 
 like me — they are born into the laws of life ; they 
 do n't need learning from books. And in one respect 
 they are like you — their disease is latent. Cats never 
 suffer pain; and why? Because they are born into the 
 laws of life ; they take medicine before disease come.-, 
 then there is no need of taking it afterwards. Now . if 
 you will learn wisdom from the seventh son of a seventh 
 son (excuse me, I did n't mean to say son, for I despise 
 the masculine sex), I would say child, you would take 
 that parcel of charmed herbs home and drink it. as 1 
 
CATNIP TEA. 159 
 
 told you. 'T won't cost you anything — I '11 apply it on 
 board. 
 
 Lillie. What is it, Dr. Tubs ? 
 
 Dr. T. You inquisitive little ninny! Are you a 
 seventh son ? 
 
 Lillie. I am an only daughter. 
 
 De. T. Then it 's safe to tell you. The wonderful 
 and powerful medicine I use is Catnip Tea. 'T will 
 cure every ill flesh is heir to, after passing through my 
 hands. Now take this parcel, and believe what I tell 
 you. [She takes it and goes. 
 
 [Enter Me. Pound, a large man, on crutches.'] 
 
 Me. Pound. Good evening, Dr. Tubs. I have heern 
 of your fame, and have rode ten miles to lay my case 
 before you. I have suffered forty years from the most 
 painful gout. I have spent one farm on the doctors ; 
 none of them can help me. I have another farm ; I 'm 
 willing to give that if I can purchase youth and health 
 with it. 
 
 De. T. Your case is an awful one, and I 'm glad 
 you heered of me afore it was too late. In the grave 
 you 're past hope ; but this side of it there 's life. I 've 
 never seen a case my medicine do n't reach. Cash in 
 hand, I warrant a cure. If the sick want my assist- 
 ance, they must come quick : I 'm always in a hurry — 
 business presses so, I never stay but a week in a place. 
 I scatter myself as much as possible, that I may do all 
 the good I can. Your disease is of long standing. 
 'T will cost something to get rid of it ; but I can cure 
 it. 
 
 Me. P. Thank you for that assurance. I do not 
 
1G0 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 mind expense, so that I can run about again. Forty 
 years of pain makes one hold money lightly. 
 
 Dr. T. I will feel your pulse. (Hesitates ; counts.) 
 O, they are mighty quick. Do n't wonder you are will- 
 ing to give a farm just to have them regular. Get them 
 regulated, then all will be regulated. You know, if a 
 watch do n't tick right the time is worth nothing. I 
 have seen many a watch that had the gout — the ticking 
 goes like lightening then. And this is the way your 
 pulse is. 
 
 Mr. Po Give me your wonderful medicine. I 'm 
 impatient to feel this griping, cutting pain let go its 
 awful hold. 
 
 Dr. T. Here are twelve papers of the healing herb ; 
 steep one at a time in a quart of soft water ; drink of it 
 three times a day. Eat such food as you like — have it 
 cooked ; sleep well at night in a warm room ; get up in 
 the morning when you feel like it. 
 
 Mr. P. How soon may I begin to walk without 
 these troublesome crutches ? 
 
 Dr. T. As soon as your limbs feel like it. When 
 you feel like running and jumping, you may safely 
 do so ; it won't harm you. 
 
 Mr. P. I am so thankful to find something at last 
 that will give me back health. A man will give all that 
 he has for health. I have two neighbors thai will be 
 coming to you when they see me running about like a 
 boy again. 
 
 Dr^T. They'd better not wait for that time; I 
 may be in England then. My business is very exten- 
 sive. If they want to be cured, the sooner they come 
 the better. 
 
CATNIP TEA. 161 
 
 Mr. P. I '11 advise them in this direction. If you '11 
 give me my bill I '11 be getting home, as I have to move 
 slowly. 
 
 Dr. T. Do you care to have me write it out ? I 'm 
 not much of a writer. 
 
 Mr. P. I do n't want to stop for any writing. What 
 is my bill ? 
 
 Dr. T. Seeing you have paid so much for useless 
 doctoring, I will be easy with you. 
 
 Mr. P. Thank you for this consideration. My long 
 sickness has drawn heavily on my purse. My wife and 
 children begin to fear the almshouse ; but I encourage 
 them by telling them that is better than the gout. 
 
 Dr. T. Well, that is true, and I hope you will suffer 
 neither This medicine will finish up the job, and you 
 can spry about again ; my bill is only fifty dollars. 
 
 Mr. P. {Moves in his chair uneasily.^) That is more 
 money than I have with me. Can you not call it less ? 
 
 Dr. T. Seeing you have paid so much to ignoramuses, 
 I will be very easy with you — I will call it forty dol- 
 lars. That is a small sum to pay for freedom from the 
 gout. 
 
 Mr. P. That is true. ( Gives her the money S) 
 
 Dr. T. All right. I shall be glad to see you a boy 
 again. Good night. 
 
 Mr. P. Good night. I '11 be glad to feel myself a 
 boy again. {Exit Pound. 
 
 {Enter Abraham Tayntor.] 
 
 Abraham. Is this Dr. Tubs ? 
 
 Dr. T. I am the famous Dr. Tubs. 
 
 Abraham. One of the young ladies at the dance has 
 
162 DBAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 slipped down and sprained her ankle badly. Miss Dolly 
 Burgess sent me to you for something to relieve her. 
 
 Dr. T. Bless Miss Dolly — she is faithful. I '11 re- 
 member her in the settlement. Take this parcel over 
 to the hall, tell the waiter to steep it in a quart of soft 
 water, let the young lady drink of it three times a day, 
 then bathe her sprain in some of it. Cash in hand, I 
 warrant a cure. 
 
 Abraham. I was not authorized to pay for it. 
 
 Dr. T. My medicine is expensive ; I can 't afford to 
 give it to strangers. My advice in this particular case 
 I '11 give in. I '11 give it in compliment to Miss Bur- 
 gess. I only charge for the medicine ; one dollar. 
 
 Abraham. (Reluctantly pays the dollar.) I do n't 
 like this business. [Exit. 
 
 Dr. T. I have lighted on a very good cornfield. I 
 must pull fast while I 'm in here. 'T won't do to stay 
 lon^. 
 
 [Enter Emeline Purington.] 
 
 Emeline. Is Dr. Tubs in ? 
 
 Dr. T. I am the person you are in search of. 
 
 Em. I have just read your advertisements all round 
 the town ; I see there is nothing you do n't cure. Do 
 you cure corns ? 
 
 Dr. T. To be sure I do. Corns are nothing in my 
 diggings. I can root out the worst of 'em afore you 
 have time to think on 't. 
 
 Em. Do you cure permanently ? 
 
 Dr. T. It 's no cure if I do n't. Cash in hand, all 
 cures warranted. 
 
 Em. What do you charge ? 
 
CATNIP TEA. 163 
 
 Dr. T. My smallest charge, in any case, is one dollar. 
 
 Em. That is a big price for curing a corn. 
 
 Dr. T. Won't you take a dollar's comfort freed from 
 all suffering ? What I shall give you will improve your 
 health generally. 
 
 Em. Give me the remedy ; I won't mind the pr.ce ; 
 my corn is very troublesome. 
 
 Dr. T. Take this parcel, steep it in a quart of soft 
 water, drink of it three times a day ; every time you 
 drink of it, bathe your corn with it. You will not feel 
 any change under a week ; then your corn will fall out 
 of itself. 
 
 Em. QPays the dollar.') Thank you. Good night. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Dr. T. One dollar is better than nothing. 
 [Unter Sally Miet.] 
 
 Sally. Am I addressing Dr. Tubs ? 
 
 Dr. T. 'T is the same person you are speaking with. 
 
 Sally. I am suffering terribly with the asthma. 
 Have you anything that will help me ? 
 
 Dr. T. To be sure I have. I have cured persons 
 afflicted with that drawing disease, when their necks 
 were stretched as long as a swan's. Have you had it 
 long ? 
 
 Sally. Ever since I was a child. I have to sit up 
 all night — can 't breathe if I lie down. 
 
 Dr. T. That 's awful. 'T will be an expensive thing 
 to cure, but I can cure it. What can you afford to give 
 to get rid of this life -long ailment ? 
 
 Sally. I am not rich, but I '11 pay all I can, so that 
 I may once more breathe easy. What should you charge 
 me? 
 
164 DRAMATIC 8TOB1E8. 
 
 De. T. If you were rich, I should charge you forty 
 dollars. If you belong to the middling class, I will 
 cure you for ten dollars. Cash in hand, cure warranted. 
 
 Sally. I do n't belong even to the middling class. 
 I am alone in the world, and poor. 
 
 Dr. T. In that case, I '11 call it five dollars. I 'in 
 always charitable to the poor. 
 
 Sally. I hav n't five dollars to give you, unless you 
 wait till I earn it. 
 
 Dr. T. How much have you got that you can pay 
 me ? 
 
 Sally. I have only one dollar. 
 
 Dr. T. Wal, I never turn away a suffering sister 
 because she is poor, if I can help them. Give me your 
 dollar. (She gives it.} Now, take this parcel, steep it 
 in a quart of soft water, drink it three times a day. 
 You will not feel any benefit from it the first week ; 
 after that you will breathe as freely as a duck in water. 
 
 Sally. I am greatly obliged to you. I think I shall 
 never feel my breath coming easy but I shall remember 
 gratefully Dr. Tubs. [Exit. 
 
 Dr. T. Poor thing ! I wish the catnip tea might 
 help her. I hated to take her dollar ; but it 's my 
 business. I can 't help it. 
 
 [Enter Miss COB.] 
 Madam, take a chair; you look weary. 
 
 Miss Cob. I am not fatigued at all. (Opens her 
 large satchel,') I have many tilings of interest here. I 
 hardly know what to shew you first. Are you fond of 
 pictures ? 
 
 Dr. T. I 've no liking lor pictures. 
 
CATNIP TEA. 165 
 
 Miss C. I've a wonderful little machine here for 
 working button -holes. 
 
 Dr. T. I never have any button -holes ; I use hooks 
 and eyes. 
 
 Miss C. I have a new kind of hooks and eyes that 
 I would like to show you. 
 
 Dr. T. I am the famous Dr. Tubs. I do not give 
 my mind to such trifling things as you have. I have a 
 wonderful medicine here ; 't is a universal panacea for 
 all the ills that human flesh is heir to. I should judge 
 from your complexion that you had the liver complaint. 
 If you please, I will feel your pulse ; I shall make no 
 charge for that. 
 
 Miss C. My health is perfectly good. I have lived 
 sixty years ; never took any medicine in my life. I 
 never felt a pain. 
 
 Dr. T. Your case is a remarkable one. When disease 
 takes hold on you it will take hold mighty hard, let me 
 tell you. 'T is in your system now, in a latent form. 
 'T is an old saying, an ounce of prevention is better 
 than a pound of cure. I will let you have one of my 
 little parcels here that will safely carry you on to the 
 age of ninety in the same state of preservation that you 
 now are in. 
 
 Mrss C. You say you do n't want anything I have 
 here. Perhaps I can interest you in some other way. 
 I am an agent for a life insurance company. Perhaps 
 you would like to get your life insured. 
 
 Dr. T. Now that 's ridiculous. My medicine is just 
 ruining all the life insurance companies in the country. 
 Whoever lays in one of my life-giving parcels of medi- 
 
166 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 cine is insured. He will live until the last sand has 
 gently run from his glass. I am the seventh child of a 
 seventh child. I see very far into things ; I see your 
 liver is in a torpid state. 
 
 Miss C. I '11 take none of your humbug to wake it 
 up ! [Leaves hastily. 
 
 Dr. T. Wal, all agents are sharp. I 've never got 
 one of 'em to take my catnip tea. Wal, I ought not to 
 complain, I am making a mint of money. This catnip 
 tea is a wonderful herb — cats eat it and never die. I "11 
 be going over to my boarding place now. I must look 
 after the health of that family while I am with them. 
 Peter is a nice-looking boy. If I had n't taken such a 
 dislike to the masculine gender, I should be melted by 
 Peter ; he 's a nice boy. Wal, let gals marry that want 
 to, — I am wedded to Catnip Tea. (Gathers up her 
 parcels.^) 
 
 [Curtain falls. ~\ 
 
WHAT MAKES A MAN? 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Fred Benson, George Franklin and Ned Greeny. 
 
 Fred Benson sits at a table with an arithmetic and slate before him and 
 pencil in his hand. 
 
 {Enter George Franklin.] 
 
 George. What have you found, Fred, in that riddle 
 of an arithmetic so interesting ? 
 
 Fred. 'Tis that sum about the geese and half a 
 goose. Now, sit down here, George, and let us get it 
 out together. 
 
 George. Not this moonlight evening, you may be 
 sure of that. I read the sum over, and do not believe 
 there is any " get out " to it ; and in the morning, when 
 our lessons come, I am going to guess at the answer. 
 But, away with your book ; the boys are all on the 
 common for a game of ball ; let us get there to answer 
 to our names when called. 
 
 Fred. I cannot go with you, George ; father and 
 mother are away at the lecture, and I cannot leave the 
 house. 
 
 George. Did they say you must not leave it ? 
 
 Fred. They said nothing about it. But what dif- 
 
 167 
 
168 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 ference does that make, since I know they do not wish 
 me to go ? 
 
 George. I think it makes a great deal of difference. 
 You can go out now and not disobey them. 
 
 Fred. Do you remember our teacher's dividing boys 
 into three classes, yesterday ? 
 
 George. Yes ; and what if I do ? 
 
 Fred. Well, should I go out this evening, knowing 
 it to be wrong, I should sink down into the third class, 
 and I intend to stand always in the first. 
 
 George. I did n't understand the teacher's meaning 
 about the classes, and I wish you did n't. 
 
 Fred. Well, I do, and let me explain it to you. lie 
 said there were three classes of boys, — the third class 
 could only be governed by threats and the whip : the 
 second class by strong commands given in very forcible 
 language ; while it was enough for the first to simply 
 know his duty. 
 
 George. I do not care about these nice distinctions, 
 Fred ; they are troublesome. 
 
 Fred. Do you not think it much more troublesome 
 to be obliged to listen to threats, commands and hard 
 words ? To have some one scream out to you, "go and 
 do that, or you will feel my hand on you ! " How much 
 there is in the manner a person speaks to you — in the 
 tone of voice. If I were treated in this rough, brutal 
 way, I think I might become a bad boy. 
 
 GEORGE. How are you treated ? 
 
 Fred. T am treated like a person of common sense. 
 I am told in gentle tones what is righl to be done, and 
 I try to do it. Now I know what is right to do this 
 
WHAT MAKES A MAN? 169 
 
 evening, and you must not urge me to go out for a game 
 of ball. I am a boy. 
 
 George. I supposed so, and that is the very reason 
 that I urge you to a game of ball. Were you a girl, 
 instead of asking you to go on to the common I would 
 bring you a wax doll and some sugar plums, and say, 
 " Please stay at home with mamma, while we boys have 
 a good play." 
 
 Fred. You do not understand me, George. I am a 
 boy ; were I a dog, you might whistle and I should follow 
 you, right or wrong. 
 
 George. Then come, Fred, be a dog once, and fol- 
 low me. (He whistles.) 
 
 Fred. No ; I cannot sacrifice my boyhood. I might 
 not find the return to it so easy. Now, my sight is 
 clear — I can always tell the right from the wrong, and 
 so far as I act the right I am becoming a man. If I act 
 the wrong I shall become less than a dog, for dogs live 
 according to the light given them. 
 
 George. Where did you get all these thoughts, 
 Fred ? They are quite new to me. I like to take what 
 liberty I can, and never stop to think whether I am a 
 boy, a dog, or a green parrot. 
 
 Fred. These thoughts have been coming to me ever 
 since I was lame, three years ago. Then, I had to lie 
 many weeks on the bed, and then I first began to think, 
 and my first subject of thought was man. 
 
 George. A game of ball is better than thinking 
 about man. Let us be boys in our young days, and 
 have fun. Do n't let us trouble ourselves about being 
 dogs, baboons, or monkeys. 
 
170 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Fred. I agree with you in this, George ; in our young 
 days let us be hoys, for 't is the boy that makes the man. 
 I should like to know something of the early days of our 
 great men. We know George Washington was a good 
 boy ; he was remarkable for his truthfulness and indus- 
 try. And I do not remember reading the life of any 
 of our distinguished men that did not in some way dis- 
 tinguish themselves in boyhood. 
 
 George. There is much truth in that, Fred, I know, 
 for I have read history and biography. But do n't you 
 admit that boys need fun ? 
 
 Fred. Of course I do. And I am not trying to dis- 
 suade you from ball playing. I am only excusing ni}^- 
 self from the game this evening, because I should not 
 have time to get my lessons in the morning, and it 
 would not be right to leave the house alone. 
 
 George. Just once, Fred, throw aside } r our scruples. 
 
 Fred. Just once is what ruins boys. I should like 
 to know what kind of a boy Ned Greeny was. He is six 
 feet tall now, but not a man. People call him " poor 
 Greeny." They blame him, they pity him, and they 
 make all manner of fun of him. Every improbable story 
 that is told in the neighborhood, they call one of Greeny's 
 stories. He is sick half the time, and the doctor says 
 he has no control of himself — he lias either eaten or 
 drank too much. He is a tomfool for everybody. He 
 will believe things exactly opposite each other. You 
 can lead him just as you please. He is like a dog — 
 whistle, and he will follow you. I wish I knew what 
 kind of a boy he was. 
 
 \Enter Greeny, with a torn hat and ragged clothes.] 
 
WHAT MAKES A MAN? 171 
 
 Greeny. I will tell you ; I will tell you what kind 
 of a boy he was ; yes, I will tell you. 
 
 Fred. You have surprised us, Mr. Greeny. We 
 little thought you were near, listening to our conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Greeny. Poor Greeny is always where he should n't 
 be- 
 
 Fred. Will you give us the history of your boyhood ? 
 I think it must have been remarkable. 
 
 Greeny. Yes, it was remarkable ; and that is what 
 makes me a remarkable man. But I heard you say 
 Poor Greeny was not a man. You called him a dog. 
 See these two big hands. (JELe holds them up.~) They 
 could break your boy bones into atoms. 
 
 Fred. I did n't call you a dog, Mr. Greeny ; I said 
 you were like a dog. You know, a big dog might tear 
 me into atoms. 
 
