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MORE 
 MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
MORE MODERN 
 MONOLOGUES 
 
 BY 
 
 MARJORIE BENTON COOKE 
 
 < 
 
 CHICAGO 
 THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
<° ^ 
 
 <\ 
 
 
 [LIBRARY of CONSRESS] 
 Two Copies K«se!*eG 
 
 DEC 26 »907 
 
 Copynznt tntry 
 i GLASS fl XXc, Ho, 
 
 'copy /b. 
 
 Copyright 1907, by 
 MARJORIE BENTON COOKE 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 At the Matinee 9 
 
 All in the Point of View . . 21 
 
 A Real Lady 27 
 
 By Faith Alone .... 33 
 
 Sweet Kitty and the Little Blind 
 
 God 37 
 
 A Pleasant Half Hour on the 
 
 Beach 43 
 
 How Gentlemen are Made . -53 
 
 Homesick 59 
 
 An Hour with a Modern Martyr . 69 
 
 When Men Propose . . . 75 
 
 Nicoletta 83 
 
 A Christian Soldier ... 89 
 
 In the Wings 95 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 At the Fresh Air Camp . . 105 
 
 The Charity Fair . . . .109 
 
 Aunt Jane 117 
 
 The Shampoo Woman . . 127 
 
 Heroines 131 
 
AT THE MATINEE 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Lenore Lawton, a typical Matinee girl. 
 Bessie Gray, her chum. 
 
 Scene — The Grand Theatre, during a 
 Matinee. 
 
 Lenore Lawton Speaks. 
 
 [She enters with the popular 
 society girl swing, looking 
 haughtily about her, till she dis- 
 covers her friend.] 
 Oh, hello ! There you are, Bess. Yes, 
 I know I'm late, but I could not help it. 
 Isn't it the limit? I've gone and missed 
 the whole first act. 
 
 [She croivds by the whole row of 
 people to get to her seat, step- 
 ping on an umbrella as she 
 pushes by.] 
 
 Did I break it! That's too bad, but 
 vou reallv ousrht not to have had it right 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 out there, where I couldn't help step- 
 ping on it. 
 
 [Laughs to her friend as she sits 
 down.'] 
 
 I broke that good and proper ! Serves 
 her right for having it stuck out there. 
 . . . My dear, I had the most awful 
 time getting here. My little brother fell 
 down stairs this morning and nearly 
 broke his neck. Of course, he'd go and 
 do it on Saturday morning, the most 
 inconvenient time for me. "When I heard 
 him yell, I said to myself — "You won't 
 get to go to the Matinee!" But the 
 doctor came round and fixed him up, so 
 I came along. Yes, he was pretty badly 
 hurt — he broke his leg and cut his head. 
 Oh, mamma was with him ! Mamma had 
 to read a paper this afternoon before 
 the Women's Club, and she was all 
 broken up over missing it, but of course, 
 he's her child, so she just had to stay 
 with him. She wanted me to go and 
 read her paper before the Club, but I 
 told her I had tickets for the matinee 
 and I wasn't going to do it, so I just 
 came along. 
 
 [She looks about the audience.] 
 Oh, there's Fanny Wright. No, the 
 row in front of us, on the aisle. The 
 one with the light hair — touches it up, 
 
 10 
 
AT THE MATINEE 
 
 you know. Have you heard the latest 
 about her! Well, she's landed that fat 
 little Jew she 's been dangling so long. 
 
 [Glances in Miss Wright's direc- 
 tion and encounters a blazing 
 stare. She laughs.] 
 Gee — did you see that look ? She must 
 have heard me! Well, I don't care if 
 she did — it's the truth, and the sooner 
 she hears it the better. Here, Boy, I 
 want some water. 
 
 [She leans across the intervening 
 people to get a glass of ivater.] 
 Want a drink, Bess? Don't you? I 
 never was so thirsty in my life. I just 
 tore for the train, and then I missed it. 
 [Leans over again and returns 
 the glass.] 
 Oh, Boy — send me the candy boy, will 
 you! [Looks around again.] 
 
 I don't think much of these seats, do 
 you! I like to be right up in front 
 when I see Mr. Hackett. How is he! 
 Is he just as darling as ever! I just 
 adore him. He's got the cutest profile, 
 and he always stands sideways so you 
 can see it. Isn't it cunning of him? I 
 think he's too su-weet! Goodness, there 
 goes the curtain and I haven't even be- 
 gun to get my hat off. It's so hard to 
 
 11 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 get your hat off, we wear such silly 
 hats. 
 
 [Turns indignantly upon tvoman 
 behind her.] 
 
 I am trying to get it off, Madame, if 
 you'll just wait a moment. 
 
 [Makes ineffectual efforts to lo- 
 cate hat inns.] 
 
 Goodness, I must have a dozen pins in. 
 
 [Turns again to tvoman behind 
 her.] 
 
 Well, will you wait a minute? Isn't 
 that a horrid woman? You'd think she'd 
 bought the whole lower floor! Can you 
 And the last one, Bess? 
 
 [She leans toward her compan- 
 ion, who takes out the last hat 
 pin. Lenore then begins to comb 
 her hair with her back and side 
 combs, holding her arms so no 
 one behind her can see a thing.] 
 
 Isn't it the limit, the way they make 
 you take off your hat, and then don't 
 give you a thing to look at yourself in! 
 You never know how your hair looks. 
 Is mine all right? 
 
 [Gathers up hat and several pins 
 and pins her hat to back of seat 
 in front of her. Starts back 
 ivith a scream.] 
 
 12 
 
AT THE MATINEE 
 
 Good gracious — what's the matter 
 with you? I'm pinning my hat to your 
 back bone? [Aggrieved tone.] Well, I 
 didn't know your back bone was so near ! 
 [To Bess.] 
 Fussy, isn't he? Oh, bother, here's 
 the boy with the candy. 
 
 [Leans over intervening people 
 again to talk to candy hoy, in 
 stage -whisper.] 
 How much is chocolate candy a 
 pound? How much? Forty cents? 
 Why, when did it go up? I've paid 
 thirty-five cents here, I know. Forty 
 cents ? Well, how much is half a pound? 
 Twenty-five cents? I'll have half a 
 pound, then. Can you change five dol- 
 lars? You can't? Why don't you boys 
 carry change ? You get that changed at 
 the box office and bring it right back, 
 please. 
 
 [Exchanges bill for candy, giving 
 
 the woman next her a scornful 
 
 glance as she does so.] 
 
 Most disagreeable woman next to me 
 
 — she kept saying "Sh!" all the time. 
 
 Women are so horrid, aren't they? 
 
 [Offers Bess the box.] 
 Have some candy. Don't want it? On 
 a diet — you? For goodness sake, why 
 
 13 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 didn't you say so? I never would have 
 bought it if I had known that — I don't 
 care anything about it. 
 
 [Begins to eat noisily and rap- 
 idly.'] 
 Say, Bess, what's the plot! Is there 
 any? Did I miss anything in the first 
 act? Hackett is a prince — uh-huh — in 
 love with a princess? — I see, the adven- 
 turess is trying to ruin him — Hackett. 
 And who's in love with the adventuress? 
 Oh, the villain. French villain ? Goody ! 
 — I do love a French villain ! 
 
 [Turns to woman next her tvith 
 haughty stare.] 
 I paid just as much for my seat as you 
 paid for yours, and I have just as much 
 right to talk as you have to be quiet. 
 
 [Looks at stage for a minute, 
 dodging some barrier.] 
 I can't see a thing — this woman in 
 front of me has got her hair done so 
 high. I can't see a thing. 
 
 [In reply to ivoman in front.] 
 
 Oh, you needn't bother, thank you. 
 [Chuckles to Bess.] 
 
 Did you hear that? No — she said 
 she'd take her hair down, if I'd just be 
 quiet. 
 
 [Turns, as if interrupted by can- 
 dy boy.] 
 
 14 
 
AT THE MATINEE 
 
 What! Oh, my change. Give it to 
 nie. [Puts it away without counting it.] 
 Say, Bess, I don't understand about 
 this. What are all those men standing 
 around the stage for? Put there by the 
 adventuress, to kill Hackett! A con- 
 spiracy? Mercy — 
 
 [Slides breathless to edge of 
 chair.] 
 He don't know they're there, does he! 
 I hope he don't come. Gee — there he is ! 
 [Puts up opera glass.] 
 [Breathlessly.] What's he going to 
 do? He don't see them yet? Oh, mercy 
 — he's going to fight them. 
 
 [She follows the fight from side 
 to side of the stage with her 
 opera glass, counting the dead.] 
 One — look out — two — 0, do be careful 
 —behind you!— [Sigh] three— four — 
 that was an easy one — five — ouch ! Six — 
 [Puts doivn glass and turns beam- 
 ing face on Bess.] 
 He's killed them all— isn't that splen- 
 did! . . . Oh, but Bess, he's wounded. 
 Yes, he is— don't you see that blood on 
 his head! The poor dear. . . . Look, 
 he's falling down — he says he thinks 
 he's done for. 
 
 [She begins to snuffle gently, wip- 
 ing her tears.] 
 Did you hear him?— he wants to say 
 
 15 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 good-bye to his mother. How su-weet! 
 Where is that old Princess? She'd bet- 
 ter be getting here, if she wants to see 
 him again. [Sobs audibly.] 
 
 No, of course he isn't going to die — 
 he can't — it's only the end of the second 
 act! Oh, there she comes — horrid thing! 
 I think she's ugly, don't you? And I 
 wish you'd look how her clothes hang! 
 [Puts up her glass again.] 
 I should hope she did love him — the 
 dear thing! [Sigh.] Isn't that too su- 
 weet? 
 
 [She follows the descending cur- 
 tain with her glass and begins 
 to applaud.] 
 Clap hard and get him out again — 
 isn't he grand? There he is — oh, just 
 look how he's panting. He always pants 
 like that — he acts so hard. 
 
 [Applauds again till curtain de- 
 scends.] 
 Wasn't it grand? I think he's the 
 grandest actor on the stage! It's a grand 
 play too. Of course it was wonderful, 
 his killing all those men, but did you 
 see him do the "Three Musketeers"? 
 Well, it was the grandest thing — he 
 killed seven men at once. Part of the 
 time he was killing two at a time. 
 
 [Bloius her nose and wipes her 
 eyes.] 
 
 16 
 
AT THE MATINEE 
 
 I think he's awfully pathetic, don't 
 you? I always cry my eyes out. That's 
 the trouble with me, I'm so soft hearted. 
 I always bring a lot of handkerchiefs, 
 for I know I'll need them. 
 
 [Begins to look for handkerchiefs 
 
 — tries her sleeves, her blouse, 
 
 and finally her hand bag.] 
 
 Where do you suppose I put those 
 
 things — they aren't in my bag? Do you 
 
 suppose I put them in my change pock- 
 
 etbook? 
 
 [Opens her pocketbook and in- 
 spects it. Indignation dawns on 
 her face.] 
 Say, do you know I believe that candy 
 boy short-changed me ! 
 
 [Dumps her money into her lap.] 
 Yes, sir — he only gave me four fifty 
 instead of four seventy-five. I'm just 
 going to call the usher and complain ! 
 
 [Turns and beckons the usher.] 
 
 Usher, that candy boy short-changed 
 me. He only gave me four fifty instead 
 of four seventy-five. Yes, of course, I 've 
 counted my change. You call the boy, 
 please. [The candy boy is summoned.] 
 
 Boy — you gave me the wrong change. 
 It's a quarter short. No, you did not — 
 I guess I know what I've got — 
 
 [To ivoman next her.] 
 17 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Madame, I have counted it twice. 
 What quarter? Under the candy box! 
 
 [Picks up box and extracts quar- 
 ter, which she holds up with ex- 
 pression of mild surprise.'] 
 
 Never mind, Boy. [To Bess.] It' would 
 have been just like him to have short- 
 changed me — they do it all the time. 
 
 [She eats candy and gazes about 
 superciliously.] 
 
 See anybody you know? Common 
 looking crowd, isn't it! 
 
 [Turns to woman next her.] 
 
 What! Well, I wish you would stop 
 talking to me — I don't know you, and I 
 don't want to talk to you. Well, you try 
 it once, just call the usher and see what 
 happens. You're an awfully disagree- 
 able woman — you make everybody 
 around you uncomfortable. 
 
 [Indignantly to Bess.] 
 
 This old woman is the limit. She says 
 she '11 call an usher and have me put out 
 if I don't stop talking during the next 
 act. [To some one in front of her.] 
 
 What! If she don't, you will. . . . 
 [To Bess.] Did you ever hear such a 
 brass bound nerve? That's what we get 
 for sitting back here with the rabble. 
 
 18 
 
AT THE MATINEE 
 
 Say, I know the head usher — he '11 change 
 our seats for us. Come on. It serves 
 us right for sitting back here with the 
 hoipoloi ! 
 
 [Gathers her hat and candy, and 
 crowds by her long suffering 
 neighbors.'] 
 
 19 
 
ALL IN THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 News Item — "An automobile, going at 
 a high rate of speed, collided tvith 
 an electric car on the comer of 
 Twelfth and G streets this morn- 
 ing. No one teas hurt." 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Billy Sanders, a reporter on tlie "Daily 
 Spread Eagle." 
 
 Sam Johnson (colored), street cleaner. 
 
 Officer Patrick Flinn, of the ' ' f oorce. ' ? 
 
 Yon Yonson, driver of a sprinkling cart. 
 
 Sam Johnson Speaks. 
 
 Yes, sail, Boss, I seen de whole cata- 
 lastrophe wid ma' own eyes. Well, sah, 
 I wuz a-sweepin' np to'ds de co'nah, 
 keepm' moughty close to de curb — dat's 
 whah yo ? can always fin' me, close np to 
 de curb. [Excitedly.'] 
 
 If de pedelestrians am' got no show 
 fo' dey lives wid dese heah automobil- 
 ists, what chance do yo' reckon a com- 
 mon street sweepah's got! If yo ? keep 
 
 21 
 
21 ORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 on a stickin ' to de curb de Inspector mos ' 
 kill you', an' if yo' go out in de street de 
 automobile man plumb kill yo', an' yo' 
 got to lose yo' job or yo' life! 
 
 Yes, sab, Boss, I'se a gettin' to dat. 
 I was a sweepin' when I see dis yere au- 
 tomobile come tearin' along — 
 
 [Scratches his head thoughtfully.] 
 
 I dunno fo' sho', Boss, but I reckon 
 'twuz a-goin' 'bout eighty miles a hour. 
 Des' as she turned de co'nah I heerd de 
 car bell jangiin' an' I smelt trouble, so 
 I rushed up dere des' at de moment ob 
 de concurrence. It wuz a head on col- 
 lision an' de immortality wuz awful! 
 [Shakes his head and groans.] 
 
 I went right out dah, Boss, an' de daid 
 an' dyin' wuz a lyin' dere by de dozens, 
 men, wimmen, an' chilluns. Mos' ev'body 
 wuz daid! I went right off to fin' a po- 
 liceman, but while I wuz gone some- 
 buddy turned in de alarm, an ' de pay trol 
 wagon come along, an' I, an' de res' ob 
 cle livin',put de daid an 'dyin 'in de wag- 
 on an' sent 'em to de horspital. I dunno 
 how many dey wuz fo' sho', but dej wuz 
 a pow'fui lot! 
 
 [Looks at some man who has ap- 
 proached, shakes his head and 
 adds confidentially .] 
 
 'Sense me, Boss, but I think dat hook- 
 nose man over dah is a Inspector. Yo' 
 
1 ALL IN THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 neber can tell, dey's liable fo' to spring 
 clese yere plain clo's men on yo' any 
 time. [Goes off muttering to himself.] 
 
 Officer Flinn Speaks. 
 
 Good marning, Sor. Yiss, Sor, I was 
 on the spliot at the very toime, Sor. 
 Well, Sor, I was sthandin' on the earner, 
 passin' the toime av' day wid Flannigan, 
 on the nixt beat, whin I saw this otty- 
 mobile come along, a-spheedin'. I stips 
 ont to arrist the droiver, whin I hears 
 the car approachin' an' sez I to Flanni- 
 gan T-r-o-n-b-l-e — spells trouble! "Well, 
 Sor, the ottymobile was goin' 'bout wan 
 hundred moiles an hour, an' 'twas by me 
 loike thot! 
 
 [He shoivs the speed by a ges- 
 ture.'] 
 
 An' thin she goes into the sthreet car. 
 'Twas the mos' remarkable thing I 
 iver see in me loife! The ottymobile 
 wint into the grip car head on, an' cut 
 the car in two, sthraight clown the mid- 
 dle, loike a big knife, an' laid the two 
 par-rts on the ground, as slick as ye 
 plaze. [Here he explains with gestures.] 
 