 Greeny. That is true, Master Fred. And it would 
 not be very far from the truth if you had called me a 
 dog. I am no better ; but I am not a biting, snarling 
 dog. I never hurt anybody but myself. I suffer a good 
 deal, boys ; dogs do n't suffer. (Here he covers his face .) 
 
 Fred. Will you tell us something of your boyhood, 
 Mr. Greeny ? 
 
 Greeny. Yes ; I was a puppy then. And it all lies 
 in this ; you can want to know no more. 
 
 Fred. We do, Mr. Greeny ; tell us all about it. 
 
 Greeny. (Takes a soiled daguerreotype and letter 
 from his pocket and gives them to Fred.) Read — read. 
 'T is my mother's letter. I was her loved child once — 
 I am Poor Greeny now — worse than a dog, for a dog 
 cannot remember. 
 
172 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Fred. {Beads the letter.) " My darling boy, dearer 
 to me than life, my hand is too feeble to write ; be good, 
 be true, and we shall meet in heaven."' 
 
 Greeny. (Sobbing.) Never — never! I have lost 
 m v mother ; I have lost myself. 
 
 [The boys look at the picture.'] 
 
 George. (Aside.) Can it be that Greeny was ever 
 this beautiful boy ? 
 
 Greeny. Yes, he was. Give me the picture and 
 the letter ; 'tis all I have — I am lost. Poor Greeny : 
 you said he was a tomfool for everbody ; that is true 
 enough. But he was n't born so, as this face shows. 
 (Holds up the picture.) He made himself so. When 
 his father sent him to school he played truant ; he did n't 
 like to study ; he did n't like to work ; he was an idle 
 puppy and gnawed a bone ; he is a dog now and the 
 bone follows him. But he will be a faithful dog and 
 do his errand. The boys are on the common, playing 
 ball ; they sent me here to say that you must hurry up, 
 or you would not be there to hear your names called. 
 What message shall I take back to them ? You hear 
 their whistle. 
 
 Fred. What would you advise us to do, Mr. Greeny ? 
 
 Greeny. I can give you my experience of the thing. 
 When I was of your age and heard a whistle like this. 
 I wasn't slow to follow it ; my lessons staved in the 
 book, where they have since remained. Good evening, 
 boys ; I have shewed you what I was, you see what I 
 am. 
 
 Fred. Stop, Mr. Greeny; do n't go yet. You have 
 excited our curiosity without telling us your early his- 
 tory. 
 
WHAT MAKES A MAN? 173 
 
 Greeny. You want to know of my boyhood ; you 
 want to know what has made me what I am. I was a 
 good and happy little boy, with a clean frock and red 
 shoes on. My mother died ; I remember it ; I remem- 
 ber her last kiss. After this, Aunt Deborah took care 
 of me. She was proud of me. When company came, 
 I stood up on the floor and spoke pieces and sung to 
 them. When I was a larger boy, my father moved to 
 the city, and I went to school. Here I met boj^s larger 
 than I was, and they told such stories as poor old Greeny 
 tells now. They did n't love their books ; they played 
 truant ; and they whistled me to follow them. But 
 their whistling could n't have harmed me had I not 
 made a puppy of myself and followed them, and tasted 
 all their bad dishes. Well, the time came when I got 
 kicked, scolded and lashed by everybody I met. If you 
 would not be what I am, do not follow a dog's whistle. 
 My memory is gone, and I must go too. Good night, 
 boys. (Jle goes ; in a moment, puts his head in at the 
 door and whistles.^) 
 
 George. How ludicrous, after the sad tale he has 
 given us ! But, Fred, I must go, for I promised the 
 boys I would be there this evening, and I suppose the 
 keeping a promise helps to make a boy. 
 
 Fred. 'T is one of the first requisites. 
 
 George. To-morrow evening I will be here again, 
 and we will talk of this subject more. Good night. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Fred. Poor Ned Greeny ! I am glad he came in 
 here to-night, for he illustrated my subject to George 
 much better than I could. The lesson he has given us 
 
174 DR ASIATIC STORIES. 
 
 will strengthen my purpose too. I see six feet of bone 
 and muscle, with two large hands and two large feet 
 attached to it, do not make a man. What does ? is the 
 question to be solved. Is it knowledge ? If it were 
 Lawyer Bates would be a man ; but everybody calls 
 him a sot. It must be knowledge brought into prac- 
 tice. This definition will not do — for one may have a 
 knowledge of what is false. Then I will say, 't is to 
 know the truth and obey it. \Exit, 
 
MOMIM AND NIGHT. 
 
 Mrs. Louisa Heart. Lucy Eaton. 
 
 Sidney, her little Son. Miss Betsey Shade. 
 
 Mary Bright. 
 
 Miss Shade, sitting at a table, dressed in black. She wears along black 
 crape veil ; leans her head on her hand. Mary Bright, a little 
 girl, sitting on a cricket, stringing beads. 
 
 [Enter Lucy Eaton.] 
 
 Lucy. Miss Shade, mother wants you should come 
 round and spend the evening with us. She is expecting 
 a few cheerful friends in, and she thinks you would en- 
 joy their society. 
 
 Miss Shade. ( Tries to subdue her grief; wipes away 
 her tears.) Tell your mother I appreciate her kindness, 
 but she must excuse me ; I cannot visit this evening. 
 
 Lucy. O, Miss Shade, do come round. Miss Howard 
 is to be there, and you know she is so social and cheer- 
 ful too, one can never feel sad in her presence. 
 
 Miss S. That is one reason why I could n't come. 
 To-morrow is the anniversary of my dear sister's death. 
 Of course, the day will be sanctified to her memory. 
 This evening I wish to devote exclusively to solemn 
 
 175 
 
17G DBAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 meditations. Have you ever been into her chamber 
 since she died ? 
 
 Lucy. No ; I was there the day before. I remem- 
 ber it is a pleasant room, looking upon the east. I 
 would like to die in such a room. 
 
 MISS S. Miss Lucy, what an expression! But if 
 you will call on me to-morrow I will shew you into the 
 room; 'tis just as when she died — the same candle 
 stands there,' half burnt in the candlestick; the withered 
 flowers are on the table ; withered rose leaves lie scat- 
 tered on her pillow; there is nothing changed th 
 From her window you can see the marble monument. 
 {Here she covers her face; sobs aloud. Little Mary n sU 
 from her ivork.) 
 
 Mary. Where is your sister, Miss Shade ? 
 Miss S. (Sobs more violently, then groans out.') Bless- 
 ed be the innocence of ignorance. Where is she .' 1 he 
 breaking heart asks ivhere? The minister preaches 
 patience. He says, "time will bring relief."' Such 
 consolation is but mockery ; as if it were a comfort to 
 feel that Time, with his frosty touch, could deaden the 
 affections. One whole year, Lucy, this aching heart of 
 mine has asked the same question that little Mary asks 
 this morning— Where u%het and mocking echo answers, 
 
 where ? 
 
 Lucy. I thought. Miss Shade, you were a Christian. 
 Are you not a member of the church ? 
 
 MissS. Yes: I have been a member of it twelve 
 
 y ears . i have been a Sunday school teacher. I have 
 
 comforted man v a mourner. But when sorrow enters 
 
 our own dwelling, 1 find myself enveloped in darkness; 
 
 religion does not sustain me. 
 
MORNING AND NIGHT. 177 
 
 Mary. Where is your religion, Miss Shade ? 
 
 Miss S. O, the child ! Hush, Mary. My heart is 
 sore ; your enquiries make it writhe in agony. Where 
 is my religion *? Where ? Mocking echo answers, 
 Where ? I might as well have been born and educated 
 in a heathen land. I am enveloped in a shroud of night. 
 
 Mary. Have you no bible, Miss Shade ? 
 
 Miss S. Yes, to be sure I have a bible, but it do n't 
 comfort me. 
 
 Lucy. Perhaps you do n't believe what is written 
 there. 
 
 Miss S. Yes, I do ; indeed I do. I am not an infidel, 
 by any means. 
 
 Lucy. Then why do you mourn for your sister as if 
 she were dead ? You know the bible is full of the doc- 
 trine of life. There is no death, only what sin brings : 
 the simple throwing off these material bodies is n't 
 death. We are in an embryo state here — never fully 
 born until we are freed from this house of clay. 
 
 Miss S. Lucy, 't is one thing to talk, another to feel. 
 You have never tasted sorrow. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Heart, dressed in white, and little Sidney 
 with a basket of floivers.~\ 
 
 Mrs. Heart. Lucy, I am glad to meet you. I want 
 some of your assistance this morning. Bring your basket 
 here, Sidney. We gathered these flowers from Mr. 
 Day's garden. I think there are not white ones enough 
 for the wreath. I should like to have you assist me in 
 making it ; my fingers are a little unsteady. I did n't 
 sleep last night. 
 
 Lucy. What is the wreath for, Mrs. Heart ? 
 
178 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mrs. 11. 1 thought you had heard of the augel visitor 
 I had last night. 
 
 Lucy. No, I 've heard nothing. I 've just come into 
 town. I stayed with auntie yesterday. 
 
 Mrs. EL Last evening, when I laid my darling Lulu 
 into the cradle, Sidney came in from the garden with a 
 rosebud in his hand. He brought it to me, whispering, 
 "Is Lulu asleep?" I said, "No." Then he said, 
 " Baby — Lulu ' " She opened her eyes, and smiled as 
 only babies can smile. Sidney put the sweet rosebud 
 into her hand. She grasped it tightly, and soon con- 
 vulsively. I sent for a physician. He seemed greatly 
 moved when he saw her, then gently told me my babe 
 was in her last sleep. 
 
 Sidney. We can 't wake her now ; only the angels 
 can wake her up. You must come in and see her ; she 
 looks so pretty in her little silk cradle. She keeps hold 
 of the flower I gave her. 
 
 Mrs. H. Now, Lucy, I want you should help me 
 make the wreath. I shall have to go to the conserva- 
 tory for some white flowers. These that I have will do 
 for the table, and some of them may do for the foot of 
 the casket. The others I want all white. She is so 
 purely beautiful in her innocence that white only will 
 be suitable for her. 
 
 Lucy. Mrs. Heart, let me go for the flowers while 
 you rest you here. 
 
 Mrs. H. I will let you, Lucy, as I am feeling weary, 
 .Many of the friends at the house offered to go for me, 
 but I chose to go myself. It seemed as it" my own 
 hands must do this last office of love for the pretty 
 
MORNING AND NIGHT. 1T9 
 
 casket that once held our baby. But I will rest here 
 until you return, then we will arrange the wreath. 
 
 Sidney. Mother, I'm not tired; shall I go with 
 Lucy to gather flowers for Lulu ? 
 
 Mrs. H. Yes, darling, you may go. Perhaps little 
 Mary Bright would like to go too ; she was one of 
 Lulu's friends ; Lulu loved her very much. Mary, 
 would n't you like to go home with us, after we get the 
 flowers, and see the pretty casket ? 
 
 Mary. (Puts away her beads.) I should like it very 
 much, and to go for the flowers too. My white rosebush 
 has six buds on it and two roses. May I give them to 
 Lulu? 
 
 Sidney. O yes, Mary, you may ; we may give her 
 anything now. The angels have put her to sleep, and 
 they will wake her in the morning ; then she will be 
 with them in heaven. 
 
 Mary. Won't she come back here any more ? 
 
 Sidney. No, she '11 never wake up here again. 
 
 Mary. And shall we never see her again ? 
 
 Sidney. O yes, we shall see her when the angels 
 put us to sleep. They put us to sleep when we get sick. 
 Last night my head ached, and I laid still ; I thought 
 the angels were there and were going to put me to sleep, 
 just as they did Lulu ? 
 
 Mary. Were you frightened, Sidney ? 
 
 Sidney. No ; angels could n't frighten me ; you 
 know they are always good. But when I thought they 
 were going to take me, I felt the tears coming. I 
 wanted they should take me, but I wanted they should 
 take mamma too. 
 
180 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mary. And did n't you want they should take your 
 papa ? 
 
 Sidney. I didn't think about papa then. Yes, I 
 should want him to be with us. Papa don't like It 
 because they have taken Lulu; he stays in his room. 
 
 Mary. I should n't like it either. "When I conic to 
 your house, I shall want to see the baby. 'Twill he 
 lonesome there now. 
 
 Sidney. Yes, 'twill be lonesome. I'm going to 
 borrow Mrs. Dike's baby sometimes ; 't is n't so pretty as 
 Lulu ; there 's no hah}- so pretty as our darling Lulu was. 
 
 Mary. And I think it was too had for the angels 
 to take her. 
 
 Sidney. No, Mary, 'twas n't too bad; you know 
 the}^ brought her to us — she was a little tiny baby then. 
 She had no teeth. How she did grow ! and how much 
 she did learn! She could say, Idney j and she could 
 take hold of my frock and walk about the room. O little 
 Lulu ! sometime I shall go to see her, and mamma will 
 go too. 
 
 MRS. H. If Lucy is ready, and Mary has got her 
 beads put away, you had better go for the flowers. We 
 shall have none too much time to arrange them. Mary 
 must go home with Sidney, and he can tell her many 
 things about our darling Lulu. 
 
 LUCY. I am ready. Mrs. Heart, 1 would like to in- 
 troduce you to Miss Shade. 
 
 [Miss Shade raises her veil, slowly rises, and soli mnly 
 shakes hands, ] 
 
 Mrs. H. I am happy to see you, Miss Shade. My 
 lieai 1 goes forth with a bound this morning to meet 
 everybody. 
 
MORNING AND NIGHT. 181 
 
 Miss S. Perhaps it will recoil on approaching me, 
 for I am wrapped in the gloom of midnight darkness. 
 I see no light, I feel no joy. 
 
 Mrs. H. No, it doth not recoil. Its pulsation is 
 quickened with the desire to lead you from the darkness 
 of night to the brightness of a new morning. Why will 
 you sit thus, nourishing a morbid and selfish grief? 
 
 Miss S. ( Groans.) You speak severely. 
 
 Mrs. H. I speak truly and earnestly. I say, life is 
 too precious to be spent in selfish mourning. Only a 
 few more seasons shall have their round, and our work 
 on earth is finished — our book of life is complete, the 
 lids are sealed. All useless then will be our regrets to 
 find so many pages a blank, or, what may be worse, 
 stained with selfish tears. 
 
 Miss S. Mrs. Heart, you speak as one that hath 
 never tasted sorrow. And yet I am aware that the king 
 of terrors, with his frowning visage, was at your door 
 this morning, and robbed your home of its dearest 
 treasure. 
 
 Mrs. H. You are mistaken. You are enveloped in 
 the shadows of night, and see nothing clearly. There 
 hath been no king of terrors at our door : there has 
 been no robbing of our home's dearest treasure. One 
 year ago our Heavenly Father gave us a beautiful babe, 
 and He gave us a heaven of love with it. This morn- 
 ing, with the rising of the sun, He sent one of His 
 purest angels to translate the precious little one to a 
 higher state of existence. 
 
 Miss S. And does it not seem like a cruel mockery 
 to bestow a precious gift, and then recall it so soon ? 
 
182 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Mrs. II. It would seem so were this the all of life. 
 But i;iiiee we have learned that this is but the embryo 
 of existence, we know our loved ones are not taken from 
 us when they lay aside their material garments. My 
 darling babe ! I miss her from my arms, but she was 
 never so warmly cradled in my heart as now. The love 
 I feel for her is intense ; and I know her baby spirit will 
 draw me more and more to a spiritual life. I have 
 already learned a lesson that leads onward and upward. 
 I have learned a lesson of trust. 
 
 Miss S. How differently doth grief affect us ! I have 
 learned despair. 
 
 Mrs. H. The lesson we learn is of our own choosing. 
 The Lord hath brought to your mind and mine the great 
 doctrine of life. His revelations are wonderful — beyond 
 what finite minds can fully grasp. Yet we see enough. 
 We know our Heavenly Father's inmost life is love ; 
 and the form of this love is wisdom ; and thus, in His 
 dealings with His children, He cannot err. It remains 
 with us whether we trust Him or whether we rebel. 
 
 Miss S. I wish I had your faith, Mrs. Heart. 
 
 Mrs. H. That is impossible. My faith is not trans- 
 ferable ; and were it so, it would not be adapted to you. 
 The Lord hath given you an understanding of your 
 own. Do not close your eyes; do not seal your heart 
 against His coming. Listen to His words: " Come unto 
 me, all ye thai labor and are heavy laden, and I will 
 give you rest." 
 
 .Miss S. I would be glad to go unto Him, but the 
 way is closed up. All about me is night. 
 
 Mrs. II. All about me is morning — bright, beauti- 
 
MORNING AND NIGHT. 183 
 
 ful morning. I feel as if I were with my darling child, 
 and born into a new life. Natural desires, fears and 
 questionings are hushed. The " I Am " is the All; in 
 Him I trust. Wonderful is His power, and as wonderful 
 His love. One year ago, all unasked, He gave me heaven 
 in my babe. He is the same infinite love now as then, 
 and I will trust Him. " He is my Refuge and Fortress." 
 
 Miss S. You will not always feel it bright morning, 
 Mrs. Heart. This present excitement will pass away, 
 and long hours of desolation will come. 
 
 Mrs. H. Your words may prove true, and they must 
 if I let go my hold of the great Fountain of Life. If I 
 rely upon self, if I view things from a natural vision 
 only, desolation is mine. 
 
 Miss S. And that is the condition I am in, Mrs. 
 Heart. All is night. 
 
 Mrs. H. The Bible says, " He that abideth in the 
 secret place of the Most High shall not be afraid of the 
 terror by night." I think you have wandered off into 
 a far country, and are feeding on husks that swine do 
 eat, Miss Shade. 
 
 Miss S. It is so, and I am dying with hunger : tell 
 me how to return. 
 
 Mrs. H. Be a child again. Jesus takes little chil- 
 dren in His arms and blesses them. Suffer yourself to 
 go unto Him. You remember when the Lord called 
 little Samuel, he answered, " Here ami, for Thou didst 
 call me." 
 
 Miss S. And if I heard His voice, I believe I would 
 make the same answer. 
 
 Mrs. H. In removing from your natural vision your 
 
184 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 loved sister, He calls you to come up higher. Listen 
 to His voice, and seek not the living among the dead. 
 
 Miss S. How shall I take the first step ? 
 
 MRS. II. " If ye know these things, happy are ye if 
 ye do them." 
 
 M iss S. Night still — tell me how to do them. 
 