 The gripman? No, Sor, he wasn't 
 scratched. He stipped to the roight av' 
 the cut, an' it niver touched 'im. No, 
 Sor, the ottymobilist, he sat at the wheel, 
 
 23 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 a-guidin' her stiddy, an' sez he, "Ixeuse 
 me!" to the gripnian as he passed 'mi! 
 No, Sor, no wan wnz hurted — the pas- 
 sengers had a shakin' oop, but no dam- 
 age done. Sure, I run 'em both in — the 
 ottymobilkt an' the gripnian, fer 
 spheedin'. 
 
 A naygur told ye thot? [Laughs.] 
 Well, ye niver can trust these sthreet 
 cleaners, they're a durty, lyin' lot av' 
 gazabos. Good marnin' to ye, Sor! 
 [Departs swinging his club.] 
 
 Yon Yonson Speaks. 
 
 Whoa! Huh? No-o, hay don' see no 
 acc'dnt. Oh, de greepcar und de auto'- 
 m'bile? Yaas, hay see heem. Veil, hay 
 go on de vater vagon. No — de sprinkle 
 cart — 
 
 [Explains "sprinkle" with rapid 
 
 gesture, suggesting spraying 
 
 ivater.] 
 
 Sprinkle — 'Sprinkle — can't you spik 
 
 Ing'lish — sprinkle cart! Yaas, und hay 
 
 vas sprinkling ven de auto 'm 'bile mon, 
 
 hay see heem auto 'm 'bilin ', und hay see 
 
 de greepmon greepin', und purt' soon 
 
 hay go boomp-boomp. 
 
 [He indicates the collision with 
 his hands.] 
 Auto 'm'lbile mon, hay go oop in de air 
 
 24 
 
ALL IN THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 und coom down boomp — und greep mon, 
 hay go oop in de air und coom down 
 boomp ! Auto 'm'bile mon ? No, bay don' 
 hurt heem,hay yust go on auto'm'bilin'. 
 . . . Yaas. Greepmon? No, hay don ' 
 hurt heem. Yen hay coom down boomp 
 — a horse hay step on heem, but hay don ' 
 hurt heem, yust keel heem. De pass — 
 pass — vat is dat vord? Oh, de peoples? 
 No, dey youst boomp heem, not hurt 
 heem. Did hay go to help de greepmon? 
 
 [Looks at reporter in astonish- 
 ment.] 
 No, hay don' help heem, hay vas 
 sprinklm*. Git app! 
 
 [He shakes his reins and drives 
 of.] 
 
 25 
 
A REAL LADY 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Mrs. Hoggenheimer. 
 
 Other Women Passengers. 
 
 Scene — A Pullman car dressing room. 
 
 Mrs. Hoggenheimer Speaks. 
 
 [Mrs. Hoggenheimer, bag in 
 
 hand, enters the dressing room, 
 
 locks the door, and gives deep 
 
 sigh of relief.] 
 
 Well, I beat 'em in after all, even if 
 
 I did have to stay awake half the night 
 
 to do it. It's a wonder to me the way 
 
 decent looking women act in a Pullman 
 
 toilet room, so ill-natured and selfish. 
 
 . . . I just made up my mind last 
 
 night that I'd get in here first. 
 
 [Yawns and looks at watch.] 
 It's an hour and a half, by my watch, 
 until we get into Oscaloosa, but I like 
 to be ready in plenty of time. 
 
 [Opens her hag and spreads out 
 her toilet things.] 
 I heard of a woman once who had to 
 get right off the train in her kimona, be- 
 
 27 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 cause the porter forgot to call her in 
 time to dress. 
 
 [Begins to ivasli her face. Lifts 
 
 her head and listens.] 
 
 There they come, I knew how it would 
 
 be. [Speaks to some one outside.] 
 
 You can't come in. I'll be out in a 
 
 minute. I can't help it, I got in here 
 
 first. Your child is sick? [Sharply.] 
 
 In a minute. 
 
 [Wipes her face, muttering to 
 herself.] 
 Why do women insist on travelling 
 with children? 
 
 [Unlocks door and opens it un- 
 graciously.] 
 I got in here first, and I have a per- 
 fect right to lock the door. I don 't want 
 people running in here while I'm all un- 
 dressed. What do you travel with a 
 baby for? Can't leave him? Well, I 
 must say I think there ought to be a law 
 against children under ten on Pullman 
 trains. Somebody's child kept me awake 
 all night. [She begins to do her hair.] 
 Mercy, what ails the child? There is 
 certainly nothing the matter with his 
 lungs! I never heard such a yell. I 
 never allowed my children to cry and 
 annoy people. 
 
 [She turns as if at a knock. Whis- 
 pers to other woman.] 
 
 28 
 
A REAL LADY 
 
 Don't open the door. 
 
 [Speaks to some one outside.] 
 You can't come in, the room is full. 
 We'll be out in a minute, but we've got 
 a sick baby in here. I can't help it if 
 you do get off in twenty minutes, we 
 got in first. [Annoyed tone.] 
 
 Can't you stop him? Here — baby — 
 look, look — see the pretty watch. 
 
 [Gives her watch to the howling 
 child. To mother.] 
 No, don't you let her in. "Why didn't 
 she get up, like we did? 
 
 [Speaks to outsider again.] 
 You will have to wait, I tell you. Your 
 little boy can't come in — there's a baby 
 in here now, having a fit. 
 
 [To mother of baby — soothingly.] 
 I just said that to keep her out. 
 
 [Attack on the door is renewed, so 
 she throws it open.] 
 For goodness sake, come in, and be 
 quiet! No, I don't think I own the toi- 
 let room, but I got up in time to get in 
 here, without annoying everybody else. 
 [Sharply.] Get out of that bag, little 
 boy. 
 
 [Baby drops watch and breaks it. 
 Mrs. H. stoops to pick it up in 
 great concern.] 
 
 29 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Oh! Look at that! Well, it's good- 
 bye watch. [Listens for the tick.] 
 I do think you might have kept your 
 hand on it, when I only gave it to your 
 child to keep him from shrieking. 
 
 [Turns and put on her collar.] 
 Put that down, little boy, that's mine. 
 That's my brush, Madam. Well, it 
 doesn't belong in here. 
 
 [Grabs brush, ivashes and rubs it. 
 Turns her head, at sound of an- 
 other knock.] 
 Another woman — don't let her in — 
 it's crowded to suffocation in here now. 
 [Door is opened and another wo- 
 man enters, greeted with freez- 
 ing glance from Mrs. H.] 
 I don't know how women can act the 
 way they do — pushing in and demand- 
 ing their rights, and being so selfish. It's 
 awful! It's a queer thing that people 
 who travel never have any manners — 
 they're always so pushing and vulgar. I 
 can't bear to travel just on that account. 
 And when you try to show people how 
 to act they — 
 
 [Looks about triumphantly.] 
 Gone, every one of them. I thought 
 that would do it. 
 
 [Locks the door and proceeds 
 with toilet leisurely.] 
 
 30 
 
A REAL LADY 
 
 Now I can get my things on in peace. 
 Wonder what place this is, we seem to 
 be stopping here a long time. 
 
 [She glances out of window, then 
 packs her bag.] 
 
 Who is it? That yon, Porter? Tow- 
 els? All right. [She opens the door.] 
 
 I'll take them, Porter. What place is 
 that we jnst pulled out of, Porter? . . . 
 Oscaloosa! [Tableau.] 
 
 31 
 
BY FAITH ALONE 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Mrs. Frederick Belmont-Towers. 
 
 Helen, her friend. 
 
 Scene — Mrs. Belmont-Towers' Bedroom 
 
 Mrs. Belmont-Towers Speaks. 
 
 Is that you, Helen? Come in. You 
 must excuse me for seeing you up here, 
 but this is my day for treatment and I 
 don't get up till afternoon. Oh, didn't 
 you know? I'm taking a course with 
 Omarkanandi, this famous Hindoo 
 priest. You haven't heard of him? Oh, 
 my dear, he is too wonderful. You know 
 what an invalid I've been for years? 
 I've had no sympathy in my suffering — 
 Fred thinks it's all nonsense, says I'm a 
 hypochondriac, and all that, but Omark- 
 anandi says my condition has been sim- 
 ply pitiful! He's so sympathetic, Helen. 
 He wears a long red robe, and a turban 
 and the queerest rings, and his eyes are 
 the most soulful things. Well, it's hard 
 to tell you just what he does do. He 
 
 33 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 sits beside rne, and holds my hands and 
 looks into my eyes and talks to me, in 
 his soft Oriental voice. He says he is 
 the medium of infinite strength and pow- 
 er, and that he transmits it to me. 
 
 Well, he thinks in time that I can draw 
 on this power myself, without him. He 
 says that I'm so highly strung that the 
 winds of evil play on me. He says my 
 chronic indigestion is simply a wind of 
 evil, and that I must harden myself 
 against it. I told him I didn't care so 
 much about the indigestion itself, but 
 it was ruining my complexion. He said 
 when I got myself into harmony with the 
 Infinite my skin would be like a rose 
 leaf — so you can see for yourself the 
 thing is worth while. 
 
 Oh, no, it isn't Mind Cure or Chris- 
 tian Science or any of those intangible 
 things, this is really practical. 
 
 And I find that my power over others 
 is growing, just as he said it would. The 
 other night, Fred came home just worn 
 out, and I determined to try the cure on 
 him, so I made him lie down, and I held 
 his hand, and looked at him, and talked 
 very softly, and it was no time at all, 
 Helen, until he was sleeping like a child. 
 
 You see, what I like about this system 
 is, that it is so practical. I told Omar- 
 kanandi how I was worrying about my 
 
BY FAITH ALONE 
 
 Bridge debts, and that I couldn't tell 
 Fred about it, and lie put himself "in 
 harmony" and worked out the most 
 wonderful scheme. He told me to get 
 up a sort of Trust, and make up a pool, 
 every woman in the club putting in five 
 hundred dollars. Then as long as we 
 won, we should each put ten per cent, of 
 our winnings back into the pool, and if 
 we lost, the pool would stand for it, up 
 to a certain limit. I was Treasurer and 
 I made Omarkanandi take five hundred 
 for thinking up the scheme. He didn't 
 want to at all, but he did finally to help 
 "his cause." 
 
 Well, it worked splendidly for about 
 a week, and then it ended in the aw- 
 fullest row. The women accused each 
 other of not paying their ten per cent., 
 and of overdrawing on the pool, and 
 every woman demanded her money 
 back, and we just couldn't get it 
 straightened out. I'm out, Heaven only 
 knows how much! 
 
 Some of the men heard about it, and 
 you ought to have seen Fred lecture me. 
 I repeated a lot of things to him that he 
 had said himself onthebenefit of Trusts, 
 but he said that it was all rot. I told 
 him I thought so when he first said it, 
 but I was so used to taking his word as 
 law, that I went right ahead. I'd never 
 
 35 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 dare tell him how much I'm out — I just 
 said, ' * We '11 call it legitimate speculation 
 and charge it up to profit and loss," 
 which is his favorite excuse when he's 
 on the wrong side of the market. 
 
 Mercy, no, I didn't tell him Omarkan- 
 andi had anything to do with it. He 
 says he 's a fraud and all sorts of things. 
 Omar says Fred is not attuned to the 
 higher chords of ethereality, so he lives 
 in error and darkness. . . . Helen, 
 you ought to have him come see you; 
 he'd do wonders for you. Only five 
 hundred for the course, and it's nothing 
 when you think what he does for you. 
 
 [Listens to Helen's sarcasms in 
 surprise.] 
 
 Why, Helen! I'm afraid you're like 
 Fred, too worldly and suspicious to 
 grasp these truths. As Omarkanandi 
 says, you must be saved "by faith 
 alone!" 
 
 [Turns her head, as if at inter- 
 ruption.] 
 
 Who is it, Marie? Omarkanandi? 
 Ask him to come up. Good-bye, Helen, 
 do run in again. 
 
 [Watches her go out, and sighs.] 
 
 Poor, trivial thing, she hasn't the ca- 
 pacity for great thoughts and spiritual 
 experiences, as I have. 
 
 36 
 
SWEET KITTY AND THE 
 LITTLE BLIND GOD 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Kitty Bellairs, of many adorers. 
 
 Captain Gregory McNare, one of the 
 many. 
 
 Scene — A garden. 
 
 Kitty Speaks. 
 
 [Gayly.] Faith, Captain McNare, 'tis a 
 poor gallant ye are! Don't waste all 
 the time abusin' poor Barry Sullivan — 
 sure, he's no lover av mine. Av course, 
 he's in love with me, but he's no lover 
 av mine. 
 
 [In reply to his objection to her 
 numerous beaux.] 
 Ah, worra-worra, as long as there's 
 breath in Kitty Bellairs there'll be min 
 to love her! I don't mind — I'm used to 
 it. Can't ye get used to it? . . . No, I 
 'spose not — ye 're a Scotchman. Man, 
 there was a good Irishman sphoiled whin 
 they made ye a Scotchman! 
 
 [She moves about nervously, talk- 
 ing rapidly to cover her real 
 feelings.] 
 
 37 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 How much toime have ye got? 
 Fifteen minutes — fifteen minutes ? 
 [Laughs.] Well, 'tis plenty — the fate 
 av nations has heen changed in less. 
 
 [Turns to him and speaks anx- 
 iously.] 
 Where are ye ordhered to? An' whin 
 are ye comin' back! Ye don't know? 
 
 [Holds out her hands and pleads 
 impulsively.] 
 
 Ah, take me with you! Why can't I 
 go with the byes? Why do I have to sit 
 home with the women, and worry and 
 think and think ye 're all dead? 
 
 [Laughs away her seriousness.] 
 
 What good would ye be to me, thin? 
 A rigiment av dead ones? Well, ye 
 haven't said a wor-rd, as usual I'm doin' 
 all the talkin'. I was under the impres- 
 sion, Captain McNare, that ye came to 
 say good-bye to me. Faith, ye Scotch — 
 your tongues weren't made for talkin'. 
 [Still he doesn't speak, and with 
 a laugh she does a step or two 
 of the Highland Fling, singing 
 to the tune of "The Scots wa* 
 Hae, 9 ' etc.] 
 
 The Scots wa' hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 
 Had better be too wary 
 To touch ane hair upon the head 
 
 Av Gregory McNare-y! 
 
 38 
 
SWEET KITTY 
 
 For to his countree lie is wed, 
 
 An' he is most contrary, 
 His heart is stane to lassies fane, 
 This Gregory McNare-y! 
 Scotch, an' that wouldn't fetch ye? 
 
 [Stands rooted to the spot, the 
 
 smile dying on her face at his 
 
 words. A look of terror grows 
 
 there. She repeats his words 
 
 mechanically.] 
 
 Stop my foolin' — can't play with ye? 
 
 Coquette! Playin' with honest hearts 
 
 like rubber balls? Makin' love to half 
 
 the regimint? ... No puppet to be 
 
 jerked at me whim? Oh, Gregory! 
 
 [Almost sobs, but gets herself in 
 hand and lets her indignation 
 have full swing.'] 
 Well, sor, whin ye've finished yer ser- 
 mon, I'll say my say. What about a 
 man who follows a girl about day in 
 day out, till the whole rigimint is talkin' 
 an' winkin' about it — permits himself, 
 dear knows why, to be jealous av her-r, 
 an' yet niver once, by word or deed, has 
 he said to her he loves her, or asked her 
 to be his wife. And why? Because he's 
 a coward — a skulkin', black-hearted 
 coward and a Scotchman! There ain't 
 an Irishman in the rigimint that hasn't 
 said his say an' taken his "No" loike a 
 man, an' there isn't wan av thim I don't 
 
 39 ' 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 love like a brother, God bless 'em — but 
 you — ye 're afraid ye '11 be made ridicu- 
 lous iu the eyes av the rest of 'em, so ye 
 — go — go, before I say what I'll be sorry 
 for! 
 
 [With superb gesture of scorn, 
 she dismisses him, then sinks 
 doivn in a little moaning heap.] 
 
 He's gone — gone, an' maybe he'll 
 never come back again! Ye have to hit 
 a Scotchman between the eyes to make 
 him propose to ye! [Sobs.] There's 
 somebody comin' — I'd better — 
 
 [Gets up and starts to run away.] 
 
 Oh, Barry, is ut you! Yes, I sent 'im 
 
 away, an' he nearly broke my heart. 
 
 Why, the fool's in love with me, but he 
 
 won't tell me so. 
 
 [Her face brightens at his sug- 
 gestion.] 
 