 M i:s. H. Jesus says, ^ Take up your bed and walk." 
 
 Miss S. More and more dark. 
 
 MRS. II. Live the heavenly doctrines. Crucify with- 
 in you every selfish feeling. Come forth into active life. 
 Be a child — obedient, humble and trustful. Put your- 
 self into the loving stream of Providence ; take the oars 
 in your hand, and earnestly work, not only your own 
 way, but help all others that you find grounded in the 
 miry clay of earth. 
 
 [Enter Lucy and the children, with flowers.'] 
 
 Sidney. Mamma, all these for dear Lulu. Let us 
 go home now and carry them to her. 
 
 MRS. IT. Yes, we will go home. Can you go with 
 
 us, Lucy ? 
 
 LUCY. I am much pleased to go. Let me remain 
 with you a few days. I shall rest and grow strong in 
 your home. 
 
 Mrs. II. Miss Shade, will you walk round and see 
 my baby's casket? You will not see her, but you may 
 feel an influence there that may help you on to child- 
 hood again. 
 
 M iss S. Thank you. The night has become tedious ; 
 
 I shall be glad to break from it. 
 
 Mrs. II. Blessed are they that do His command- 
 ments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and 
 may enter in through the gates into the city. [Exeunt. 
 
THE BOOTBLACK 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Tom Dickens. Mr. Daybright. 
 
 Hezekiah Earnest. Susie Daybright, his Niece. 
 
 Nicholas Flash. 
 
 Tom {alone). Am I a bootblack ? {Places his hand 
 upon his head, and ivalks across the stage absorbed in 
 thought.) Am I a bootblack ? Two years ago, I walked 
 the streets, Avith brush in hand, crying at the top of my 
 voice, " Boots to black ! Boots to black ! " and when 
 some dusty traveler would pause in his way, and per- 
 mit me to shine his boots, then give me a few pennies, 
 more or less, according to the warmth of his heart, I 
 was gratefully contented, and in sincerity said, " Thank 
 ye, sir." But, to-day, when Nick Flash stuck up his 
 boot, and tauntingly said, " Here is a job for you, my 
 boy; put on the shine." I felt like knocking him 
 down — my honor was insulted ; but I only called him 
 a contemptuous snob, and passed on. 
 
 {Enter Nicholas Flash.] 
 
 Nick. Yes, you did call me a snob, and you shall 
 answer for it. Meet me this evening, in Mr. Daybright's 
 back yard, and I will teach you manners. 
 
 Tom. It would be more agreeable to me to meet 
 185 
 
186 PBAMATIO STORIES. 
 
 you in Mr. Daybright's parlor. I am engaged to | 
 the evening there, and have a game of chess with 
 S isie ? 
 
 Nick. You, son of a drunkard! Fin*, dirty boot- 
 Mack! Play chess with Susie Daybright! The stars 
 have fallen from heaven — let the darkness of night 
 cover us. 
 
 Tom. It does not lake very clear vision to observe 
 that the darkness of night hath covered Nick. Plash. 
 I might have been mistaken in calling him a snob, for, 
 really, he has made himself so obscure that one cannot 
 tell what he is. I will withdraw my proposal to meet 
 you in Mr. Daybright's parlor. It would be quite out 
 of place, as he only receives gentlemen there. 
 
 Nick. Meet me in the park, and I will put you 
 where you will never insult a gentleman's son again. 
 
 Tom. There is some difference between a gentle- 
 man's son and the son of a gentleman. 
 
 Nick. I see none. 
 
 Tom. The world, society, respects a gentleman's 
 son; but when the world, societ} T , meets the son of a 
 gentleman, and finds him ill-bred, presuming, over- 
 bearing, they set a mark on him. 
 
 Nick. You impudent bootblack! I'll black your 
 face. 
 
 Tom. The mark is on you. One loses sigh! of the 
 advantage you might possess by being rocked in a 
 gentleman's cradle. You call me a boot-black, the son 
 of a drunkard. I was a bootblack — I was the son of 
 a drunkard ; but one may rise as well as fall. I helped 
 to Mack hoots in the early part of my life ; I am Btrong 
 
THE BOOTBLACK. 187 
 
 now, and resolute to climb the hill, although the path 
 is steep, and strewn with thorns that sometimes make 
 my feet bleed*. 
 
 Nick. You, Tom Dickens, rise ! You, the bootblack, 
 the son of a drunkard, talk of rising ! Your gas may- 
 inflate you for a day, but the bursting will come, then 
 down you go into a ditch lower than the one you started 
 from. 
 
 Tom. Yes ; I, Tom Dickens, talk of rising. 
 
 Nick. I suppose you are looking up to the highest 
 pinnacle of fame. 
 
 Tom. I am looking up to something more substantial 
 than fame. Fame often proves itself a bubble. I would 
 not waste the energies of youth seeking it. But I am 
 looking up — I have set my mark high. As I said, I 
 am climbing a steep, thorny hill ; and if, on my way, 
 I meet Nick Flash coming down, I will step one side 
 and let him pass. I do not choose to meet him in any 
 park, to give him an opportunity of blacking my face. 
 That is lower business than blacking boots. How many 
 pennies would you charge for the job ? 
 
 Nick. (Takes a pistol from Ms pocket.') Idiot, do 
 you know what this is ? Do you know its name ? Do 
 you know its power ? 
 
 'Tom. Yes, I know its name and its power ; and I 
 know gentlemen's sons sometimes fall so low from their 
 honorable birthright as to purchase the use of the hang- 
 man's rope with such a toy as you hold in jouv hand. 
 
 (Nick holds the pistol up. Enter Susie Daybbight.) 
 
 Susie. Nicholas Flash ! what have you in your 
 hand? 
 
188 
 
 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Nick. A pistol. Any harm in it ? 
 
 Si sie. You were pointing it at the head of my 
 friend. 
 
 Nick. Your friend! 
 
 Si see. What does it mean ? 
 
 Nick, a means, that dirty, cowardly bootblack has 
 insulted me. It means, the dastardly son of a drunkard 
 has insulted the son of a gentleman. 
 
 Susie. Give me that pistol, or I will reporl you to 
 the sheriff. You know the law punishes every one that 
 carries a loaded pistol in his pocket. Nicholas 1 
 give me the pistol ! 
 
 Nick. 1 am afraid to trust you with it, your eyea 
 flash fire. 
 
 Susie. Give it to me! Then, I will tell you my 
 errand. (Nick reaches it towards fa r.) I am afraid to 
 touch the wicked thing. Tone please take it Tor inc. 
 and throw it out ol* the window. 
 
 Nick. You do if t suppose that cowardly idiot would 
 dare touch this pistol, do you ? 
 
 Susie. Don't call names, Nick; the habit is dis- 
 graceful : l»ul let Tom take the pistol. 
 
 Nick. That means, let him take my lite. 
 
 Tom. You are mistaken. I would not harm you. 
 I would Btep one side to let you pass. 
 
 SUSIE. Nick, what are you going to do with that 
 awful pistol ? 
 
 NlCK. Put it in my pocket. You need n*l he afraid 
 of it, since it is not loaded. I only carry it to frighten 
 
 drunkards 1 m>h>. and keep bootblacks in their place. 
 Si sie. ( ). Nick. I am ashamed to own you as a 
 
THE BOOTBLACK. 189 
 
 cousin. What makes you disgrace yourself so ? Your 
 poor mother ! How it would grieve her, if she knew 
 you were attempting to pull down an orphan boy that 
 is trying to rise ! Shame on you ! 
 
 Nick. He is rising too fast. Uncle Daybright is 
 doing too much for him. 
 
 Susie. Not a bit. Tom is working hard himself, 
 and we will help him all we can. 
 
 Nick. You say we — ive will help him. Who do you 
 mean by we f 
 
 Susie. Only uncle and I. I will do everything I 
 can for Tom, while he is doing so much for himself. I 
 do n't care if he has been a bootblack. He shines all 
 the brighter for it now. 'T is true, his father was a 
 drunkard ; but it is shameful in you, Nick Flash, to 
 speak of this to him. It is not his fault. The memory 
 of it is painful enough, and the reality was more so. 
 Shame on you, Nicholas Flash ! 
 
 Nick. I am sorry to feel your displeasure, Susie. 
 
 Susie. I would not be worthy the name I bear, 
 were I not displeased with you now, Nick ; and I am 
 going to punish you. I came round here to invite you 
 to visit us this evening ; we are going to have a few 
 friends in ; but I withhold the invitation. 
 
 Nick. Are you going to invite the bootblack ? 
 
 Susie. I am not going to invite the blockhead, Flash ; 
 and I will not answer his question, unless he puts it in 
 gentlemanly language. 
 
 Nick. As you say, Susie. Now, are you going to 
 invite Mr. Dickens to your party to-night ? 
 
 Susie. He is already invited. 
 
190 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Nick. Then, your withholding an invitation from 
 
 me, is of no account, for I should not disgrace myself 
 by attending a party wherea bootblack was present. 
 
 Susie. Nick, apologize to Tom, or I will cut you 
 
 in the street. 
 
 NlCK. The apology will come better after his ex- 
 plosion. 
 
 Susie. Nicholas Flash, your mother wants you. 
 Go, confess your wickedness to her. 
 
 Nick. Gentle Susie, I obey. Goodnight. Thanks 
 for your kindness. 
 
 ScsiE. Tom, what does all this mean? What has 
 happened? Why is Nick making a fool of himself? 
 
 Tom. I cannot answer that question. One hour 
 ago, as I was coming across the bridge, I stopped to 
 look at your uncle's noble vessel, as it came near the 
 shore. There was a fine breeze; the sails were all 
 filled, and it moved so gracefully through the parting 
 water, I could not help giving it a welcome cheer. 
 Nick was standing by. I had not noticed him, as there 
 were many others crowded together on the bridge. 
 A- I cheered, Niek stuck his dirty boot up into my 
 face, and sneeringly said, "Tom, shine my boot." I 
 felt the insult. The crowd hissed and laughed, w nether 
 at him or me, I don't know. I was angry, and could 
 have thrown him into the water; I am strong enough 
 to do it, but I only called him a contemptuous Bnob, 
 and walked away. He followed me — yOU know the 
 
 rest. But, Miss Daybright, do not give it a thought. 
 1 would sooner be thrown into the water myself, than 
 cause one Bhadow to cross your path. 
 
THE BOOTBLACK. 191 
 
 Susie. I am ashamed of Nicholas ; but do n't mind 
 him, Tom. Your way is opening bright. Little Lucy 
 Grey was in at uncle's this morning. Do you know 
 her ? 
 
 Tom. I have seen her. 
 
 Susie. How many times ? 
 
 Tom. Only twice. 
 
 Susie. Do you know her mother ? 
 
 Tom. I have seen her once. They are poor people. 
 I feel sorry for them. 
 
 Susie. We know you do. What did you do with 
 that gold dollar uncle gave you at Christmas ? 
 
 Tom. Was it not mine, to do what I chose with ? 
 
 Susie, To be sure it was. Why have you got your 
 hand wrapped up in a handkerchief? 
 
 Tom. A dog bit it, but not badly. 
 
 Susie. Tom, I know the whole story, and I would 
 sooner have a bootblack for my brother, than the veriest 
 prince that ever lived. Was n't you afraid the dog was 
 mad? 
 
 Tom. I never thought of such a thing. 
 
 Susie. You are a brave boy ; a coward would have 
 thought of it. Were you frightened when Nick drew 
 his pistol ? (The wicked boy !) 
 
 Tom. No ; I have suffered too much in my life to be 
 afraid of an unloaded pistol. 
 
 Susie. But you did not know it was unloaded, and 
 you did not know the dog was n't mad. 
 
 Tom. Susie, we get along better in life not to think 
 of danger. Do what we see to do, and that is all there 
 is of it. 
 
L92 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Susie. So you fought that Bavage dog, and saved 
 little Lucy's life. Uncle is going to have a doctor 
 examine the wound, to see if there is poison in it. 
 
 Why did you give her the gold dollar? 
 
 Tom. They are very poor. She had no shoes. Lucy 
 is a nice girl. But the dog isn't mad; he is only a 
 cross old cur. His master calls him so. 
 
 Susie. Tom, Uncle Daybright is away from home 
 most of the time. Auntie and I have no one to drive 
 us out when we want to ride. 
 
 Tom. I think your Cousin Nicholas would hold the 
 lines safely for you. 
 
 Susie. Nick has disgraced himself; and that isn't 
 all, uncle wants a hoy to stay with us all the time, and 
 1 want a brother. I want some one that is n't afraid of 
 mad dogs nor pistols. 
 
 Tom. You would not want a bootblack? 
 
 SUSIE. You are not a bootblack. 
 
 Tom. Only two years ago, I walked the streets cry- 
 ing, " Boots to black ! Boots to black ! " And I might 
 be in the same black business now, hut for the kindness 
 of you and your uncle. 
 
 SUSIE. But you are not a bootblack now, Tom. 
 That belongs to the past. 
 
 TOM. It seems to me there is no past ; all is in fcha 
 now. I am continually haunted with the question, Am 
 I ,i bootblack f You know we learn from books that 
 nothing, either in the natural or spiritual world, is - 
 destroyed, only changes come. That flower in your 
 
 hand was once a bud — the bud is not destroyed now, 
 
 only changed, or grown to a flower. 
 
THE BOOTBLACK. 193 
 
 Susie. Well, Tom, I want a brother that thinks. 
 You and I were once babies — where are the babies 
 now ? 
 
 Tom. Changed, or grown, or developed, as you may 
 please to call it. The baby is still in us, and we must 
 take good care of it. All the innocence, all the good, 
 all the love we have, belong to the baby in us. 
 
 Susie. Tom, when did you ever find time to think 
 so much ? 
 
 Tom. When I was a bootblack, waiting in the streets 
 for something to do, until my very bones ached. 'T was 
 when I was a bootblack, too, that I learned to pity 
 those that were worse off than myself. In that hard, 
 miserable life, I learned many other lessons — they are 
 a part of myself. So, now say, Miss Daybright, am I 
 not still a bootblack ? 
 
 Susie. Do not call me Miss Daybright. Call me 
 Susie, that is more like a brother. 
 
 Tom. Thank you for the privilege. Then, Susie, 
 am I not a bootblack still ? 
 
 Susie. I will not answer that question until I have 
 thought it over ten thousand times. 'T is a big question. 
 I do not like to think as well as you do. I give it up — 
 be it as you say. If you are a bootblack, then I want 
 a bootblack for a brother. But here is uncle coming. 
 {Enter Mr. Daybright.] 
 
 Mr. Daybright. Thomas, I was looking for you. 
 I want some one to come into my family and make his 
 home there. Will you fill the vacancy? 
 
 Tom. I would like to, if I can be of use to you. 
 
 Mr. Daybright. That you can. I have seen Mr. 
 
194 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Orr, and In- is willing to take some one else to fill your 
 
 place in Lis store. Conic round with Susie to sup. 
 and we '11 arrange everything satisfactorily. 
 
 [Exit -Mi:. DaYBBIGHT. 
 
 Susie. Now, Tom, I told you your way was brighten- 
 ing — and I have a brother. I will let you do all the 
 thinking. 
 
 Tom. And what will you do ? 
 
 Susie. I will draw conclusions. 
 
 Tom. I am afraid there is some truth in what 
 Nicholas said, "Your uncle is doing too much for me." 
 
 Susie. Not a bit. I will begin now to draw con- 
 clusions from your thinking. You said, a few moments 
 ago, that we get along better in life not to think 
 danger — do what we see to do, and there is the all of 
 it. Now, you have only to come to uncle's, and he his 
 child and my brother, and that is the all of it. 
 [Filter Hezekiaii K a i:\kst.] 
 
 1 1 kzekiah. Tom Dickens, I have a message for you. 
 
 Tom. I am ready for it. 
 
 Hezekiah. Nicholas Flash wants you to meet him 
 in the park to-night, at seven o'clock. Will you be 
 there ? 
 
 Tom. Give my compliments to Mr. Flash, and tell 
 him I will step aside and let him pass me. 1 have not 
 time to meet him in the park this evening. 
 
 Hezekiah. But he is in earnest. 
 
 TOM. So am I. 
 
 SrsiE. Go and tell Nick, his Cousin Susie will meet 
 him there ;it mk o'clock. Tell him she will have the 
 choice of weapons — to leave his wicked pistol at home. 
 Hezekiah. will you tell him this'/ 
 
THE BOOTBLACK. 195 
 
 Hezekiah. If you command it. Allow me to ask 
 what weapon you intend to oring? since I am his 
 second. 
 
 Susie. I will bring a weapon that will shame my 
 insolent cousin into an ash heap. 
 
 Hezekiah. I will beg to be excused from being his 
 second, then. {Exit Hezekiah. 
 
 Susie. Cousin Nick ! I am ashamed of him, and I 
 will make him ashamed of himself. Come, Tom, we 
 shall find our supper ready, let 's go home. You are a 
 brave boy ; and if you claim to be the blossom of a boot- 
 black, 'tis all the same, I claim you for a brother. 
 (Susie takes his arm.) 
 
 [Curtain falls.'} 
 
BLIND EVA. 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Eva; Sadie, her Sister j Lottie; Bessie; oik/Tom, I Brother, 
 
 Curtain rises. Blind Eva, dressed in white, is kneeling, with hands 
 clasped, as if in prayer. A moment of silence, then she devoutly 
 
 speaks. 
 
 Eva. How rich is life ! How full of blessings 1 0, 
 our Heavenly Father is not only greats but so -cud! 
 The bible says, lt He covereth Himself with ljght as a 
 garment; lie stretcheth out the heavens like a curtain; 
 He layel h the beams of His chambers in the waters ; I Ee 
 maketh the clouds His chariot ; He walketh upon the 
 wings of the wind." All this is true. This is His 
 greatness. Ii -rcms far, far off, beyond our reach. But 
 the bible says again, He is love ; He watches over the 
 fall of sparrows ; He takes little children in Hi- arms 
 and blesses them. And this is not i'ar off: 'l i> just 
 here , "i is all about us ; 't is within us. I feel it here. 
 (Lay 8 her hand >>n h rheart.) This love makes Him 
 our Father ; we can rest safdy in I lis arms. 
 
 [Enter Sadie. A//.' tenderly placet h- r hand on 
 Eva's cheek.] 
 
 Sadie. How came you here alone, Sister Eva ? 
 