 Ye will — ye will, Barry, dear? Ye '11 
 make him propose to me, or call him 
 out? Oh, good — ye white-robed angel in 
 an Irish uniform — how can I thank ye? 
 There's only a minute, so run along wid 
 ye, quick. 
 
 [He goes; she stands a moment, 
 her face alight, then dismay 
 dawns there sloivly.] 
 
 40 
 
SWEET KITTY 
 
 I wish I hadn't sent 'im — maybe 
 Gregory don't love me — I — oh! 
 
 [Runs up after Barry, calling 
 him.] 
 
 Barry — come back — I — don't do it — 
 Barry— Oh! 
 
 [This last as Capt. McNare re- 
 turns.] 
 
 [To herself.] Did he meet him, I won- 
 der? 
 
 [Draws herself up haughtily and 
 speaks to him coldly.] 
 
 Was it me you wished to spake wid, 
 Captain McNare? Ye had to come back? 
 [Aside.] He did meet Barry! . . . A 
 question? Out wid it, me time is short, 
 Captain. 
 
 [Utter surprise and delight.] 
 Do I love ye — will I have ye? 
 
 [Her expression changes to dis- 
 may.] 
 Did ye meet Barry Sullivan? Never 
 mind — did ye meet him? Then you're 
 doin' this out av yer own free will? 
 
 [Both hands go out to him.] 
 God bless ye, av course, I do — an' I 
 will! . . . What's that? Assembly call? 
 
 [Anxiously.] 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Oh, must ye go? Must ye? Av course, 
 ye must — me soldier man! One on the 
 cheek — an' the chin, an' the mouth! 
 Good-bye, me lover! 
 
 [Watches him out, then waves to 
 him and sings half -brokenly.'] 
 The Scots wa' hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 
 Had better be too wary, 
 To touch ane hair upon the head, 
 Av my ane love, McNare-y! 
 
 42 
 
A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR ON 
 THE BEACH 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Mrs. Hardenspiker, with a brood of er- 
 ring children. 
 
 Mrs. Jones, her confidante. 
 
 Scene — The bathing beach. 
 
 Mrs. Hardenspiker Speaks. 
 
 [Whiningly.] Now, Joseph Harden- 
 spiker, if you cut up any of those mon- 
 key-shines you did yesterday, you'll not 
 go in bathing again this week! 
 [Turns to second child.] 
 
 And Aggie — now, don't pull your cap 
 way down like that — Aggie, I want you 
 to hold on to the ropes. If you let go 
 the rope a single minute you come in ! 
 [To her smallest boys.] 
 
 And Dick, if you and Johnny pull Ag- 
 gie's feet out from under her, the way 
 you did yesterday, you shall not go in 
 bathing again this summer, and, what's 
 more, you'll get a whipping from your 
 father. 
 
 [She catches sight of Mrs. Jones.] 
 
 43 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Oh, good-morning, Mrs. Jones. Lovely 
 day, isn't it? Kun away, children, and 
 take your pleasure, and remember to 
 come the minute I call you. 
 
 [Places a chair beside Mrs. 
 Jones.] 
 
 I'll sit right here, by you, Mrs. Jones, 
 where I can watch them. Yes, I should 
 say I do have trouble with my children, 
 they nearly drive me distracted. ... I 
 think children are a terrible responsibil- 
 ity these days, anyway, don't you? There 
 are so many ways for them to get 
 spoiled and killed and — 
 
 [Her eye siveeps the horizon and 
 lights on Aggie. Calls and mo- 
 tions.] 
 
 Aggie — Aggie ! You take hold of that 
 rope. Take hold of the rope, or come in. 
 [To Mrs. Jones.] 
 
 Yes, of course, she's trying to swim, 
 but that's just what I don't want her to 
 do. ^ How am I going to know where she 
 is, if she's swimming? I want her to 
 hold on to the rope, so I can see her. 
 
 This hour on the beach nearly ex- 
 hausts me. The nurse, Emma, always 
 used to bring the children down, but she 
 insists upon this hour for her rest. She 
 thinks she is going into nervous prostra- 
 tion. All the nurses and governesses of 
 our very best people are going into nerv- 
 
 44 
 
A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR 
 
 ous prostration — so many of my best 
 friends tell me that — 
 
 [Looks straight ahead of her, 
 
 half rises and waves her hand 
 
 frantically, calling.] 
 
 Johnny — don't yon do that — don't you 
 
 dive off that boat. I don't care if it is 
 
 f nn ; it isn 't fun for me. You stay right 
 
 out of the water where I can see you. 
 
 What was I saying, Mrs. Jones, when 
 Johnny interrupted us ? 
 
 [Leans forward to look up the 
 beach, and puts her hand on 
 Mrs. Jones to focus her atten- 
 tion.] 
 Here comes that Miss Miller, and if 
 she hasn't got on another bathing suit. 
 That's three this week — yes, it is, I've 
 counted them. I think she brought one 
 trunk of nothing but bathing suits. . . . 
 Of course, she never gets them wet, so I 
 suppose they don't wear out. 
 
 [Follows Miss Miller with her 
 eye.] 
 Oh, I don't think she's such a beauty. 
 Well, there 's something about her face I 
 don't like and, my dear, she's the aw- 
 i'ullest talker, runs on like the mill 
 wheel, or the mill dam, or whatever it is, 
 that runs on. . . . You know, she 
 brought ten trunks. Urn-hum, the hotel 
 porter told Mrs. Peter's maid so, and 
 
 45 
 
210 RE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 she told Emma and Emma told me, but 
 I can't see what she brought in them. 
 Oh, yes, she has a good figure, but then, 
 why not? Oh, yes, she does, you can al- 
 ways tell. 
 
 [Looks off over water and spies 
 Dick. Calls to him.] 
 
 Dick — Dick — let Aggie alone. ] don't 
 want her to float — you go away and let 
 her alone. 
 
 [Leans forward eagerly.] 
 
 Who on earth is that? Why — it's 
 Mrs. G. Wallington! Well, would you 
 think a woman with a figure like that 
 would risk it in the water? Isn't she a 
 sight? You never can tell what women 
 will do! Oh, I don't doubt she's a very 
 nice woman, but she has the worst chil- 
 dren I ever met anywhere in my life. I 
 can't allow my children to associate with 
 them at all, and, my dear, she had the 
 nerve to tell me that she should think 
 I'd be tempted to put my children in a 
 reform school! 
 
 [Jumps up and runs to water's 
 edge and calls.] 
 
 Joseph — don't do that. Get down off 
 that man's shoulders — you're not to 
 dive — 
 
 [Rides her face at sight.] 
 
 46 
 
A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR 
 
 Has lie come up yet, Mrs. Jones, I 
 can't bear to look. What! 
 [Looks up quickly.] 
 
 It isn't Joseph at all. It's one of 
 those G-. Wallington youngsters — it 
 wouldn't hurt him to get good and 
 drowned ! 
 
 [Sits down indignantly, tapping 
 her foot.] 
 
 I wonder where Johnny is? Do you 
 see him anywhere? Yes, it is hard to 
 tell them apart in the water. I tried to 
 get my children to wear little flags in 
 their hair, but they won't do it. 
 [Galls.] 
 
 Oh, Aggie — where is Johnny? Why 
 don't you keep your eye on your broth- 
 ers, Aggie? There's Dick! [Calls.] 
 Dick — Oh, Dick — where is Johnny? 
 [Louder.] Where is Johnny? Come 
 here to me. He'd keep me shouting all 
 day, rather than come in and see what I 
 want. 
 
 [To Dick, who approaches.] 
 
 I asked you where Johnnv was? Gone 
 to the raft? Gone to the raft? 
 [Outburst of indignation.] 
 
 You know you're not allowed to go to 
 tne raft? Haven't you been told every 
 day this summer you were not to go to 
 the raft? I know you haven't gone, but 
 your brother, John, has, hasn't he? 
 
 47 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 You're none of you to go near that raft 
 — you go out there just as fast as you 
 can, and bring him in here to me. 
 
 [Motions him off and turns to 
 Mrs. J ones. 1 
 I'll never let them go in again. I'm 
 going to make them all come out. 
 [Calls to Aggie.] 
 Aggie — Aggie — come in now — time's 
 up. You heard me! 
 
 [To Mrs. Jones.] 
 I believe in telling a child to do a 
 thing just once. I do hate a whining, 
 nagging woman, don't you? 
 [To Aggie.] ^ 
 Aggie Hardenspiker, did you hear 
 me? Don't argue — just come out. Get 
 Joseph and come at once. You don't see 
 him? 
 