 L96 
 
BLIND EVA. 197 
 
 Eva. I am not alone, dear Sadie ; a company of 
 bright angels were with me when you came in. But I 
 am glad you have come. {Taking her hand.} I so love 
 to feel this precious hand. How soft and warm it is ! 
 Is it not the most perfect of all God's works ? 
 
 Sadie. {Caressing Eva, leads her to a chair and sits 
 down on a cricket near her.) I do not see anything 
 wonderful in my hand , it is good to work with ; it can 
 dust the room, knit a little, sew a little, and tend baby. 
 
 Eva. O, it does much more than that. It is my 
 eyes in this dark world. {Kisses it.') 'T is through 
 this precious hand that half my blessings come. How 
 happy I feel when it rests on my cheek. 'T is my light, 
 my music, my poetry ; my very heart dances when I 
 feel it — there is a wonderful concentration of life in 
 the hand. 
 
 [Enter Bessie and Lottie.] 
 
 Bessie. O, Lottie, I am glad to be here with you. 
 I am tired of brother Tom. He just worries the life 
 out of me. How rough boys are ! Sometimes I wish I 
 had no brother. 
 
 Lottie. Do n't say so Bessie ; I 'd give my head if 
 I had a brother like Tom. I like him. 
 
 Bessie. Give your heart, and you may have him 
 altogether. He just torments the life out of me. O, he's 
 a great hector. 
 
 {Enter Tom.] 
 
 Tom. {Pulls Bessie's hair.) Miss Midget Fussy, 
 will you give a kind word to your brother to - day ? 
 
 Bessie. No, Tom ; and I wish you would go away 
 from here ; I want to have a good time with Lottie. 
 
198 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Tom. So do I. I wish Lottie m as my sister; Bhe 
 would n't play Miss Fussy as you do. 
 
 Bessie, she would play somebody else, if you should 
 strike her as you did me this morning. 
 
 Tom. Hush, Bessie! Don't tell that story: *t was 
 
 only a sweet love pat I gave you. 
 
 Bessie. A love pat! Much like it. My ear burns 
 now with the blow you gave me. 
 
 Tom. Miss Midget Fussy, I love you too well to 
 
 strike you with this big hand of mine, unless you make 
 me tiger-angry by cutting my kite string to fasten some 
 of your trappings with. My kite is my pet ; and when 
 
 you cut the string, look out for the consequence. 
 
 BESSIE. You are a rough boy, Tom, and forever in 
 the way. You did n't brush your hair this morning : 
 how like a fright you look. 
 
 Tom. Do I look bad, Lottie? You see, sister Midget 
 is forever pecking me. Won't she go for "woman's 
 rights'' when she gets her trail on? She is practising 
 on me. Now say something kind to me, Lottie. Do I 
 look awful bad ? 
 
 Lottie. Did you ever see a porcupine, Tom ? 
 
 Tom. Now, Lottie (smoothing down his hair), I 
 
 thought you were my frit nd. 
 
 Lottie. So I am ; and just before you came in. I said 
 
 I wished you were my brot her. But, Tom. it' you were. 
 I would n't let you sti ike me. 
 Tom. Strike you! Who would ever think of striking 
 
 you, Lot lie ? I would much sooner kiss you. 
 
 Lottie. Well, were I your sister, you might. But 
 
 I should brush your hair first. I would n't have a por- 
 cupine kissing me. if he Were my brother. 
 
BLIND EVA. 199 
 
 Bessie. O, Lottie, you are my friend. Give rough 
 Tom what he deserves. 
 
 Lottie. I always give everyone what they deserve. 
 I like Tom ; but he shall brush his hair, and he sha' n't 
 strike you. Now go, Tom, and wash your hand clean 
 from its sinfulness, and smooth down your porcupine 
 feathers. 
 
 Tom. There is a bit of the donkey in me — I can 't 
 be driven. 
 
 Eva. Thomas will you not speak to your blind 
 friend ? 
 
 Tom. (Giving Eva his hand.} Yes, Eva; and I 
 should have spoken to you before, had not these two 
 girls began pecking me. 
 
 Eva. (Holding his hand between hers.) Tom, your 
 hand is a good one ; I like to hold it ; but 't is not so 
 soft and gentle as Sadie's. 
 
 Tom. Well, Eva, you should n't expect that, since 
 I am a boy. 
 
 Eva. But boys have good warm hands, Tom. They 
 may not be as soft and gentle as girls', but they may be 
 just as warm and good. And yours is a good one. I 
 like to feel it. How wonderfully it is made ! All the 
 fingers there, and the thumb, too ! And the joints — 
 not one of them is missing. How many good things 
 this hand can do, with its fingers so nicely jointed. 
 
 Tom. It can do some bad things, too. 
 
 Eva. I should n't think it could ; it feels very 
 warm. 
 
 Tom. You make it warm, Eva. Bessie calls it cold 
 and hard. 
 
1200 DRAMATIC STOBEES. 
 
 Eva. I do not make it warm, Tom ; *t is your warm 
 heart that gives it the glow. 
 
 Tom. Do you think I have a warm heart, Eva ? 
 
 Eva. Certainly I do. I know you have. I feel its 
 warmth every time you come near me. 
 
 Tom. These girls here do n't think I have a warm 
 heart, or a good one. Lottie calls me a porcupine. 
 
 Lottie. I think, Tom, you have a good heart, and 
 a warm one too. You do n't comb your hair but once a 
 year, so I said you looked like something with ruffled 
 feathers. 
 
 Bessie. And I never said, brother Tom, and I never 
 thought it either, that you had n't a good heart ; but 
 you are rough, and your good heart finds fun in teasing 
 your sister. You call me Midget and Fussy. 
 
 Tom. I can 't well help speaking the truth. I never 
 call Eva such names, and she sees no resemblance in 
 me to a porcupine ; do you, Eva ? 
 
 Eva. Indeed, Tom, I do n't. People call me blind 
 — you call me blind — yet I have a sight more con 
 than yours, Bessie's, or Lottie's : and that sight tells 
 me, and it tells truly, that not one of the porcupine's 
 sharp quills belongs to your nature. 
 
 BESSIE. But his bushy head looks like one ; Lottie 
 says so. 
 
 EVA. I think people are unfortunate in having eves 
 to see the outer form of a thing. It sometime deceives 
 them, and often leads the mind from true internal think- 
 ing. Now. here is your brother Tom. we arc ail agreed 
 thai lie has a good warm heart; but you ami Lottie, 
 with your eyes, see him looking like a porcupine, and 
 
BLIND EVA. 201 
 
 his rough, ways annoy you. Without eyes, I see Tom a 
 noble boy ; he is the perfect embodiment of a good and 
 true heart. I like to have him near me ; I like to hear 
 him talk; I like to take his hand — he has a good one. 
 
 Bessie. But he struck me with it this morning, 
 Eva. 
 
 Eva. {Looking sad.} O, Bessie, are you not mis- 
 taken ? Have not your eyes deceived you ? 
 
 Bessie. Tf my eyes deceived me, my sense of feel- 
 ing did n't. 
 
 Eva. I do not think this hand could strike ; it feels 
 so warm and kind. Somebody or something must have 
 compelled it to do that which is entirely foreign to its 
 nature. 
 
 Tom. I suppose, Eva, I compelled it. 
 
 Eva. I do n't think you did, Tom ; your heart is too 
 kind to compel this hand to do such a wicked thing. 
 Try, see if you can strike me. {Lets go Ms hand.} 
 
 Tom. I could die easier. 
 
 Eva. Try and see if you can strike Bessie or Lottie. 
 
 Tom. Not now, I can 't ; but if they make me angry 
 enough, I could. 
 
 Eva. Then is it you or them that makes the hand 
 strike 9 
 
 Tom. You will have to answer your own wise ques- 
 tion, little preacher. 
 
 Eva. Well, 't is not very easy to answer. By this 
 I mean, it is not very easy to make you understand it. 
 You look upon the outer world, I look upon the inner ; 
 you see the effect, I see the cause. In the inner world 
 I see many bright lights ; I see all kinds of feelings 
 
202 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 there, too. Perhaps you will understand me better if 
 J compare these feelings to animals, for in Bpirit they 
 are like them. I see there the lion, tiger and fox : I see 
 also the calf, lamb and dove. Sometimes these animals 
 all lie still, and sometimes the fierce animals try to de- 
 stroy the gentle and innocent ones. Sometimes they 
 all seem to be asleep, then we feel dull and stupid; 
 again, some one of them wakes up, and we arc all alive. 
 I see now, in Tom, the innocent land), awake and Bport- 
 ing on a green lawn ; the dove is cooing her sv i i I song, 
 and this makes his voice sound melodious when he 
 speaks. 
 
 Tom. What animal did Bessie wake op in me that 
 made this hand strike her ? 
 
 Eva. I think it was the tiger. Had I been present 
 and heard your voice at the time the savage deed was 
 done, I could tell for a certainty — the sound of the 
 voice never deceives. 
 
 Tom. Bessie ought to be cautious, not to wake up 
 such ferocious animals. 
 
 Eva. Yes, Bessie ought to be cautions about this: 
 but sometimes they wake very easily, and sometimes 
 they get tired of sleeping, and wake of themselves, and 
 begin prowling round to see what mischief they can do. 
 
 Tom. And what can we do in that ease ? 
 
 Eva. Always keep them chained. Never let them 
 breathe one breath in the outer world of active life. 
 The moment you feel one of them stir, crush it. suffo- 
 cate it. This is easily done when the first motion is 
 felt; but let any one of these wild beasts get a little 
 
 start, and the madhouse will scarcely hold them. 
 
BLIND EVA. 203 
 
 Tom. Do you ever feel any of these ferocious animals 
 troubling your peaceful life, Eva ? 
 
 Eva. Yes, Tom, they are there, but I do not give 
 them the liberty you do yours. What you call my 
 blindness has turned my thoughts much into the inner 
 world, and I always keep a strong guard there. Sadie's 
 hand helps me in my work, too. 
 
 Sadie. And I came for you, Eva, to go into the 
 parlor ; ma wants to see you. 
 
 Eva. (Takes Sadie's hand.} Good evening. Take 
 care of the wild beasts, Tom ; keep them chained. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Tom. What an angel blind Eva is ! And how wise 
 and good ! She sees things truly ; she sees rough Tom 
 as he is, in her presence the wild beasts all asleep. 
 Bessie rouses the tiger, and Lottie sees the porcupine 
 quills. Good night, girls. [Exit, 
 
 Lottie. Well, Bessie, we must go ; 't is getting 
 late; to-morrow we will go round and see Eva. I 
 should like to hear her tell what she sees in me. I think 
 the dog is there. [Exeunt. 
 
THE MAY-BASKET AEMY. 
 
 characters: 
 
 Lucy White, Jane Blue, John I)ix, 
 
 MARY PINK, DOLLY BLACK, %£%?££* 
 
 Four little girls, dressed in White, Pink, Blue, and Black, seated at a 
 table strewn with tissue paper. Each little girl has a May-basket. 
 
 [Enter their Teacher. The children rite and approach 
 her with their baskets.] 
 
 Teacher. My dear girls, I am delighted to see you 
 altogether here. 'T is pleasanter and more social making 
 your baskets in company. Are they complete ? 
 
 PlNK. We had just finished them as you came in; 
 and we have been so happy in making them. Are they 
 not pretty ? 
 
 Teacher. They are very beautiful. Please hold 
 them all up so that I can see them. The pattern is the 
 same, but the colors different. 
 
 Pink. Yes; I made mine pink, or perhaps ii is nd. 
 because thai is my favorite color. You know the sud 
 is always red when it is warm : and blushes are red, 
 and blushes come straight from the heart, and love is in 
 the In-art, so I think low is red. and love is the best 
 thing in the world : the Bible says so. 
 
 Teacher. Where did you find thai in the Bible? 
 
 Pink. Well, the Bible says, " God is love." 
 
 Teacher. Fes, my dear child, " God is love," and 
 
 •204 
 
THE MAY -BASKET ARMY. 205 
 
 love is the best thing in the world ; and 't is love makes 
 heaven. 
 
 Pink. I know that. Grandma and our baby are all 
 love ; and Auntie says they are our heaven. 
 
 Blue. I made mine blue, teacher, because the sky 
 is blue, and blue is the most beautiful color there is. 
 
 Teacher. ' And why do you think blue the most 
 beautiful color ? 
 
 Blue. I cannot tell. But I never tire looking at 
 the beautiful sky. I see the sun there, and all the stars, 
 and the moon. And when those light, fleecy clouds go 
 sailing by, I think bright angels are in them. 
 
 White. I made mine white because you told me in- 
 nocence and purity were clothed in white. Then white, 
 you know, always looks so bright and clean. Little 
 lambs are white, and little babies are dressed in white, 
 and I love them. Everything white looks so pure. 
 
 Teacher. You three have made a good selection of 
 colors ; but how is it with Blackey ? She looks like a 
 dark shadow here. 
 
 Black. O, teacher, I made my basket black on 
 purpose. Yon see 'tis made of coarse paper, and just 
 put together anyway. I am going to give it to Phoebe 
 Doler. Phoebe is a coarse girl, and rough in her man- 
 ners, and she has an ugly face, and they are poor people. 
 
 Teacher. Is this a good reason for giving her a 
 coarse, ugly May-basket ? 
 
 Black. I should think so ; it looks just like her. 
 
 Teacher. QTahes the basket and examines z£.) What 
 an ugly basket this is ! Who could have made a thing 
 so entirely devoid of all beauty ? 
 
206 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Black. I made it. But then I made it for Ph 
 
 Doler. 
 Teacher. Blackey, I do do! understand you. You 
 
 are not a bad girl ; you have not a bad heart ; and I do 
 nut understand how you could have made bo bad a 
 
 basket. 
 
 Black. O. I made 1: lor Phoebe Doler. 
 
 Teacher. It makes do difference who you made it 
 
 for, since it is a gift ; and a gift is a child of the heart. 
 I did not think your heart could Bend forth into the 
 world such an ugly child. 
 
 Black. But it is for Phoebe Doler. 
 
 Teacher. Phoebe Doler didn't make this basket. 
 It is your child ; you made it; and I am pained that 
 you should allow such a bad feeling in your heart to 
 take form and come forth into the world. Do you think 
 it as pretty as Pinkey's. 
 
 Black. Not half ; but then, it is for Phoebe Holer- 
 
 Teacher. Do you think Phoebe Doler is pretty ? 
 
 Black. No, she has an ugly face ; 't is covered with 
 freckles. 
 
 Teacher. And, yon Bay, your basket looks just like 
 her. I saw. this morning, an ugly weed growing in my 
 garden. 1 pulled it up and burned it, 
 
 Black. And would you bum this basket ? 
 
 Teacher. I would, by all means; and then I would 
 
 watch my heart very closely, and never again let it give 
 
 form to anything that was not beautiful. 
 
 | Exit Black. 
 
 [Enter three Boys, with bonnets and shawls on.] 
 JOHN. Teacher, we heard of tins May army. 
 
 am 
 
THE MAY -BASKET ARMY. 207 
 
 so we procured ourselves uniforms, and have come to 
 ask your permission to enlist as soldiers. 
 
 Teacher. The addition of so many "braves" to 
 our army would increase our strength. Your uniform 
 may answer ; but there are other things necessary to fit 
 you for a place in our ranks. 
 
 Joseph. We were aware of this, and have come 
 prepared. Question us, if you please. 
 
 TeacheRo Do you know we are a May - basket army ? 
 
 All. We do. 
 
 Teacher. Are' you prepared with baskets for an 
 evening's march ? 
 
 All. We are. 
 
 Teacher. The spirit of our army is, to bless. Is 
 there a blessing in your baskets ? 
 
 All. We believe so. 
 
 Teacher. I see no objections to your entering our 
 ranks , but I will leave the decision to Pinkey. 
 
 Pink. We will not accept them until we see their 
 baskets. [Exeunt boys. 
 
 Blue. That was a wise decision, Pinkey: those 
 boys looked full of mischief, with their bonnets on. 
 
 White. But they are good boys. Sammy Ray would 
 never do a wicked thing. 
 
 [Re-enter boys.~\ 
 
 John. ( With a basketful of potatoes.) Will not this 
 basket of roots be a blessing to poor Mrs. Castaway ? 
 
 Teacher. Indeed it will. You have complied with 
 the spirit of our army ; and though we see no delicate 
 beauty in your rough basket, we know a living beauty 
 is in the heart of it. 
 
208 DRAMATIC STOIUES. 
 
 Joseph. My basket has a turkey in it. It ia to 
 go with the potatoes to Mrs. Castaway, for a bit of a 
 
 'tbIohkb. k double blessing for the poor woman. 
 You«braves" will give strength to our army. Your 
 basket* are substantial. Now for Soldier Tm 
 
 Thomas. My basket is a small one, and yet ri eon- 
 tains what may be converted into tea, coffee, candles 
 or snuff, as poor Mrs. Castaway may choose. (He pcurt 
 upon the table a hundred pennies.) . 
 
 TEACHER. The poor woman will not think she IS a 
 castaway when she finds this trio of gifts **rj W 
 Now, Pinkey, what is your decision ? Shall we m 
 these bonneted volunteers into our army, or not 
 
 Pink O, yes, we will receive them, bul not Hun 
 bonnets. I fear mischief in those comical bonnets. 
 
 Blue. Do n't be over particular, Pinkey > on mis- 
 take a little innocent fun for mischief. Since their 
 baskets are all right, do n't mind their bonnets 
 
 Thomas. There is no mischief in our bonnets. Are 
 they not after the same pattern as your own . Are I aej 
 
 not in uniform ? i,^„ r ,t< ,lr> 
 
 |.,nk. Uniform is not always harmony, bourne do 
 
 not harmonize with your heavy baskets, neithei r do they 
 bannonize with your boy-nature. Teacher, order them 
 
 to take off their bonnets. 
 Teacher. Pinkey, since yon and Bluey differ in this 
 
 matter of bonnets, we will let Whin v decide. 
 
 ',,,,, lam so much pleased with th» addition^ 
 
 J, Siality to out :army, .ha, I would lik, to mddge 
 SesegeneroVs volunteers in aU their sportive whims. 
 
THE MAY -BASKET ARMY. 209 
 
 Thomas. White fairy ! your wish is our law. You 
 have only to speak, and we obey. 
 
 White. Thank you, good soldier. We girls do not 
 like apes ; but we like boys. (The, boys lay their bon- 
 nets at her feet.) 
 
 Pink. Bravo, boys ! that is well done. Now all is 
 right. I '11 pick up your bonnets, and keep them for 
 some poor girls that have none. 
 
 [Enter Black, smiling, dressed in scarlet, with a scarlet 
 basket; all gently applaud^ 
 
 Teacher. The dark cloud has given place to a 
 warm glowing sunbeam. Now you have a beautiful 
 basket ; the heart is all right ; this one will please poor 
 Phoebe Doler. 
 
 Black. I know it will. I do n't think she ever 
 had a pretty thing given to her in all her life. Perhaps 
 it will do her good. I will try it, any way. 
 
 Teacher. This [trying it will do you good. 
 
 Black. And do n't you think it will do Phoebe 
 Doler good too ? 
 
 Teacher. Certainly I do. Every kind word spoken, 
 and every beautiful or useful gift carries a blessing in 
 its heart. 
 
 Pink. I am delighted with our May-basket army. 
 Susie Blackey has changed to Scarlet. All is right ; 
 and I know how to manage the affair. We must hang 
 our baskets on the door knob, then ring the bell and 
 run. We must go in the evening, so that the darkness 
 will conceal us. 
 
 Blue. That's the way to do it, Pinkey — angels 
 never shew themselves when they leave a gift. 
 
210 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Thomas. When shall we commence our march ? 
 
 Pink. Ajb soon as you have gathered up your pen- 
 nies. We are all ready. 1 shan't tell who I am 
 to hang my basket for — "t is somebody that will be 
 pleased \\ ith it. 
 
 White. I am going to hang mine for grandpa ; he 
 is so good, and I know it will please him. 
 
 Pink. Grandpa! He is an old man. Why don't 
 
 you hang it for some boy thai you lik< 
 
 White. Grandpa isn't old. lie lias lived a great 
 many years, but that don't make him old; and I like 
 
 him better than I do any of the boys. 
 
 Thomas. That is a hard cut, Fairy. 1 wish I were 
 grandpa. 
 
 White. Can 't I hang mine for grandpa '. ; 
 
 Teacher. To be sure you can, if you think it would 
 give him pleasure. 
 
 White. I know it would. Bluey, who are you going 
 to hang yours for ? 
 
 Blue. 'T is for some one that I like very much, but 
 I had rather not tell here. Pinkey would only laugh 
 at me. But he is a good hoy. ami he is sick. 
 
 Thomas. I wish I were a good boy and sick. My 
 pennies are all picked up. Arc we ready to commence 
 our march ? 
 
 TEACHER. You are all ready, and I wish you a 
 pleasant evening. | /.'. i n./tt. 
 
A GAME OF NUTS. 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Bertie Makefun. Annie Pleaseall. 
 
 Nettie Kindheart. Minnie Indolence. 
 
 Sally Grumble. 
 
 Nettie Kindheart, sitting alone upon the stage. 
 
 {Enter Bertie Makefun.] 
 
 Bertie. Nettie, what are you thinking of, here 
 alone ? I will exchange this handful of nuts for your 
 last moment's thought. ( Offers the nuts.) 
 
 Nettie. Bertie, were your nut -shells all gold and 
 the meat in them sugar and honey, I do not think I 
 would make the trade. 
 
 Bertie. Are your thoughts so precious then ? 
 
 Nettle. No, not precious, but too trifling and in- 
 definite to be clothed in words. 
 
 Bertie. Aunt Nancy sa}'s, everything that is worth 
 doing at all, is worth doing well. She says, we should 
 read well, work well, play well and think well. Now, 
 I asked you for your thought, because I wanted to look 
 at it a moment, to see if you thought well. 
 
 Nettie. Look at my thought ! That is a queer idea. 
 
 Bertie. Well, we can look at thoughts as well as 
 211 
 
212 DRAMATIC s 101:11s. 
 
 anything else. There is only this difference — some 
 tilings, your bouquet of flowers for an example, we Look 
 at with the natural eye. A thought we look at with 
 the eye of the understanding. Now. Nettie, if you will 
 give me the thought of this minute I will look at it and 
 tell you what it is like. 
 
 Nettie. My thought at this moment is, that Bertie 
 Makefun is a queer girl. 
 
 Bebtie. Your thought, Nettie, is like a pure dia- 
 mond. 
 
 Nettie. I do not see the resemblance. 
 
 Bebtie. You are stupid. Your thought is like a 
 pure diamond, because there is no alloy with it. You 
 have stated a pure truth — I am a queer girl : I have a 
 queer name; I was a queer baby. My mother says I 
 Laughed before I cried ; and when I gei hurt, I laugh 
 now. 0, there comes Minnie Indolence ; lets get her 
 thought. 
 
 [Enter Minnie.] 
 Minnie, all these nuts for your last thought. 
 
 Minnie. How many have you? If there is enough 
 worth having, 1 will take them, and think I should get 
 a good bargain. 
 
 Bertie. (Counting her nuts.') There are eight; 
 that is a great many, 't is two times four, according 10 
 Colburn's .Mental Arithmetic : and I am sure they are 
 worth having. Now give us your thought. 
 
 Minnie. Well, Cousin Bertie, first the nuts. I'll 
 
 make sure of them, and also warn von. in time for you 
 
 to retract yon ..fin-, that you are makings bad bargain. 
 
 Bebtie. ( Q4ve% (/<<■ nutsJ) I '11 take my chance for 
 
A GAME OF NUTS. 213 
 
 that. Now speak honestly, and tell us what you were 
 thinking of as you walked so leisurely along. 
 
 Minnie. I saw a cunning little squirrel sitting on 
 the fence sunning himself, and I thought if I were only 
 a squirrel I should not have to go to school and study 
 this dull spelling-book. And I shouldn't have to work 
 at home either. You see, Bertie, you have made a poor 
 bargain. 
 
 Bertie. Not at all. Miss Indolence, your thought 
 is in harmony with your name, and harmonies always 
 satisfy. But then, squirrels have to work hard for the 
 food they eat. Did you ever see them crack nuts with 
 their sharp teeth ? And how provident they are in 
 providing for the cold winters. I do not think, Minnie 
 Indolence, that you would be nimble enough for a 
 squirrel ; the cats would catch you and eat you up be- 
 fore you could get resolution enough to start on a race. 
 But I see Annie Pleaseall coming. Minnie, please lend 
 me your nuts that I may buy her thought. I will try to 
 trade cheaper than I did with you ; I will only give 
 her half of them. 
 
 [Minnie gives the nuts. Enter Annie.] 
 Annie, your last thought for half these nuts. 
 
 Annie. A bargain. (Takes the nuts.) I thought 
 if I were only this beautiful rosebud (holding one in her 
 hanoT), somebody — I mean every decent body — would 
 love me. 
 
 Bertie. Well, Annie Pleaseall, it would improve 
 you somewhat to turn into a rosebud ; you would then 
 forget yourself, lose all desire for admiration, and be- 
 come perfectly beautiful. Here is Sally Grumble 
 
■214: DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 coming ; these four auts I "11 offer hei for her thought. 
 Now we shall get something rich. 
 
 [Enter Sai.lv. poorly clothed.] 
 Come, Sally, these lour large outs for your last thought 
 
 Sally. My Last thought for fournute! My thought 
 comes from much hard experience, and you, Bertie 
 Makefun, think to buy it for lour nuts. You don't 
 trade with me that way. I assure you. 
 
 Annie. 1 will give you four more, Sally. Now give 
 us your thought ; please do. 
 
 Sally. I will not; no, I will not give my hard- 
 earned thought for four nuts, nor eight nuts, even to 
 Annie Pleaseall ; and as for Bertie Makefun, I would n't 
 give one thought to her if her apron were full of nuts. 
 
 MINNIE. Well, Sally, how many nuts will you give 
 them to me for ? 
 
 Sally. How many nuts will I give them to you for, 
 Miss Indolence? If I should speak plainly to you, I 
 should say you would have to stir yourself early in the 
 morning to pick nuts enough in your lifetime to buy 
 one of my thoughts. 
 
 Minnie. O, Sally, what have I done to merit Buch 
 
 severity ? 
 
 Sally. You have done nothing, Minnie ; and this is 
 the charge I bring against you. 
 
 Bertie. Well, Sally, there is Nettie; perhaps you 
 may be induced to trade with her. 
 
 Sally. I might give them to Nettie Kindheart. She 
 never asked anything of me yet that I refused her. 
 
 NETTIE. This is very kind in you, Sally. Now. ii 
 you please, give me your thought, and 1 will give yell 
 
 mine in exchange. 
 
A GAME OF NUTS. 215 
 
 Sally. Whatever you ask, Nettie, I will give. I 
 thought, and I think, this is a cold world we live in. 
 Everything is turned topsy turvy. Winters are too 
 cold, summers are too hot, spring too short, and autumn 
 no better. Some people are too rich and some too poor ; 
 and you can 't meet a poodle dog in the street, but you 
 shudder at the thought that he may bite you. 
 
 Bertie. You have given your kind friend, Nettie, 
 many thoughts ; which one shall I put into our morning 
 journal ? 
 
 Sally. Every poodle dog may bite. Now, Nettie, 
 give us your sunny thought ; the world needs it. 
 
 Nettie. Treat every poodle dog kindly, and they 
 will have no teeth to bite with. 
 
 Sally. One more thought on top of yours, Nettie. 
 Sally Grumble would place her poor body between you 
 and the veriest mad dog that walks on this sad earth. 
 
 [They all clap their hands.~\ 
 I do n't say this of you, Bertie Makefun. 
 
 Bertie. I know you do not, Sally. Your conduct 
 speaks quite an opposite language to me. I never come 
 into your presence without your growling. But I have 
 not yet given my thought. As it is the last one, I sup- 
 pose it should be the climax, Now, as we are all Ho- 
 mceopathists, and understand the philosophy of " like 
 cures like," we can also understand this — grumble gets 
 grumble. 
 
 [Sally, in a passion, leaves the stage."] 
 
 Nettie. O, Bertie, you are too severe on poor Sally. 
 Her lot in life is cold. I am not sure if you had it to 
 bear but some of your fun would be frozen into icicles. 
 
216 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Think of her poor, miserable home. Her mother dud 
 in her infancy; her wretched father is intemperate; 
 
 and her Aunt Crossbar is quite worthy the name she 
 bears. Sally gets little sunshine anywhere. 
 
 Bertie. I know it, Nettie. Can't we give her 
 some? Let 's think of some funny surprise for her this 
 Christmas evening. 
 
 Annie. So we will ; and I "11 tell yon what will be 
 nice. We will all look over our private drawers, and 
 cull from our nicknacks there what we can -pare : put 
 them altogether into one bundle, and send them to 
 Sally. This might give her a moment of sunshine 
 
 MINNIE. That is a happy thought, Annie. I have a 
 great many things I would like to give away, and I 
 propose that we send our things over to Nettie, and let 
 her take them to Sally. She loves Nettie, you know ; 
 and it would increase the value of a present to receive 
 it from her hands. 
 
 Bertie. We ought first to enquire if Nettie would 
 he willing to undertake so formidable a mission. 
 
 Nettie. I should be delighted with the honor. I 
 would walk ten miles to feel the warm glow from poor 
 Sally's heart on receiving the gift of a Wk Christmas tree." 
 I have got a cunning little tree at home thai pa brought 
 me ; 'tis so small I could carry it in my hand. Now. 
 all the presents that we get together that would look 
 pretty on the tree, I would hang on ii ; any larger ones 
 I Could put into a basket. 
 
 Bertie. Admirable, your plan, Nettie. Let us 
 hasten home to have things ready. We will send our 
 
 budgets round to you. I shall put a hum h of fun inside 
 
A GAME OF NUTS. 217 
 
 of mine ; but do n't tell Sally who put it there, as it 
 would make her ruffle up her stiff feathers. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE SECOND. 
 
 Sally Grumble, alone, with a large calico bag on her arm, well filled. 
 
 Sally. Well, 't is a cold Christmas evening for all 
 poor people ; 't is the frigid zone of the year. We feel 
 the cold more now because everybody is so warm around 
 us. My very soul shivers ; I am freezing ; I have no 
 friend in this wide world to give me as much as a brass 
 pin ; and this is n't the worst of it — I 've not a friend 
 to give anything to. I will except Nettie Kindheart. 
 This bag of nuts I gathered for her in the nut season. 
 She will find the shells hard, but she can open them as 
 she has the proud heart of the giver. If I had a mint 
 of money, I would give it all to Nettie. 
 
 \fEnter Nettie, with a beautifully dressed tree in 
 one hand and a full basket in the other. ] 
 
 Nettie. Sally, a bunch of friends have commissioned 
 me to bring you this tree and basket. You will find 
 them laden with many wishes for you, a merry Christ- 
 mas. 
 
 Sally. (Drops her oivn bag and takes the gifts.) I do 
 not believe I have but one friend in the world, and to 
 her I am very grateful. But a moment since I felt my- 
 self in the frigid zone, shivering with cold ; now I am 
 transported to the torrid, and am melting with heat. 
 ( Wipes her eyes.) Nettie Kindheart, you keep green a 
 
218 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 small island in my cold desert -heart. All beside and all 
 around it is a waste wilderness. Last year, in the sea- 
 son of out -gathering, I spent the early mornings under 
 the generous brei -. Every nut they Let fell I gathered 
 for you. I have kept them for my Christmas offering. 
 They are worth nothing, yet my Lone heart is in them, 
 and I know yon will accept them, to please poor Sally. 
 
 Nettie. Indeed I will, and thank you a thousand 
 times. What a treat I shall have this winter! Von 
 must come over, Sally, and cat them with me. I hi 
 many pleasant things to tell yon, and I have one very 
 bright thought nestling itself warmly in the inmost of 
 my heart: I shall tell it to yon some of our nut-eating 
 evenings. Would your Aunt Crossbar let yon go away 
 from her to live ? 
 
 Sally. Yes, and be thankful to have me. We live 
 like two scratching cats tied together. 
 
 Nettie. Well, Sally, yon know I have no sister. I 
 am going to talk to ma about something that will make 
 us very happy. Good night ; now I must hurry home. 
 
 j ilr It. 
 
 Sally. I have no voice for words; my throbbing 
 heart is too full. I see a ray of summer ligit among 
 the possibilities of the coming future. The world is not 
 all ;l desert now. Nettie Kindheart has kept one tiny 
 seed alive in this wintry heart of mine. I feel its throb; 
 itmaj burst forth; it may Live, grow, blossom and bear 
 fruit. Sally Grumble may sleep one cold Ion- night, 
 then wake in the morning and and her name Grateful 
 Sunshine. 1 l]nL 
 
THE KERNEL OF CORN. 
 
 Otfjaractera : 
 
 George Lowd, Lucy Carlton, 
 
 Charles Brown, Bessie Reed. 
 
 Charles seated at a table, examining, with absorbing interest, the 
 contents of a small box. Books and papers on the table. 
 
 \Enter George, Lucy, and Bessie, in traveling dresses.'] 
 
 Lucy. I am so glad the evening is pleasant. I know 
 we shall have a delightful ride. 
 
 George. It is cold. Are you dressed warm ? 
 
 Lucy. O, yes ; I am wrapped up in furs. Ma 
 didn't like to have me go, but, after much coaxing, 
 she consented. 
 
 Bessie. That was good in her. Your mother is 
 always so careful of you. 
 
 Lucy. You know I am the only girl mother has; 
 and although I may not make a mark in society, I make 
 my mark at home. The boys all say the sun has set, 
 when Lu is gone. 
 
 George. Tell your brothers, selfishness is a sin. 
 Other eyes beside theirs like to see the sun. 
 
 Bessie. George is complimentary this evening, and 
 he can afford to be, for we have, to say the least, two 
 
 219 
 
220 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 hours of pleasure before us — and a sleigh -ride in the 
 evening, by moonlight, is a capital way to kill time. 
 
 (ii LRLES. (In a loud voice. \ Murder! (The other* 
 start.) 
 
 George. What do you mean. Charles, by shouting 
 in this way ? 
 
 Bessie. You frightened me half out of my Bene 
 
 Charles. That is well; ybuoughi to be frightened. 
 There is no merciful law to punish a criminal like you. 
 If I can frighten you a little, it may do some good. 
 
 George. {Throws his glove upon the table.') [am 
 the protector of these ladies this evening. We will 
 meet in* the morning. 
 
 Charles. (Playfully return* the glove.) I think 
 you will need this before to-morrow morning. 1 will 
 satisfy you for the offense I have giveD to-night, by 
 throwing a ray of light upon the subject. ]\Ii^ Bessie, 
 here, is devising ways to kill time; and. if 1 sei 
 rectly, this is murder in the first degree, and we have 
 no human law to punish it. 
 
 Bessie, diaries, speak truly, now. does old Father 
 Time never weigh your life down with a wearisome 
 monotony ? 
 
 Charles. Never. 
 
 George, 1 should judge, from your employment 
 
 this evening, that you were trying to annihilate sonic 
 
 of his leaden moments. 
 
 Charles. Nol at all. 1 am filling the present with 
 i memories of the past. 
 
 Lucy, While we are waiting for Sambo to bring 
 our sleigh, let us set' some of your curiosities. 
 
THE KERNEL OF CORN. 22l 
 
 Charles. {Pushes towards her his box.} With 
 pleasure. They are all at your service. 
 
 Bessie. What a variety you have, Charley. I could 
 kill one hour, at least, in looking them over. 
 
 Charles. Do not, Bessie, talk of killing time. 
 Every little moment of it is precious. I try to live in 
 the present — to take each hour as it comes, and fill it 
 full of life in some form. 'T is an old adage, "but true, 
 that a day lost is never found. 
 
 Bessie. I do not see any sense in that old adage. 
 I am not fond of adages, anyway. 
 
 Charles. You can see that time is ever onward — 
 to -day goes and never returns. Our infancy will never 
 come back to us ; the opportunity of growth to-day will 
 not be ours to-morrow. So, I say, let us fill every little 
 minute as it comes to us. 
 
 Lucy. Charles, would n't you have any pleasure in 
 life ? Would you never go sleigh riding ? 
 
 Charles. Yes, I would go sleigh riding, and I have 
 a great fancy for pleasure ; I love it so well that I try 
 to fill all time with it. Activity of life in any right 
 direction is pleasure to me. 
 
 Lucy. That 's my idea. I cannot tolerate indolence. 
 