 [Anxious glance about.] 
 Dear me, now Joseph is lost. Do you 
 see him, Mrs. Jones? Where, Aggie? 
 Yes, I think that is Joseph. 
 
 [Waves handkerchief and calls.] 
 Joseph, J-o-s-e-p-h ! Aggie, you call and 
 I'll wave. 
 
 [Beckons madly with handker- 
 chief.] 
 I know he sees us, he's looking right at 
 us. 
 
 [Seizes Aggie in alarm.] 
 Aggie, where has he gone? He threw 
 
 48 
 
A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR 
 
 up his arms and yelled and went down ! 
 That's the way they do when they have 
 cramps. 
 
 [Tears down beach calling to man 
 in distance.'] 
 Mr. Jordan, will you go out to save 
 Joseph? My son, Joseph. He has a 
 cramp. He shrieked and went down. 
 
 [Runs other direction and calls 
 another man.] 
 Mr. Crosby, will you go to Joseph? 
 Shrieked, cramps, went down! He is 
 right over there somewhere. 
 
 [Comprehensive gesture, includ- 
 ing the entire ocean. She be- 
 gins to iveep and moan.] 
 What shall I tell his father if Joseph 
 is drowned? He'll say I didn't keep 
 my eye on him. It would be just like 
 that boy to try it, and see how it felt to 
 get drowned. If he's gone and done it, 
 he shall not go in bathing again. 
 [Sobs, head in hands.] 
 "What? He's come up, you say? Where 
 —I don't— 
 
 [Locates him, great anxiety on 
 her face.] 
 There he is — there's Joseph! Why — 
 he's grinning! 
 
 [Turns angrily to Aggie.] 
 
 49 
 
2 [ORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Aggie — why, where is Aggie? Gone 
 in again? 
 
 [Discovers Aggie playing in the 
 "briny." She marches to wat- 
 er's edge, speaking with firm- 
 ness.'] 
 Aggie Hardenspiker, did yon hear me 
 tell you to come in? I have spoken for 
 the last time. 
 
 [Walks back to chair and sits 
 down angrily.'] 
 Yes, I see they're bringing him in. I 
 suppose it was one of his jokes. 
 
 [To men who have gone to the 
 rescue of Joseph.] 
 
 Thank you, Mr. Jordan — much obliged 
 to you, Mr. Crosby. . . . Now, Joseph 
 Hardenspiker — what do you mean by 
 drowning yourself like that, right be- 
 fore your mother's face? Well, you 
 came as near it as you could, didn't you? 
 I never would have gotten all worked up 
 like this if I hadn't thought you were 
 dead. You will settle this matter with 
 your father. You take your sister and 
 go to the house. 
 
 [Watches their departure and 
 then turns to look for the re- 
 maining two.] 
 
 I wouldn't let them go in at all, if it 
 wasn't that I hate to spoil their pleas- 
 
 50 
 
A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR 
 
 ure. Do you see Dick and John yet? Oh, 
 yes, here they are now. 
 
 [As last culprits approach.] 
 Well, Eichard and John, you've be- 
 haved nicely this morning, haven't you! 
 Making your poor mother a laughing 
 stock for the whole beach. You are both 
 going to get a good whipping from your 
 father. I don't care if you didn't go to 
 the raft, you'll get the same whipping 
 John does, on general principles. 
 [Rises haughtily.] 
 You'll not go in bathing again this 
 year. What? You'd rather not than 
 have me come along? 
 
 [Turns to Mrs. Jones in pained 
 surprise.] 
 
 Do you hear that, Mrs. Jones? That 
 is the way a mother's sacrifice is ac- 
 cepted. How truly the poet spoke when 
 he said — 
 
 "Sharper than the serpent's rattle is 
 the tooth of an ungrateful child!" 
 
 [Turns to children and waves 
 them up the beach.] 
 
 Eichard and John — to your father ! 
 
 [She folloivs them, with her hand- 
 tier chief to her eyes.] 
 
 51 
 
HOW GENTLEMEN ARE MADE 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Teddy — a victim of the "Dancing-school 
 Method." 
 
 Miss Fay — the dancing teacher. 
 Louisa Allen — one of the belles. 
 Scene — Ball room of a Club House. 
 
 Teddy Speaks. 
 
 Aw — I don't want to dance this time, 
 Miss Fay. Well, I can't, anyhow, be- 
 cause I forget the steps. Well, I can't, 
 anyhow, because I haven't got any pard- 
 ner. 
 
 [Miss Fay takes his hand and he 
 protests in quick alarm.'] 
 Oh, I don't want to be interdooced to 
 her — I — 
 
 [Boujs ungraciously before Louisa 
 and says, sullenly.] 
 Hoddy-do, Louisa Allen, do you want 
 to dance? Ma'am! I mean what, Miss 
 Fay? 
 
 [Puts hand on heart, feet to- 
 gether, and makes mock bow, 
 according to Miss Fay's direc- 
 tion.] 
 
 53 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Glad to meet you, Louisa Allen. May 
 I have the pleasure of this dance? 
 
 [While bending low before her, he 
 runs out his tongue at her, with 
 sly glance at Miss Fay.] 
 
 Ma 'ami I mean, what Miss Fay? Aw, 
 no, she don't have to show me the waltz 
 step, I know it all right. I was just a- 
 foolin' you. 
 
 [Surrounds Louisa with his arm, 
 and spreads his fingers to get 
 grip on her hand. Says to her, 
 curtly. ,] 
 
 Come on, now. Ma'am? I mean, what, 
 Miss Fay? Oh, I forgot — put your hand 
 around here. 
 
 [Clasps her hand properly, and 
 squeezes it hard, screwing up 
 his face with delight, as she 
 screams.] 
 
 What are you yelling about? Aw, I 
 did not squeeze her hand, Miss Fay; I 
 was only gettin' hold of it. . . . Come 
 on, now. 
 
 [Begins to see-saiv her right arm 
 up and down, counting one-two- 
 three loudly. Turns to her in 
 disgust.] 
 
 Well, why don't you come on? I can't 
 do nothin' if you don't come on, can I? 
 
 54 
 
HOW GENTLEMEN ARE MADE 
 
 I was just asthr her to come on, Miss 
 
 Fay. Now — one-two-three — 
 
 [Gets started doing the one-hvo- 
 three hop step of a child learn- 
 ing to dance, sawing his arm up 
 and down, a look of entire se- 
 riousness on his face. He in- 
 dulges in breathless conversa- 
 tion, bettveen counts.] 
 
 Say, do you like this dancin' school? 
 One-two-three! You don't! You hate 
 it? I do, too. Standin' round on one 
 foot an' twiddlin' the other. I thought 
 girls always liked it. One-two-three! I 
 hate girls — always bawlin' an' tellin' 
 tales! You don't? I bet you do! 
 
 [Whirls her wildly, and then 
 shouts at her.] 
 
 Say, keep off my feet, will you? I do 
 not get 'em in your way — you keep a- 
 gettin' on 'em all the time. 
 
 [They take a few turns in si- 
 lence.] 
 
 Have you got any brothers, er pups, 
 er anything? Two? How old? Ten an' 
 'leven? Oh, brothers, you mean, not 
 pups. ... Do they come to this danc- 
 in' school? I bet they don't. I wouldn't 
 
 55 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 come, either, if my mother didn't make 
 me. 
 
 [Large smile irradiates his coun- 
 tenance, as he puffs and dances 
 in a circle. ] 
 She give me a bull pup this year, fer 
 comin'! 
 
 [Looks about and spies Miss Fay 
 in the distance.] 
 Say, she ain't a-lookin' at us. Fer 
 goodness sake, let's quit. 
 
 [They sit at right, Teddy's eye 
 following Miss Fay suspicious- 
 ly. He grins at her.] 
 She's a jerkin' Reddy Burke around 
 in the waltz. Ain't he the limit? He's 
 a regular Mama-boy, he is. Uh-huh. All 
 the fellers at our school can lick 'em, 
 an' then his mother comes an* tells the 
 teacher, an' the teacher tells the prin- 
 zable, an' she tries to find out who done 
 it, but she can't. Ain't he the limit? 
 
 [Gleam of joy lights his coun- 
 tenance.] 
 Say, watch me trip 'im, when he comes 
 by here. Wait till he gets up here, 
 now . . . 
 
 [Waits, his eye glued to ap- 
 proaching boy. At proper time 
 he thrusts out his foot, and 
 then breaks into shrill laugh- 
 ter.] 
 
 56 
 
HOW GENTLEMEN ARE MADE 
 
 Oh, 'sense me, Eeddy, I hope I didn't 
 hurt yon! 
 
 [To Louisa, he adds.] 
 Did you see him bite his tongue? I 
 bet it hurt him awful ! Aw, that wasn 't 
 mean — I only did it for fun. 
 
 {Conversation languishes, after 
 her reproof, and he shows signs 
 of nervousness, until he hap- 
 pens upon a congenial topic] 
 Say, did you say you had a pup ? What 
 kind is it! A setter? How big! Only 
 that big? Humph — I bet my bull pup 
 can lick the spots off.'n your pup. Aw, 
 I bet he can — he's the champeen licker 
 of our whole block. He eats dogs right 
 up, bones an' all. Honust! 
 
 [He is seized ivith an inspiration. 
 He leans toward her with en- 
 thusiasm.] 
 I tell you — next Saderday, when we 
 gotta come to this old dancin' school, 
 let's me an' you bring our pups with 
 us. We can sneak off down under the 
 porch an' sick 'em on each other. Oh, 
 I won't let my pup eat your pup up, I 
 mean sick 'em on f er fun. 
 
 [Hasty glance in Miss Fay's 
 direction.] 
 Aw, no, she wouldn't know about it. 
 She'd think we'd gone to get a drink of 
 
 57 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 ice-water. Come on. Will you — it ud 
 be a lot of fun — what? 
 
 [Turns and sees Ms tormentor 
 approaching.'] 
 Aw, there she comes. Just when a 
 feller is beginning to have a little fun, 
 she always butts in. 
 
 [Rises and faces Miss Fay.] 
 We were a dancin' a long time, Miss 
 Fay, till Louisa Allen got so awful tired. 
 Didn't you, Louisa? Aw, do I have to 
 do it again? ... I don't want to be a 
 gentleman — what's the use? No — I got 
 a pardner. 
 
 [Turns in surprise to Louisa.] 
 Why, yes, I have. You're my pard- 
 ner. Aw, I did, too; I ast you before 
 we begun, didn't I? I can't keep a-astin' 
 you all the time! 
 
 [Drags her to position.] 
 Say, I tell you — you be my pardner all 
 the time, an' then I won't have to bother 
 to ast nobody! 
 
 [Counts loudly, and exits danc- 
 ing.] 
 
 58 
 
HOMESICK 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Mammy — a real aristocrat from South 
 Carolina. 
 
 Miss Lucy — her charge. 
 Scene — Dressing room, next Miss 
 Lucy's bedroom. 
 
 Mammy Speaks. 
 
 [She stretches, yawns, feels her 
 joints and grunts.'] 
 Dawg's-foot! But dese yere oP bones 
 is stiff. 
 
 [Starts, as if called, and moves 
 toward door.] 
 Yas'm-yas'm, Miss Lucy, I'se a-com- 
 inM 
 
 [Stops midway and listens.] 
 Yo, don't want me? Jes' want to re- 
 min' me ob dat dinner pawty! Yo' done 
 toP bout dat, Honey. Yas'm. I'll be 
 ready at seben 'clock. Yas'm, I gwine 
 take a HP res— don' yo' worry 'bout me, 
 Honey-lamb; I'se all right! 
 
 [Comes down the room with look 
 of utter indignation and bursts 
 out angrily.] 
 
 59 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Anudder dinnah pawty! Ma Lawd, 
 dey's no res' fo' de wicked! I wouldn't 
 live up yere — I wouldn't live up yere fo' 
 nuthin'. I wouldn't live up yere, if yo' 
 gib me all the states between de Palantic 
 an' de Asific! Why, it's bad nufT, down 
 home, down in Souf Ca'lina, yo' gotta 
 wuk two 'free hours evry day, but up 
 yere — ma Lawd! Why, I can't even 
 walk down de street, slow, lak a lady. 
 Somebuddy jes' a-walkin' up de back ob 
 ma clothes, an' a-steppin' on de front ob 
 ma feet, an' I jes' gotta keep a humpin' 
 long, an' a humpin' along, to keep outen 
 de way ob peoples. . . ■ I'm moughty 
 glad we don't live up yere — we jes' a- 
 visitun' yere on some fren's ob Miss 
 Lucy. Dey ain't no kin folk, jes' frens v J 
 [Growing dissatisfaction with the 
 
 situation.] 
 Why, I ain't neber see no such folks. 
 We git up in de mo'nin' an' git ready 
 fo' a lunch pawty, after dat we gotta go 
 to a tea pawty — den we rush off to a 
 dinner pawty, and' befo' we half froo 
 dere we got to go to ball pawty! I tell 
 yo', dis yere ol' woman gwine go home 
 done up in fo' boards, if she don' git 
 some res' moughty soon. 
 
 [Gets a chair and sits down very 
 
 sloivly, groaning and rubbing 
 
 her joints.] 
 
 60 
 
HOMESICK 
 
 Ya-ya-ya ! 
 
 [Settles back in chair, arms 
 crossed.'] 
 
 I keep a-sayin' to inaself in de words 
 ob de Good Book, "Bressed is de uses 
 ob diversity." I'se moughty glad I'se 
 nuthin' but a pore ol' nigger woman, 
 ain't got to keep dressin' up fo' to go 
 roun' to all dese yere functionaries! 
 /"Why, Miss Lucy, de pore lamb, she 
 ges' got to keep dressed up all de time, 
 an' she got to put up wid dese yere 
 No'tlrun beaux. I heah 'em — I know de 
 way dey talk to her — I heared one ob 
 dem de udder night, a-talkin' to her. . . . 
 
 "Miss Lucy" — he say, kin' o' slushy 
 like — "Miss Lucy, do yo' know what is 
 Pa'dise? When de star ob de souf is 
 a-shinin' in de Heben ob de no'th — dat's 
 Pa'dise." ^ 
 
 An' she jes' laff an' say — 
 
 "Is yo' de serpent? An' who is de 
 apple?" Das de way she sass 'im back. 
 
 "No, Miss Lucy; yo' is Eve, but I is 
 jes' a pore gen'lman, dat's gwine to be 
 glad to git frowed outen de gyarden, if 
 dat gwine give you' any pleasure!" 
 
 "I don' know nuffin' gwine give me 
 any mo' pleasure than to see yo' frowed 
 out!" she sez to 'im. Ya-yah — das de 
 way she sass 'im back. / 
 [Very indignantly.] 
 
 61 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Takin' cle words ob cle Good Book 
 'bout de Gyarden ob Eden in vain, lak 
 dat. Nigger woman wouldn't put up wid 
 dat. No-sah, she gib dat buck a clomp 
 on de side ob de haid, an' tell 'im to 
 gwan whah' he's gwine! 
 
 [Suits action to word and catches 
 her back with groan.] 
 
 Ma Lawd, dere's dat creek in ma 
 back! I ain't bad no sleep fo' a week, 
 an' to-night a dinnah-dance-pawty — an' 
 to-morrow moli'nin' we got to go on a 
 hunt. Yas-sah, a hunt. But I jes' 
 drawed de line dere. I says, ' ' Miss Lucy, 
 honey, dey ain't a thing on Gawd's 
 yearth I ain't gwine do fo' yo', if yo' 
 as ' me, but I draw de line on a hunt ! ' ' 
 [She sniffs disdainfully.] 
 
 Hunt ! Dat 's what dey call it up yere. 
 T'aint no mo' a hunt, den I is a lame 
 jack-rabbit. Jes' a lot ob ladies an' 
 gen'lmens in dey pink coatses an' dey 
 white pantses, dey comes out; an' a 
 keeper an' a lot ob dawgs, dey comes 
 out, an' den a colored man he brings 
 out a pore starved lil' fox, dey been a- 
 starvin' fo' 'bout a week, an' den all de 
 ladies an' de gen'lmens, an' de keeper 
 an' de dawgs, dey all go chasin' after 
 dis pore lil' fox, till purty soon he jes' 
 fall down an' die fo' lack ob breath, an' 
 dev calls dat a hunt! 
 
HOMESICK 
 
 We got de real thing, down home, in 
 SouP Ca'lina. Why, even de niggers 
 down dere hunt. Yo' hearn tell 'bout 
 possum hunt, ain't yo'? 
 