 Bessie. And I do not believe I am very partial to 
 indolence. 'T is only when I have nothing to do that 
 I feel murder in my heart — in other words, that I want 
 to kill time. 
 
 Charles. Then, Bessie, why do n't you wake up to 
 the great object of life, and try to grow into its perfec- 
 tions ? 
 
 Bessie. I am awake, and, just now, interested in 
 
222 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 your box of curiosities. What a medley you have here ! 
 Where did you get all this ancient coin? 
 Charles. From different sources. Grandfather 
 
 me some of it. 
 
 Bessie. This silver knee-buckle. I suppose there 
 ae interesting Legend connected with it. 
 
 Charles. I don't know of any. 'Tis simply a 
 family relic. It belonged to my great uncle. 
 
 Bessie. (Laughs.) Well, a kernel of corn 1 This 
 is a wonder! 'Tis a marvelous curiosity! Look at it, 
 George. Did yon ever see anything Like it ? 
 
 GEORGE. I never saw anything like it. 
 
 Lucy. Now, George, what a big story for an honest 
 hoy to tell, 
 
 George. 'Tis true. I never saw a distinguished 
 kernel of corn before. Such a plebeian must have dis- 
 tinguished himself some way, to have knighthood con- 
 ferred upon him. Please give us the history of his life, 
 
 Charles? 
 
 Charles. With pleasure. You know my father's 
 farm? 'Tis one of the largest and best in the county. 
 
 George. Yes, we know this. 
 
 Charles. "Well, this farm belonged to my grand- 
 father. 
 
 George. And that Ave know. Now for the kernel 
 of corn. 
 
 CHARLES. This farm, a fe^W year- ago. all lay in a 
 kernel of corn. 
 
 George. That we did n't know. We have your 
 
 word for it — and your word is good : still, we should 
 
 esteem it a greal favor if you would give us some Light 
 
 Oil the subjet I . 
 
THE KERNEL OF CORN. 228 
 
 Charles. My grandfather's parents died when he 
 was a little boy, and left him and his grandmother alone 
 and very poor. They struggled on a year or so with 
 pinching poverty, then, to save themselves from starva- 
 tion, they applied to the town for assistance. My 
 grandfather was nine years old now ; and when the 
 charitable official called with his lumber cart to take 
 them, in tender mercy, to the almshouse, the old lady 
 burst into hysteric sobbing. When she could control 
 herself, she said, "This is well for me — I .sleep and 
 wake — and all is over. I find a home where cold and 
 hunger never come. But my child ! He has just com- 
 menced life's journey — he is a good boy — spare him." 
 The official kindly said, " I see he is a good boy ; he is 
 large and strong ; he looks honest. I will take him 
 home with me, and let him work on my farm, if you 
 wish. He can feed the chickens now, and will soon be 
 large enough to do more." The old lady accepted this 
 offer with gratitude. When she was about parting with 
 grandfather, she was distressed because she had nothing 
 to give him. At last, she found in her pocket a kernel 
 of corn. " God be praised," she said, " I have some- 
 thing ! 'T is not the greatness of the gift that contains 
 the blessing: My boy, take this — 't is your grandma's 
 legacy — you will find a farm in it. 
 
 Bessie. And is this the same kernel she gave him ? 
 
 Charles. No ; it is and it is n't. It is a descendant 
 of it. 'T was autumn when grandpa received this 
 wonderful legacy of a farm lying in a kernel of corn. 
 He kept it, as something very sacred, until the sunny 
 <!ays of spring came, then he asked leave to bury it in 
 
224 DRAMATIC BTOBIB8. 
 
 one corner of the garden. " Grandma," he -aid. -is 
 buried, and I will bury her last gifl to me. [f I fa 
 it, I may Lose it." He was delighted, in a few days, 
 tosee Lt shooting oul of the ground a living thing. He 
 watched it with greal care and interest until the autumn 
 days came round ; then it was a large stalk, with three 
 large ears of corn on it. He did bis harvesting with 
 manly pride. " My farm? he said ; "grandma's gift." 
 Next year he buried his three ears, and the nexl 
 war, his three hundred; then he began to count his 
 bushels— then tons: now he converted some of it into 
 land — he had an acre. His kernel of corn kept grow- 
 ing his acre enlarged; and now we sec the farm. 
 
 George. Thank you. Charles, for enabling ua to Bee 
 for ourselves a farm in a kernel of corn. The humble 
 little plebeian is worthy of knighthood. 
 
 Charles. Now a word lor the murderer here. ¥ou 
 see what a world lies hidden in this apparently insignifi- 
 cant kernel of corn. 
 
 Bessie. I see it. Charles. It may multiply itself 
 
 until it covers the whole habitable earth. 
 
 Charles. That is true ; and the little minutes of 
 time thai you would kill, may he tilled with some form 
 of use thai will multiply itself until it reaches eternity. 
 
 Bessie. O, Charles, what a big thought you have 
 given me to take sleigh ridingl 
 
 Pi i v. There is great truth in this thought. I feel 
 it waking tip Borne of my slumbering energic ^. He has 
 planted a kernel of corn. I feel the tender germ spri 
 [ngintolife. Nexl autumn wewill Look for the harvest. 
 
 Charles. If you guard the tender seedling well, I 
 
THE KERNEL OF CORN. 225 
 
 know there will come a rich harvest ; not only one, but 
 another and another, even beyond human ken. 
 (Sleigh bells are heard.) 
 Bessie. That is the sound. We do n't hill time 
 when we enjoy it, do we ? I will be a murderer no 
 longer, for this sage philosopher to cry out against. 
 Let us fill life to overflowing. The sleigh bells ! there 
 is music in them. Come, Charlie, go riding with us. 
 
 George. Yes, go ; there is room. Quick ! Sambo 
 can 't hold the horses. 
 
 (Charles picks up his treasures.) 
 
 [Curtain falls. 
 
THE rOCKET-BOOK. 
 
 (Ti) a carters : 
 
 Mrs. Davis. Mr. Ellis. 
 
 Thomas Lee. John Carl. 
 
 [Enter Thomas. Hunts carefully over th carpi £, moving 
 
 chairs.] 
 
 Thomas. Auntie, have you seen my pocket-book 
 anywhere here ? 
 
 Mrs. Davis. I did n't know that you had one. 
 
 Thos. Yes, I had. This morning, when I went 
 into Mr. Ellis's store, I found one lying on the floor, 
 near the door. I picked it up and put it into my pocket . 
 Of course, it did n't belong to Mr. Ellis ; he do n't keep 
 his pocket-books in such a place. 
 
 Mrs. D. Does it belong to you ? 
 
 THOS. I should think it did. I found it. 
 
 Mrs. D. Where did you Bay yon found it? 
 
 Thos. On the floor. 
 
 Mrs. D. Well, I found one, a few minutes ago, near 
 the door, on this floor. I picked it up and put it in my 
 pocket. I suppose, according to your reasoning, it be- 
 longs to me. 
 
 Thos. No,Auntie,i1 belongs tome; I found it first. 
 
 Mrs. D. I do n't think it makes any difference who 
 226 
 
THE POCKET-BOOK. 227 
 
 found it first. I found it last, and 'have it in my pos- 
 session, and I should think I had a better claim to it 
 than you have. 
 
 Thos. No, you have n't ; it belongs to me. 
 
 Mrs. D. What claim have you on it ? • 
 
 Thos. I found it. 
 
 Mrs. D. So did I find it ; but I do n't think it be- 
 longs to either of us. It has an owner, and you must 
 try to find him. 
 
 Thos. How can I ? 
 
 Mrs. D. You can carry the pocket-book to Mr. 
 Ellis ; he will advertise it ; and I have no doubt the 
 owner will call for it. Here it is ; run over with it as 
 soon as you can, tell him where you found it, then leave 
 it with him. 
 
 Thos. I do n't like to do it, Auntie. He will think 
 I was dishonest to bring it home before I gave it to him. 
 [A rap is heard at the doorJ\ 
 
 Mrs. D. Open the door, Thomas. 
 [Enter Mr. Ellis.] 
 
 Mr. Ellis. Good evening, Mrs. Davis ; good even- 
 ing, Thomas. 
 
 Thos. Good evening. (Thomas starts to leave the 
 room.') 
 
 Mr. E. Stop, my boy ; I want to talk with you ; 
 my business here to-night is with you. I am in search 
 of an honest boy. 
 
 Thos. I am not, then, the boy you want, sir. 
 
 Mr. E. I am not sure of that. How old are you ? 
 
 Thos. I am twelve years old, sir. 
 
 Mr. E. Have you any brothers or sisters ? 
 
228 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Thos. Not any. I have only a mother, and Bhe is 
 very j. o«»r. I go home nights to Bleep, and I Btay with 
 auntie in the day, as I ran be of a little use to her ; then 
 Bhe says she likes my company. Mother don't mind 
 Btaying alone. 
 
 Mr. E. It* your auntie ran .-pare you. I think you 
 are the boy I want. I can afford to pay you something, 
 and that will help your mother. 
 
 Thos. I do n't think I am the boy you want. sir. 
 
 Mil E. Wouldn't you like to work in my Moi. 1 
 want some one to carry small parcels, and remain in the 
 store while I go home to dinner. I think you could 
 wait on customers in small matters ; you could sell 
 matches and such nicknacks, could n't you ? 
 
 Thos. Yes, sir ; but I am not the hoy you want. 
 
 Mr. E. Wouldn't you like to work in my Btore? 
 It would help your mother. 
 
 THOS. I should like it very much : and most of all, 
 to help my poor mother. I suppose you would give her 
 a half pound of tea sometimes: she likes it. hut she 
 does n't have any. 
 
 Mi:. E. I would give her all the tea she could drink, 
 and all the Bugar, coffee, fish, flour, and spices that Bhe 
 could use. 
 
 Tims. ( Ivinh'trraxxcd — »tammi re — theneays) Auntie 
 will explain to you. I am not the honest boy you want. 
 < //. starts to leave the mom. \ 
 
 MRS. I). Stop. Thomas: don't leave the room. 1 
 will explain all to Mr. Ellis. Give him the pocket- 
 hook, tell him where yOU found it. ami that you were 
 JUSI going t<> take it o\er to his -tore 
 
THE POCKET-BOOK. 229 
 
 Thos. ( Gives the pocket - book.') I found it on the 
 floor in your store this morning. 
 
 Me. E. {Takes it.) 'T is not mine; 'tis a poor, 
 worn thing, and has seen hard days. It must belong 
 to some very poor child. 
 
 \_A rap is heard at the door ; Thomas opens it. Enter 
 a ragged boy, crying. ~\ 
 
 Boy. Is Mr. Ellis here ? 
 
 Me. E. I am Mr. Ellis. What is wanting ? 
 
 Boy. {Checks his sobs.) I thought, maybe I lost 
 my pocket-book in your store this morning. It held 
 all the money I have ; and I was going to buy my mother 
 some medicine with it. She is very sick, and nobody 
 to do anything for her but me. 
 
 Mr. E. How much money did you have in your 
 pocket-book ? 
 
 Boy. I had twenty cents. 'T was a very old pocket- 
 book ; it was my mother's. 
 
 Mr. E. {Holding out the pocket-book.) Does this 
 look like the one you lost ? 
 
 Boy. It is the one, sir ; it is the very one. My name 
 is John Carl ; I live in D street, No. 6. If you will let 
 me have my pocket-book, I will run for my mother's 
 medicine. She is very sick. She is all the friend I 
 have. I would die to save my mother from pain. 
 
 Mr. E. You shall have your pocket - book, and I will 
 put twenty cents more into it. 
 
 Mrs. D. And I will add the same. ( Gives the money 
 to Mr. E.) 
 
 Thos. I have got no money. My mother is poor, 
 like yours. She is not sick. I will give you my jack- 
 knife. {Offers it to him.) 
 
280 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Boy. Thank you, but I will not take it. My pocket- 
 book, and I will run. 
 
 Mk. E. {Gives it to him.) When yon have carried 
 
 the medicine to your mother, come into my B1 
 
 BOY. Yes, sir; thank you : and thank you and the 
 lady for the money. (//- hurries off.*) 
 
 Mi:. E. Well, Thomas, I am in haste. How 
 can you commence working for me ? 
 
 Thos. Do you think 1 am honest enough for yon ? 
 
 Mr. E. You have the reputation of being a very 
 honest boy. Are you not honest ? 
 
 Thos. Am I honest, Auntie ? 
 
 Mrs. D. You made a Little mistake about the pocket- 
 book. You thought, as you did not know the owner, 
 it belonged to you ; but I believe when the matter was 
 shown to you in a clear light, your feelings were all 
 right. I will stand responsible to Mr. Ellis for your 
 entire honesty. 
 
 Mr. E. You will excuse me, Mrs. Davis, but I can- 
 not accept you as security. 1 will take Thomas ujm.ii 
 his own merits. I will trust him. All that I have in 
 my store I shall daily leave in his entire charge while I 
 am away to dinner, and sometimes on longer errands. 
 ("an you come to-morrow ? 
 
 Thos. Yes, Mr. Ellis; and T will di) everything 
 for you that I can. I will come in the morning before 
 daylight, if you want me; and I will stay late in the 
 evening. O, my mother will be so much pleased ! 
 You will find me an honest boy, Mr. Ellis. I know 
 
 all the Commandments ; and mother teaches me to live 
 
 1 1 Hill . 
 
THE POCKET-BOOK. 231 
 
 Mr. E. I have confidence in you, Tom. Come in 
 the morning at eight o'clock. I must go ; good night. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Thos. O, Auntie, I would give all I ever had if I 
 had n't brought that poor boy's pocket-book home with 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. D. It will be a good lesson to you ; 't will 
 teach you to be ever watchful of what you do. Watch 
 yourself in small things ; do not yield to a shadow of 
 wrong in thought or action ; be truthful always ; be 
 honest as the morning sun. 
 
 Thos. I will, Auntie. I will be as honest and truth- 
 ful as the king of day. He never deceives us ; he never 
 steals from us. Sometimes the black cloud hides his 
 light, but as soon as it passes away we see him still 
 there, in all his brightness. How often mother has told 
 me this ; and I will run home and tell her of my good 
 fortune. 
 
 Mrs. D. I will go with you. \_Uxeunt. 
 
THE TANGLED THREAD. 
 
 (Ctjarartns : 
 
 KlTTIE Earl; Mary and Daisy Earl, her Cousins; and Nkli.ii 
 Thorp. 
 
 KlTTIE, sitting in a chair, trying to disentangle a skein of thread ; hei 
 two cousins on crickets beside her, playing with dolls. 
 
 {Enter Nellie.] 
 
 Nellie. What are you all doing here ? Little 
 cousins playing with dollies; and what arc you doing. 
 Kittie? 
 
 KlTTIE. What am 1 doing - / I am trying to pick 
 out this snarl of thread. 1 am discouraged. I ran 
 never pick it out; and I have tried and tried, but it 
 will never be smooth under my impatient lingers. 
 
 NELLIE. 'Try again. 
 
 Kittle. I have, and the determined thing will not 
 yield one inch of its lixings. 
 
 Nellie. Try again. Kittie; never give up. [f you 
 find ili<" Bnarl more and more complicated, redouble 
 your perseverance. 
 
 All that other folks can do, 
 
 Why, with patience, may not yon ? 
 
 Only keep this ink- in view, — 
 
 Tin again. 
 
THE TANGLED THREAD. Z66 
 
 Kittle. O, Nellie, do n't keep talking to me about 
 trying again. I 'm out of patience. 
 
 Nellie. There is your trouble — you have permitted 
 yourself to get out of patience ; your mind is in a snarl 
 O, Kittie, who would have thought a simple skein of 
 thread could cloud the sunshine of your mind ! 
 
 Kittie. And yet 't is true, this old thread has done 
 it. 
 
 Nellie. Did you ever read the story of Robert 
 Bruce's sixth failure in attempting to free Scotland, 
 and that watching the perseverance of a spider he was 
 led to make the seventh attempt, which was successful ? 
 Now I suppose you have worked six seconds over that 
 snarl ; try the seventh one, and you will succeed. 
 
 Kittie. I will try no more ; the thing is n't worth 
 such sacrifice of feeling. Little cousins may have it to 
 fill pin-cushions for their dollies. 
 
 Nellie. Well, Kittie, you will never excel in any- 
 thing unless you learn patience and perseverance. This 
 morning, when I was in the garden, I noticed a little 
 bird picking up straws and sticks, to weave into her 
 nest. Once she tried to fly to a tree with a stick in her 
 bill too heavy for her to carry, and before she had quite 
 reached her nest it fell to the ground. She was not 
 discouraged ; she patiently picked it up, and tried again. 
 Again it fell. Was her patience exhausted ? Not at 
 all. I watched her with much interest. Five times 
 she failed. I began to despair of her success. But the 
 sixth was a complete victory ; and I gave her such a loud 
 cheer that I nearly frightened her away. 
 
 Daisy. I should like to see that little birdie. 
 
234 DBAMA I [C STOBIES. 
 
 .Mai:v. If I )ay and I had been ther i raid help 
 
 birdie cany the heavy stick. Wouldn't we, Day? 
 
 Daisy. Yes; and we would help her build her nest. 
 
 Nellie. Little cousins, can *t you Bing to Kittie 
 thai pretty song yon know about the birds. (Ti 
 >■/////.) 
 
 I love to watch the little bird, 
 
 As patiently she wei 
 Her little nest upon the tree, 
 
 Half hid among the k-a\ 
 
 Kittie. That is a pretty little song, and I will be 
 ]ike the birds, and try my snarly thread again. But, 
 NCllic did you never try to do a thing and give it up ? 
 Did you never find a twig too heavy for you to carry ? 
 
 Nellie. Yes; I once tried to teach my dollie to 
 sing, and my success was no better than that of the boy 
 who tried to teach his pig to read. And I once tried to 
 subtract ten from eight, and failed in the attempt. 
 
 Daisy. And I failed last night to keep my fingers 
 warm when I was coasting. But, then, we had a good 
 time, and did n't care if our fingers were cold ; did v\ e, 
 May ? 
 
 .Mary. No, we didn't know they were cold until 
 we got into the house, where the fire was. Day cried 
 a little then. 
 
 K [TTIB. That is a good lesson for me. If I can keep 
 my mind from thinking about this snarl, I shall have it 
 all done without knowing that it is such a draw on 
 good nature. Little cousins, please sin- me another 
 Bong; this will help me as much as it would have helped 
 little birdie had you carried straws for it to build it> 
 nest of. 
 
THE TANGLED THREAD. 235 
 
 Nellie. Now, Kittie, this seems like doing some- 
 thing. When you make up your mind that you will do 
 a thing, the work is half done. Come, little cozs, sing 
 a song — 
 
 What bird and bee and ant can do 
 Our Kittie Earl can do it too. 
 
 Mary. What shall we sing about ? 
 
 Kittie. Sing me that pretty song of the daisies. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Art thou crazy, 
 
 Little Daisy, 
 Blooming out so late ? 
 
 Dost thou know 
 
 That the snow 
 Soon will seal thy fate ? 
 
 Daisy. 
 
 I 'm not crazy, 
 But good Daisy, 
 
 Blooming out so late. 
 Well I know 
 That the snow 
 
 Soon will seal my fate. 
 
 But I care not, 
 And I fear not, 
 
 For I 've tried to do 
 All my duty 
 Well and truly, 
 
 With my end in view. 
 
 He who gave me 
 
 Youth and beauty 
 Would not have me lie 
 
 All inactive, 
 
 Unattractive, 
 Fearing lest I die. 
 
DRAMATIC STORIES* 
 
 M.\i:v. 
 
 Then I '11 praise thee, 
 Little Daisy, 
 
 For 1 've learned of you 
 
 A good le>son, — 
 
 Still to ]Te>s ,.n 
 Whatever may ensue. 
 
 Kittik. Thank you, little cousins.. Your pretty Bong 
 gave a charm to my work. 'Hie tangled thread is all 
 smooth. While you were singing, 1 didn't know my 
 fingers were cold. 
 
 Nkli.ii:. And they are not cold now. Kittle. The 
 comparison between your work and the cousins' play is 
 not quite perfect. They played first, and toiled after- 
 wards in the warming of the frosty fingers. You toiled 
 first in overcoming the difficulties: afterwards coi 
 the satisfaction. Say, Kittie, do yon not feel yourself 
 an inch taller than you would be if you had given your 
 thread to stuff pin-cushions with ? 
 
 Kittie. I feel like a luscious peach — good all over. 
 But I am indebted to yon and the pets here for my 
 success. Now work is done, I suppose we may play. 
 Let 's run into the yard and see what will offer itself 
 there. Bring dollies along with you, [Exeunt. 
 
SORROWING NETTIE. 
 
 <£f)aracters : 
 
 Nettie, Hattie, and Katie. 
 
 Nettie. 
 
 Hattie. 
 
 (Nettie alone.) 
 
 I am alone — my heart is sad, 
 
 No sisters dear have I ; 
 Mary, Lucy, and brother Ned, 
 
 All in the cold grave lie. 
 
 I am alone — no one to love, 
 
 No one to help me play ; 
 My Dolly, you are good for nought, 
 
 You hear not what I say ; 
 
 You cannot give to me a kiss, 
 
 You cannot even smile ; 
 Away, then, Dolly, go away, 
 
 And lay you there awhile. 
 
 (Enter Hattie.) 
 
 Dear Cousin Nettie, why so sad ? 
 
 Why throw Dolly away? 
 What shadow hides your morning sun ? 
 
 Tell, O tell me, I pray. 
 
 237 
 
238 
 
 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Nettie. 
 
 Hattie. 
 
 Nettie. 
 
 Hattie. 
 
 I am alone — and, worse than thi>, 
 My loved ones all are dead ; 
 
 Mary and Lucy long ago, 
 And now, dear brother Ned. 
 
 Yes, brother Ned is in the grave, 
 
 Mary and Lucy, too ; 
 My heart will break, I am so sad, 
 
 What can I ever do? 
 
 Look up, Nettie — and look around, 
 
 All sadness then will flee ; 
 "Because I live, so thou shah live," 
 
 Our Saviour says to thee. 
 
 Turn from the grave, then, Nettie, turn, 
 Your loved ones are not there, 
 
 They are risen — and still they live — 
 List, and I'll tell you where. 
 
 Lucy, Mar)-, and Cousin Neil, 
 With angels now do dwell, 
 Their dust alone is in the grave, 
 
 Dear Nettie, "All is well." 
 
 I hear your words, but do not know 
 
 How they can live again ; 
 I saw them die — their cold, elay forms- 
 
 O, how I trembled then ' 
 
 A corn of wheat put in the ground, 
 Nettie, you know must die, 
 
 Then up it springs — the blade, the ear- 
 Its heart cannot there lie. 
 
 Your sisters live, and cousin Ned — 
 ie, I know they do ; 
 I anse I live, so thou shah li 
 
 Our Saviour says to you. 
 
SORROWING NETTIE. 
 
 239 
 
 Nettie. 
 
 Katie. 
 
 Hattie. 
 
 Nettie. 
 
 How can they live ? So great a change 
 
 I do not understand ; 
 They must be dead — I saw them die, 
 
 And felt their cold, clay hand. 
 
 (Enter Katie with a butterfly?) 
 
 Hattie ! Hattie ! O, look here ! 
 
 This butterfly — do see ; 
 How wonderful ! Its wings so bright — 
 
 'T is a perfect beauty. 
 
 I took it from the ground a worm, 
 
 Creeping beneath our feet ; 
 Who would have thought so vile a thing 
 
 Could change to one so sweet ! 
 
 Yes, beautiful indeed it is, 
 
 I 'm glad you brought it here ; 
 
 See its bright spots — its perfect shade — 
 Let Nettie view it near. 
 
 Now, Nettie, look ! This butterfly, 
 
 A creeping worm it was, 
 It wove itself a winding sheet, 
 
 It died — then came forth thus. 
 
 Now you may say, " So great a change 
 
 I do not understand ;" 
 But ne'er again, " Loved ones are dead, 
 
 I felt their cold, clay hand." 
 
 " Because I live, so thou shalt live," 
 
 I hear our Saviour say ; 
 Help Thou dear Nettie's unbelief, 
 
 Father, to Thee I pray. 
 
 Hattie, your prayer to God is heard, 
 
 I do — I must believe — 
 Still, I 'm alone, my heart is sad, 
 
 I cannot help but grieve. 
 
240 
 
 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Haiti k. 
 
 Are you alone in this bright world, 
 
 And sad with none to love? 
 Have you ne'er learned our Father's name 
 
 Can you not look above ? 
 
 "Little children," our Saviour said, 
 
 " Must ever love each other J 
 Each must be a sister kind, 
 
 Each a loving brother." 
 
 O, Nettie, sisters all are we. 
 
 One Father kind is ours ; 
 Do you not feel His warming love? 
 
 See beauty in His flowers? 
 
 Nettie. 
 
 Yes, I do see and feel love now, 
 
 I am not all alone — 
 Sisters and brothers we must be — 
 
 I love you, every one. 
 
 (All sing.) 
 
 Sisters and brothers all are we, 
 
 One love unites us all ; 
 "Our Father," even- day we'll say, 
 
 "Do keep us, lest we fall." 
 Then, sisters, brothers, all are we, 
 
 One Father kind is ours ; 
 We'll keep His word, he then will 
 
 Our pathway o'er with flowers. 
 
WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS. 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Kittif Cold, Lulie Day, Susie Barnes, Rosie Lee, Lillie Bates. 
 and four little girls with their Teacher. 
 
 Kittie alone. 
 
 Kittie. What a great meaning Christmas has ! And 
 Christmas -day is the greatest day in the year. It 
 means give — give — give ! Many years ago our Saviour 
 came into the world, and gave His life to save the people 
 from sin and sorrow. The sun gives his bright light and 
 warm beams to gladden our earth. The black cloud 
 which sometimes frightens us with its terrific thunder- 
 bolts gives the grateful raindrops to refresh the thirsty 
 and drooping plant. The earth gives abundantly. And 
 what beautiful presents Christmas trees give to almost 
 every body. And poor Kittie Cold, with her ragged 
 dress and worn-out shoes, has nothing to give. She 
 can 't be Christmas. 
 
 {Enter Lulie.] 
 
 Lulie. Are you sure of that, Kittie ? Quite sure 
 you have nothing to give ? 
 
 Kittie. I did n't know you were listening to me, 
 Lulie. I thought I was alone, and was just going to 
 
 241 
 
242 DRAMATIC stokiks. 
 
 ask the fairies to give me riches, so that I could be 
 Christmas; then I would plant Christmas trees for all 
 the poor people. But wishing and asking do n't amount 
 to anything. I am only poor Kittie Cold, with nothing 
 
 to give. 
 
 Lulu:. Are you sure of that Kittie? Have you 
 
 nothing to gi\ e ? 
 
 Kittie. Why, yes. I have a little to give. I have a 
 penny in my pocket, and I am going to give it to Sally 
 Creeper. I don't suppose Bhe ever had a penny in her 
 
 life. You know she is poorer than I am, for Bhe has no 
 mother ; she has a father, but he is very cross, and her 
 Aunt Betty scolds her from morning till night. I have 
 been keeping this penny two months, that I might have 
 something to give at Christmas. I wish I had more. I 
 should like to plant a tree at every corner of the street, 
 and hang its branches full of shoes and warm dresses for 
 poor children. But how came you to know, Lulie, that 
 I had anything to give ? How did you know I had 
 this penny in my pocket ? 
 
 Lulie. I didn't know that you had a penny; hut I 
 did know that a girl with a heart as warm as yours had 
 something to rive at Christmas. 
 
 Kittie. Well, 't is Btrange that you should know 
 I had anything to give. I have kept this penn] a secret 
 ever since Blind Oliver gave it to me. Only mother 
 knew it. I couldn't keep it all to myself J it was too 
 good : and when I told her she was a8 pleased as I \\;i-. 
 
 because I had something to give at Christmas. 1 am 
 
 going round by Sally's house when I gO home. But, 
 
 Lulie, how came you to know poor Kittie Cold had 
 anything to give ? 
 
WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS. 243 
 
 Lulie. I saw through your ragged dress and worn 
 shoes that you were rich. 
 
 Kittle. Rich ! Me rich, Lulie ! 
 
 Lulie. Yes, Kittie Cold is rich ; she is rich in a 
 warm, generous heart. 
 
 Kittle. Ah well ! however warm and generous my 
 heart may be, I have only one cent to give at Christmas. 
 And this is better than nothing. Poor Sally will be 
 pleased with it. 
 
 Lulie. Kittie, do you not know there are many 
 other things to give beside money ? 
 
 Kittie. O yes, indeed ; there are books, and pic- 
 tures, and dresses, and shoes, and mittens, and every- 
 thing. 
 
 Lulie. And do you not know you give every day 
 what is better than all these presents ? 
 
 Kittie. Me give ? no. What do I give ? 
 
 Lulie. Our teacher says you are one of her best 
 pupils, because you give such attention to your lessons ; 
 and she says you give attention to everything she says 
 to you. 
 
 Kittie. Well, I should n't suppose there was any- 
 one so poor that they would not give these things. 
 
 Lulie. Our teacher says there is one thing that you 
 might give her that you never do. 
 
 Kittie. What is it ? I am sure I mean to give her 
 all I can. What does Miss Carey say I do n't give her? 
 
 Lulie. Trouble. 
 
 Kittie. And who would give her trouble f I would 
 not. If I have n't good things to give, I would n't give 
 bad ones. I wish I had other things to give ; and I 
 wish I could give to somebody else beside our teacher. 
 
244 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Lulu:. You give obedience to your mother every 
 day, an<l this makes her happier than if you gave her 
 millions of monej . 
 
 K ri ri i:. You don't think I would disobey my dear 
 mother, do yon, Lulie ? I love her too much for this. 
 But truly, 1 do wish I had something to give to every- 
 body. 
 
 Lulie. And you have, dear Kittie ; you have a 
 smile for everybody, and a pleasant answer for i 
 one that speaks to y<>u. 'T is very few that arc as rich 
 in these Christ -gifts as yon arc I have brought a little 
 present to you. (Gives her a package.") Would you 
 like it 7 
 
 Kittie. Thank you, Lulie. I can say I would like 
 it before I open it, for I like everything. I never had 
 many presents. O, 'tis a pair of shoes; what nice 
 ones they are I 
 
 Lulie. I do n't know as they will lit you : I did n't 
 know what size you wear. 
 
 Kittie. O, they '11 fit me fast enough. Sec here, 
 ( holding up her mother's great worn-out shoes,) any shoe 
 fits me if it is n't too small. 
 
 [Enter Susie.] 
 
 SUSIE. A merry Christmas, dear Kiltie. I have 
 brought you a little present ; I think you '11 like it : do 
 you? 
 
 Kittie. ( Opens (If ]><ir<u>l.~) Now, Susie, this is too 
 
 much. A nice warm dress! I thank you. Warm 
 dress and shoes. I must have my name changed : I 
 shall not )>e Kittie Cold now, hut Kiltie Warm. It 
 makes me feel warm to look at them. 
 
WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS. 245 
 
 [Enter Rosa.] 
 
 Rosa. Will Kittie Cold accept a warm hood, to keep 
 her ears from Jack Frost's fingers ? 
 
 Kittie. Dear me ! I was never so pleased in all 
 my life. How good }^ou are, Rosa ; how good you all 
 are. 
 
 [Enter Lillie.] 
 
 Lillee. Kittie, I brought you a cloak ; will you ac- 
 cept it ? 
 
 Kittie. O, what a Christmas has come down from 
 heaven ? What will my dear mother say when I go 
 home ? 
 
 [Enter four little girls, with presents. They give 
 them to Kittie.] 
 
 Kittie. O, how much ! how much ! what shall I do ? 
 All these things 'most make me cry for joy. Will you 
 let me give some of them to poor Sally Creeper ? 
 
 [Enter Gertie, and crowns Kittie with a ivreath.) 
 
 Gertie. Kittie shall be Queen of Christmas. 
 
 Kittie. Odear! gracious! what shall I do ? Carry 
 me away somewhere. 
 
 Ltjtje. {Putting her arm around her.) We will 
 carry our queen into her room of state. 
 
 [Enter Teacher, with a basket.] 
 
 Teacher. I have heard our Kittie was to be made 
 queen of the day, so I have brought her round a basket 
 of convertibles that she may distribute among her poor 
 subjects. 
 
 Kittie. The fairies are all here. I asked them this 
 morning to help poor Kittie Cold. They have done 
 more than help her — they have made her rich Kittie 
 
li4h' DRAMATIC BTORIE8. 
 
 Warm. A queen was never so grateful. (Pick* up 
 the bash t. ) Thank you all. I must go on my bl< 
 mission — mus1 seek out my poor subjects. I am Christ- 
 mas. [Kr/t. 
 Lulie. This is the best Christmas I ever had. Happy 
 Kittle ! 
 
THREE WAYS OF KEEPING 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 
 (Efjaracters: 
 
 
 Walter, 
 
 Charlotte, 
 
 Rosie, 
 
 Mary, 
 
 her Sister. 
 
 LlLLIE, 
 
 
 
 Charlotte sits with a book in her hand. 
 
 [Enter Rosie, Lillie, and Maby.] 
 Rosie. Well, Miss Charlotte, I have had a merry 
 Christmas. Mr. John Day wished me a merry one early 
 this morning, just as the sun was rising ; and a merry 
 one I 've had. My heart has danced the live-long day. 
 I have had some presents, but so much play, and so 
 many good things to eat, I am really tired, and ready 
 to say "good night" to Christmas, and hie away to bed, 
 for my limbs ache, not to mention my poor head. Have 
 you had a merry time, Cousin Lillie ? 
 
 Lillie. No, Rosie; but I have had what grandpa 
 says is better. I have had a happy Christmas — all day 
 long. I have been as busy as the bee that makes our 
 sweet honey. I was up this morning at the first crow- 
 ing of the cock ; but mother was earlier, and, before I 
 
 247 
 
2 I s DB LMATIC STORIES. 
 
 was dressed, Bhe opened my door and said, "A happy 
 Christinas to my daughter.' 1 And then she laid upon 
 my table a new book, with many Christmas stories in 
 it, and I have been reading them to grandpa, and talk- 
 ing with liiin all day. You know lit- is almost Mind, 
 
 and cannot read himself, and lie likes to hear me read. 
 Then he explains things to me that I do n't understand ; 
 ami to-day he told me the story of a little boy he once 
 knew; his name was Nathan. Grandpa said every day 
 in the year was Christmas to Nathan — he was happy 
 all the time, and always trying to be good and do good. 
 
 Rosm. Well, I shouldn't want every day in the 
 year to be Christmas, I am so tired. 
 
 Charlotte. I think you wouldn't. Rosie, if you 
 spent them all as you have spent this one. 
 
 Rosie. I haven't been wicked to-day, Miss Charlotte. 
 I do n't think I have done one naughty act. I *ve had 
 a real merry Christmas — have played all day with my 
 cousins, and when we didn't play, we were eating 
 goodies; but my head aches bad enough to-night, and 
 I want to go to bed. 
 
 Charlotte. I am glad you have done no naughty 
 act. Have you done any good one ? 
 
 Rosie. J don't know as I have. I haven't thought 
 
 ■ 
 
 about it. 
 
 ( Jhablotte. Have you tried to make anybody happy? 
 
 Rosie. I guess not. I have tried to have a grand 
 merry Christmas, and I have had one: and I am so 
 tin-d. every bone in my body aches. 
 
 ( Ihaelottb. Did you ever think, Rosie, what Christ- 
 mas day means, and what we mean when we talk about 
 celebrating it ? 
 
THREE WAYS OF KEEPING CHRISTMAS. 249 
 
 Rosie. I never thought anything about it. I always 
 try to have a good time when the day comes round. 
 
 Charlotte. I think you would have a better time 
 if you should think about it, and try to understand the 
 meaning of it. 
 
 Rosie. I am satisfied with what I have now — a real 
 merry Christmas ; but let us hear what kind of a day 
 Mary has had, then I will shut my heavy eyelids for the 
 night. 
 
 Mary. I have not had a merry day. 
 
 Lillie. Perhaps you have had a happy one, which 
 is better. I know you have enjoyed it some way, for 
 your face is such a perfect tell-tale. Look at her, Miss 
 Charlotte. 
 
 Charlotte. Yes, we can read much in Mary's face ; 
 she always lets the spirit shine through it. She never 
 seems to have anything to conceal. Now, a beautiful 
 repose rests there; 'tis the form of harmony. But we 
 would like to hear of her day. 
 
 Mary. I have passed the whole day with my sick 
 auntie. When she was too warm, I fanned her ; when 
 she was thirsty, I gave her drink. Sometimes I read 
 to her, and sometimes she liked to hear me sing. She 
 says my voice is just right for a sick room. 
 
 Lillie. Well, I think, Mary, your day, like mine, 
 has been a happy one. 
 
 Mary. It has n't been like yours, Lillie ; but it has 
 been very happy. I shall never forget it. 
 
 Charlotte. I think Mary has had a peaceful Christ- 
 mas. 
 
 Lillie. Is not a peaceful Christmas a happy one ? 
 
260 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 ( !i.w:i.< >ttk. Xes, it includes happiness ; but, as you 
 Baid, a happy day is better than a merry one, 1 will 
 add. a peaceful day is better than a happy one. But 
 the three arc all good, yet they rise one above the other 
 
 — merriment, happiness, and peace. Mary lias had a 
 
 peaceful day. 
 
 Mary. O, yes, my Christmas has been full of peace, 
 and 1 feel it all about me now. I am not tired ; my 
 head don't ache; 1 'm in no haste to go to sleep — I 
 would rather go and sit beside auntie's bed again ; bat 
 I Left her because the nurse came. 
 
 Lillih. What made you so peaceful there ? Some- 
 times I think it is dreadful lonely in a sick room. 
 
 MARY. You wouldn't find it so in Aunt Sadie's 
 room. 'T is light there, and she talks so pleasantly to 
 you. She gave me that nice music-box of hers: and 
 when I said, " Aunl Sadie, you will want it when you 
 gel well." She smiled, and said, " No ; I expect when 
 I get well I shall have a better one." Then she told 
 me about heaven; she said it was not a great way off'. 
 but all about ns here. She said it was in the heart of 
 every good person, and every good child had heaven 
 with them. I like to hear Amu Sadie talk. I think it 
 
 was her pleasant conversation that gave me a peaceful 
 Christmas. Was n't it. Charlotte? 
 
 Charlotte. Partlythat, Mary: but had not your 
 heart been right, all that she said would not have 
 
 brought you peace. Your act of self-denial — in other 
 words, your sacrifice of personal gratification to duty 
 in the early morning — prepared you for all thai you 
 have received. Had you accepted the invitation of 
 
THBEE WAYS OF KEEPING CHRISTMAS. 251 
 
 your young friends, and gone sleigh riding, instead of 
 staying with sick auntie, you might have had a merry 
 day, but it would not have been a peaceful one. 
 
 Lillie. Is it wrong, Miss Charlotte, to go sleigh 
 riding on Christmas ? 
 
 Charlotte. 'T is not wrong, when the way is all 
 open for you to enjoy it ; but if you sacrifice some use 
 or duty for the pleasure of the ride, you are selfish, and 
 that is wrong. We should try not to be selfish any 
 day, and, least of all, Christmas. 
 
 [Enter Walter.] 
 
 Walter. Good evening, ladies ; I hope I am not 
 an intruder. I am sent here by that good old man, of 
 whom you have all heard — that benevolent old gentle- 
 man who has been on this earth nearly nineteen hundred 
 years, and who is wise above others. He has the power 
 of looking into the hearts of children — little and big 
 ones — and there he sees just what they need. Once a 
 year, when Christmas comes round, he employs many 
 carriers to distribute his presents. To-day I am in his 
 service, and am here to do his bidding. 
 
 Charlotte. You are welcome, sir. Take a chair. 
 We have n't the honor of knowing your name. 
 
 Walter. I do not wish to sit. My name is of little 
 moment. I introduced myself, on first entering, as the 
 servant of a famed old gentleman, of whom you have 
 all heard. This, I supposed, would be a passport ; but 
 since a lady's curiosity craves more, I will say, I am 
 Discretion — but I have no time for words — moments 
 fly. I have many distributions to make. (Taking from 
 Ms pocket a large jewsharp, he gives it to Rosie.) A 
 merry Christmas ! This will make music for you. 
 
_•)- DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Rosie. Thank you, Mr. Discretion. Idon't think 
 this will discourse music thai will be very entertaining 
 to my friends, 
 
 Walter. I presume not, but 'i is a good thii 
 make merry over. ( //< now presents Lii.lik a hand- 
 %omely-bound book.") Will you accept a volume of 
 Whittier's illustrated poems? 'Tisa little in advance 
 of your years, but you will soon grow to it: in the 
 waiting time, grandpa will explain it to you. 
 
 Lillie. O, many thanks, good Mr. Discretion. 'Tis 
 m>t above my years. I love "Maud Muller" now 
 dearly, and "The Playmate " too. 
 
 WALTER. (Takes a guitar from its covering^ and 
 presents it to Mary.) Our friend Mary finds her home 
 in music. This will be a gentle accompaniment to her 
 gentle voice. It will not jar even a sick bed, but will 
 breathe harmony from her light touch. Will she accept 
 it? 
 
 Makv. My heart thanks you, kind sir. My voice 
 is small, and needs help. Call round to my home, and 
 I will sing you a song of gratitude. 
 
 Waltkk. (Now gives Charlotte a large and ele~ 
 gantly -bound Bible.') This gift needs no comments. 
 Your mind is open to its Lighl and life. No reply is 
 needed. [ Exit. 
 
 RosiK. Well, this is a remarkable closing of Christ- 
 mas. 1 am verj tired and Btupid to-night, yet I under- 
 stand the Lesson; 'tis a good one. I will put my 
 symbol under my pillow ; perhaps I shall do something 
 
 more than make merry over it. Good night. [ Exit. 
 
 Lu.i.iK. And I must Efo home and show grandpa mv 
 
THREE WAYS OF KEEPING CHRISTMAS. 253 
 
 present. Good night. We will never forget this 
 Christmas. [Exit. 
 
 Mary. O, sister Charlotte, how many things do 
 come to me just as I need them ! My voice is small. 
 
 Charlotte. But 'tis very sweet, and full of 
 melody. 
 
 Mary. Aunt Sadie says so ; but this guitar will 
 help it, and I think auntie will enjoy hearing me play 
 it. How wonderfully things do come to us ! I am sure 
 there is a Providence watching us every moment. 
 
 Charlotte. Let me read from my beautiful present, 
 and then we must go home. (Opens to the twelfth 
 chapter of Luke, and reads.) " Consider the lilies, how 
 they grow ! they toil not, they spin not ; and yet, I say 
 nnto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed 
 like one of these. If then, God so clothe the grass, 
 which is to-day in the field, and to-morrow is cast into 
 the oven ; how much more will He clothe you, O ye of 
 little faith?" 
 
 Mary. Yes, sister, He will clothe us, for He takes 
 care of the tiny sparrows. We will fear nothing. Let 
 us go home, and I will chant the Lord's Prayer, and 
 play a very gentle accompaniment. [Exeunt. 
 
 17 
 
A SUBSTANTIAL CHRISTMAS 
 WISH. 
 
 (Eftarartrrs : 
 
 Mary Day. Lulik Case. 
 
 Alice Bent. George Dow. 
 
 Mary, sitting alone. 
 
 [Enter LULLE.] 
 
 Lltlie. I wish you a merry Christmas, May. 
 
 Mary. Thank you, Lulie. I was just going to wish 
 poor Mrs. Dayton one. 
 
 Lille. Poor Mrs. Dayton! She lives two full miles 
 from here. You are not going to tramp all that way to 
 wish that poor woman a merry Christmas, are you? 
 What have you got in your basket? May 1 take a 
 peep ? 
 
 Mary. Yes, you may take a peep. 
 
 LULIE. Dear me ! A whole chicken, an apple pie, 
 and a large pudding. You are no! going to Lug this 
 heavy load up those long hills? 
 
 MABY. I do nol expecl to find the load 1m aw DOT 
 
 the hills long. The very thought of the poor woman's 
 joy on receiving these goodies will lighten the basket 
 
 25 1 
 
A SUBSTANTIAL CHRISTMAS WISH. 255 
 
 and shorten the way. 'T would be but mockery to go 
 and wish her a merry Christmas on a crust of bread and 
 dry bones. Grandpa says, if we would have our wishes 
 really worth anything, we must make them substantial. 
 
 Lulie. Well, your wish is substantial enough — 
 chicken, pie and pudding. 
 
 [Enter Alice.] 
 
 Alice. I wish, May, I had a basket twice as heavy 
 as yours, and I would go along with you. I would 
 walk up those long hills any time to see Mrs. Dayton's 
 eyes sparkle when she is pleased. 
 
 Mary. I wish you would go with me, Alice ? 
 
 Alice. I would had I not engaged to make a Christ- 
 mas wreath for sister. I must hasten home, or I shall 
 not get it done. But, May, let me put this apron in 
 your basket for the good woman. I made it for Susan 
 Jones, but she has aprons enough ; besides, she will 
 have her hands full of presents, and will never miss 
 mine. I would rather give it to poor Mrs. Dayton. 
 
 Mary. Thank you, Alice. I am pleased to have it 
 added to the little parcel I have. I will give it to Mrs. 
 Dayton from you, with your good wishes. 
 
 Alice. That is right. She remembers me. I have 
 been to see her many times. I would walk up those 
 hills just to hear her talk. I know what she will say 
 to you this morning. After invoking Heaven's blessing 
 on your head for the nice present you carry her, she 
 will tell you that delightful story she so likes to dwell 
 on at Christmas. She always tells it in her own inter- 
 esting way. It is ever fresh from her lips. How many 
 times I have heard her repeat it 
 
256 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Lulie. [f you have heard her repeat it bo many 
 times, will you not tell it to me ? 
 
 ALICE. I would tell it to you. but I could not give 
 the charm to it she does. We have all read tin- Btory 
 
 many times; but we must hear her tell it to apprecl 
 
 it. 
 
 Lulib. Please tell it to me, Alice; you have a good 
 
 memory, and an- a good imitator too. 
 
 ALICE. 1 will do the best I can. Let me think a 
 moment how she commences. This is the way: — 
 
 "That must have been adelightful country where the 
 shepherds remained all night in the lield. guarding 
 their sheep and lambs. How tender and faithful those 
 
 good shepherds were! I often wonder if these wi 
 the only people on earth good enough to see the re- 
 joicing angels when our Saviour was horn. O, how 
 tenderly our Heavenly Father loves us ! The angel of 
 the hord came upon those good shepherds, and the 
 glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they 
 were frightened. Do you not think it strange they 
 were frightened?" Here the good old lady always 
 pauses for an answer ; and I will do the same, Lulie, 
 do you think it strange the good shepherds were fright- 
 ened ? 
 
 Lulie. No, 1 don't think it strange. I should be 
 frightened out of my senses were 1 to see an angel. 
 
 Alice. Then you must never go to Bee Mrs. Dayton. 
 
 for her house is full of them. 
 
 i.i lib. And you may he BUM I never will, if her 
 
 house is haunted. 
 
 Mauv. Who ever thought of good Mrs. Daytona 
 
 house being haunted ? 
 
A SUBSTANTIAL CHRISTMAS WISH. 257 
 
 Alice. Xo one but Lulie. I should never call a 
 house haunted that was so pure and holy that heaven's 
 angels could dwell in it. 
 
 Lulie. How do you know angels are there ? Do 
 you ever see them ? 
 
 Alice. I do not see them ; I have not eyes for such 
 pure seeing. Laura Bridgeman, you know, has not 
 eyes to see persons in this world. But Mrs. Dayton 
 says they are there, and she says that is the reason she 
 never feels alone. And I suppose that is the reason she 
 is always so happy too. For there must be something 
 that we do n't see to make such a poor, lame and almost 
 blind woman always happy. 
 
 Mary. Alice, please go on with the story, for it is 
 getting late. 
 
 Alice. " And the angel said unto the good shep- 
 herds, fear nothing, for I bring you only joyful tidings. 
 To-day, in Bethlehem, is born a precious babe, and He 
 is to be called a Prince, Councellor, the Mighty One, 
 Hero ! These are great names, but a dearer one is 
 added — He is our Saviour. This happened more than 
 eighteen hundred years ago, and yet, in these present 
 days, this same Saviour is born again in our hearts. He 
 is born there when we keep all His sayings, when we 
 speak truth and do good. But if we speak falsely and 
 do evil, we crucify Him. The possibility of doing this 
 wicked deed is fearful to think of. We need to watch 
 ourselves very closely, lest we in some way hurt the 
 tender babe that is born in us. Did you ever think of 
 this, my little friend ? " You must answer me, Lulie. 
 Did vou ever think of it ? 
 
258 DBAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 Lti.n:. No. 
 
 Alice. You must answer the questions, or else I 
 
 can 't go on. Mrs. Day ion always waits for an answer. 
 Do you love the Saviour? 
 
 Lulie. Go on with the story, and not keep asking 
 questions. I cannot answer them. I don't know. 
 
 Alice. Here is the test — " If ye Love me, keep my 
 commandments." You have but to watch yourself to 
 know if you keep the commandments. 
 
 Lulie. Well, 1 have n't time for this watching, and 
 I would n't much like it either. 
 
 MARY. There is another test she sometimes givi-> — 
 do you love your neighbor as yourself ? 
 
 Lulie. No, I don't. 
 
 [Enter George.] 
 
 George. Excuse this interruption. I have n't been 
 a sly listener, but I could n't help hearing your conver- 
 sation, for you have been talking very loud. Lulie, did 
 you ever read Keats' beautiful poem " Abou Ben 
 Adhein"? 
 
 Lulie. No. If it has any relation to Mrs. Day tun's 
 story, will you repeat it to us ? 
 
 George. If Alice will not think me intruding. 
 
 Alice. Indeed I will not; please repeat it, 
 
 George. "Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe Lncn 
 Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace, 
 And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
 Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
 An angel, writing in a bock of gold. 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; 
 And to the presence in the room he said, 
 
A SUBSTANTIAL CHRISTMAS WISH. 259 
 
 ' What writest thou ? ' The vision raised its head, 
 
 And with a .look made of all sweet accord, 
 
 Answered, 4 The names of those who love the Lord.' 
 
 4 And is mine one ? ' said Abou. ' Nay, not so,' 
 
 Replied the angel. Abou spake more low, 
 
 But cheerily still ; and said, 8 1 pray thee, then, 
 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow -men.' 
 
 The angel wrote and vanished. The next night 
 
 It came again, with a great wakening light, 
 
 And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, 
 
 And lo, Ben Adhem's name led all the rest." 
 
 I think Mrs. Dayton's name would follow close to 
 Ben Adhem's ; do n't you, Mary ? 
 
 Mary. I would not be surprised if it took the lead 
 even of his name. 
 
 George. If Alice will finish her story and allow me 
 to remain a listener, I promise not to interrupt with 
 any more poems. 
 
 Alice. " Well, then, with the angel there came a 
 heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 4 Glory to God 
 in the highest, and o*n earth peace and good will to 
 man.' When this song of praise was ended, the good 
 shepherds went to Bethlehem and found the babe. And 
 the wise men from the East came also to see this pre- 
 cious babe ; and they knelt down and worshipped Him. 
 And they gave Him gold, frankincense and myrrh." 
 She always closes her story in this way : " My little 
 friends, we cannot see that holy babe, and He is not 
 that babe now ; He is our Saviour. We cannot give 
 unto Him gold, yet we can give Him what is better — a 
 loving and obedient life.'''' You have the story, poorly 
 
DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 told. To feel the tear start, you must hear it from Mrs. 
 Dayton. Now I must hasten borne to make 
 
 wreath. Good night. | /.'■ . 
 
 M \i:v. And I. too, must hurry on with my basket 
 
 of merry Christmas. 
 
 George. Stop a minute, Mary; 1< t me put this 
 handful of pennies into yum- basket. 
 
 Mary, Thank you, George ; they will buy the j 
 woman some tea. Good night. 
 
 George. I have my work to do, and so must 
 " good night" too. [JE 
 
 hi lie. Well, here I am, left alone. I \e no Christ- 
 mas work to do ; my hands are empty and my heart 
 cold. Another Christmas shall not find me thus. 1 
 will do something for somebody. Grandma says, when- 
 ever you begin to do kind things for people you begin 
 to love them. Ben Adhem'fl name was written first 
 among those that love the Lord because he loved his 
 fellow -men. I will do something. Lulie Case will 
 have her name written somewhere. [ Exit. 
 
A CHRISTMAS ADDRESS. 
 
 Dear Friends, 
 
 Once more are we privileged to meet beneath 
 these beautiful trees, richly laden with the golden fruits 
 of affection, to bear love offerings and peace offerings 
 to each other, and to unite our hearts in the glad song 
 of a 
 
 Welcome to Christmas. 
 
 Christmas ! The best day in the whole year. It 
 awakens in the memory so many pleasant associations 
 and grateful recollections. The past is richly spread 
 out before us. Its leaves unfold until they reach our 
 cradle -life. Love's mementos are written on every 
 page. And "I wish you a Merry Christmas " is the 
 melodious echo of each coming year. 
 
 I have said, the leaves of the past unfold till they 
 reach our cradle -life. But may we not say they roll 
 backwards much farther, even to those days when 
 shepherds were in the field, keeping watch over their 
 flocks by night ? Suddenly a bright light appeared in 
 the sky. 'T was strange and startling. The shepherds 
 were afraid. Then, by their side, stood a loving angel, 
 assuring their hearts and bidding them fear nothing ; 
 for, said the angel, " in the city of David is born this 
 day a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord." 
 
 261 
 
262 DRAMATIC STORIES. 
 
 On ilif sainc night, wise men from the East saw a 
 star. And they followed it until if Rtood over wbi 
 the young child was. They were delighted on finding 
 the babe, and they presented Him -old. frankincense 
 and myrrh. After He had passed through the stat, a 
 infancy and childhood, He commenced working those 
 Strange miracles which led the people to exclaim, 
 M Thou art indeed the Christ, the Son of God." 
 
 Our Saviour remained clothed with a natural body a 
 few of our short years, and then left it. saying, M I 
 that I may come again to you." Again He comes, but 
 not as before. 'Tis now a spiritual coming. He comes 
 in the still, small voice that whispers of justice, mercy 
 and peace. He comes in love. He comes with heaven's 
 blessings into the hearts of all those who keep His com- 
 mandments. He said then, He says now, and always, 
 " Little children, love one another." 
 
 These trees, so richly laden with the golden fruit of 
 affection, encourage us to believe He is now in our 
 midst ; that love is in our hearts ; and that we do indeed 
 love one another. 
 
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