 [Begins to chuckle at a recollec- 
 tion. Her whole body shakes.] 
 I 'member once, ma ol' man, Eastus, 
 he took some No'thun dude, was down 
 there courtin' Miss Lucy, he took him out 
 fo' a possum hunt. Eastus he know de 
 dude don' know nuffin', so he jes' take 
 him off down to de woods, an' he make 
 him lie down on his stomach in de un- 
 derbresh. « ' Now, ' ' he say, < ' yo ' He dere 
 an' keep on a-watchin' while I frow de 
 light obdis lantern roun' and when yo' 
 see it shine on some eyes — yo' jes' shoot 
 quick. ' ' 
 
 Well, dey was a-lyin' dere an' a-lyin' 
 dere an' Eastus was a-chucklin' at de 
 joke he got on de dude, cause he know 
 dey am' no possum goin' to come an' 
 nose 'em out— when, all at once, he 
 f rowed de light kin' ob brash like, an' 
 sho nuff, dey was two shinin' eyes an' 
 de dude, he up an' shoot. Clomp — 
 somethin' fell down in de bushes. 
 
 "Eastus," says de dude, "g-wan out 
 dere an' git dat possum I done shot." 
 
 "Possum? Possum? Dat am' no 
 possum," Eastus says, " I think yo'done 
 shot a elephalunt!" 
 
 63 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 "G'wan out an' see." 
 
 "No, sail — no, sah — I ain' gwine out 
 dere to monkey wid none ob yo' daid 
 wild animalses." 
 
 "Come long, yo' ol' fool, I'll pick it 
 up." So dey went a tip-toein' up to 
 what de shot. An ', what do yo ' think it 
 wuz, honey? 
 
 [Long, loud guffaw of laughter, 
 ending in chuckles.] 
 
 It wuz Eastus' ol' mule! Eastus, he 
 begin to moan an' to groan, an' he say 
 he lub dat mule lak a brudder. Had him 
 since he wuz a lil' bit ob mule, an' 
 brunged him up by han'. He wuk on 
 dat pore dude's feelin' so, dat de dude 
 gib Eastus twenty dollars fo' dat mule! 
 Why, honey, yo' could buy all de ol' 
 mules in Souf Ca'lina fo' twenty dol- 
 lars ! 
 
 [Laughs loudly.] 
 
 I sell him dat mule f o ' twenty cents ! 
 . . . Moughty funny thing 'bout ma ol' 
 man, Eastus. When I'm down home in 
 Souf Ca'lina, an' got to live long side 
 ob Eastus, I think he's the laziest, good- 
 fo'-nuthin', ornery niggah, de Lawd 
 ever cluttered up de yearth wid, but 
 when I'se up yere, so far way from 'im, 
 I reckon he ain' de wust niggah de Lawd 
 ever made. . . . He ain't sass me much 
 — he don't dare! He don't 'buse me 
 
 64 
 
HOMESICK 
 
 none — not sence de fust time, when I 
 frowed a flat-iron at his haid. I gwine 
 be moughty glad to see Rastus, when I 
 git home. An' Liza — she's ma' oldest 
 gal. She got de cabin nex' to mine. Liza 
 she hab got the cutest HP pickininny in 
 de state ob Souf ' Ca'lina — she hab. Dat 
 chile she come into ma cabin, long 'bout 
 dis time ebery evenin' an' she look up at 
 me, an' say — " Granny, I done come in 
 fo' yo' to demuse me!" "Denmse to' — 
 demuse yo'! G'wan home an' demuse 
 yo'self, yo' lil' sass-box!" u Aw, now, 
 Granny, yo' know yo' gwine do it. Sit 
 down, Granny, how yo' reckon I can sit 
 in yo' lap, if yo' stanin' up?" 
 
 Den she jes' push me into ma big ahm 
 chaih, an' she clomb up in ma lap, an' 
 put her haid on ma bosom. 
 
 [Site cuddles the child against 
 her } smiling.'] 
 
 Den she look up at me an' say — "Now, 
 yo' gwine tell me 'bout de San' Man." 
 Ma Lawd, I reckon I done tell dat chile 
 'bout de San' Man ten hundred times, 
 but I alius do it, when she as' me purty. 
 
 [She rocks gently and half croons, 
 half sings the lullaby e.] 
 
 65 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 THE SAN' MAN. 
 
 When de moon is a risin' an' de day is 
 sinkin' fas' — 
 When de whip-will cries, when de 
 whip-will cries, 
 Dat's de time de lil' chillnns come a- 
 troopin' in to bed, 
 Kubbin' sleepy eyes, rubbin' sleepy 
 eyes. 
 
 Den de San' Man comes flyin' firm his 
 home behin' de Moon, 
 Heah 'im callin' yo'? Heah 'im call- 
 in' yo'? 
 See him fro' de san', chile, from his 
 bundle made o' dreams, 
 Off to sleep yo' go — Mammy rockin' 
 slow. 
 
 Go to sleep, ma honey, 
 
 San' Man at de do'; 
 Go to sleep, ma honey, 
 
 San' Man git yo' sho' — 
 Heah's a rabbit-foot to keep, 
 Conjer man off while yo' sleep, 
 Close yo' eyes now, don' yo' peep, 
 San' Man at de do'! 
 
 [Rocks gently, repeating the last 
 line softly and more softly un- 
 til baby is asleep. All at once 
 she starts at Miss Lucy's call. 
 
 66 
 
HOMESICK 
 
 She looks all about her, at the 
 room, down at her empty arms, 
 a look of dismay and of grief 
 on her face. She gets up slow- 
 ly, and all her homesickness 
 comes out in one sentence.'] 
 Fo ' a minute I thought I wuz back in 
 
 Gawd's country — back in SouP Ca'lina! 
 
 Yes'm, Miss Lucy, Pse a-comm', honey, 
 
 I'se a-cominM 
 
 [She shuffles out slowly.] 
 
 67 
 
AN HOUR WITH A MODERN 
 MARTYR 
 
 Characters : 
 
 The long-suffering Photographer. 
 The Young Mother with her " first 
 Olga Olsen — lately "over." 
 Scene — A photograph gallery. 
 
 > > 
 
 Young Mother Speaks. 
 
 Good-afternoon, Mr. Smith. Yes, I've 
 got the Baby. I thought that girl you 
 had in here would never go. I was so 
 afraid the Baby would wake up and cry. 
 Yes, he's asleep and I thought I 
 wouldn't waken him till I had to; he's 
 always so sweet when he first wakes up. 
 [Sits down gingerly so Baby ivill 
 not waken.] 
 
 Well, I want him taken in his coat and 
 bonnet first, all by himself. You see, 
 his grandmother on his father's side 
 sent him his coat, and she lives in Kan- 
 sas, so she wants a picture of him in it, 
 
 69 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 and then I want some in his christening 
 robe and some in — 
 [To Baby.] 
 Why — is he waked up? What's de 
 matter, lubhy-dubby, ee ain't a-going to 
 cwy, is 'um? 
 
 [Shakes him up and clown.'] 
 I never knew him to do this before — 
 he is always so cute when he wakes up. 
 [Puts him over her shoulder and 
 pats him.] 
 Now, he's doin' to be Mummy's liP 
 man — I dess it wuz a pain, wuzn't it? 
 [To photographer.] 
 You'd better get him quick now, be- 
 fore he begins again. 
 [Hotly.] 
 Well, my goodness, why didn't you 
 get your plates ready while he was cry- 
 ing? 
 
 [Gets up and goes toivard high 
 chair.] 
 You want me to put him in that? I 
 don't think he'll stay, but if you want 
 him there, I'll try it. Shall I put him 
 in, facing front? Oh, sideways — why do 
 you want him sideways? To make his 
 mouth look small? Why, he hasn't a 
 large mouth, he has a little one, and 
 everybody thinks it's such a sweet 
 snape. 
 
 [Puts Baby in chair.] 
 
 70 
 
A MODERN MARTYR 
 
 Now, darling, be nice boy an' sit up 
 straight- — 
 
 [She kneels in front of him to 
 hold him on chair, and goes on 
 in the usual idiotic fashion.'] 
 
 Turn now, langli a HP — 
 [To photographer.] 
 Hurry up, now! Smile at Mummy, 
 lttv tunnin'. 
 
 [Claps her hands, ivhistles and 
 clucks.] 
 Dass a nice boy — now den. . . . 
 
 [To photographer.] 
 Haven't you gotten it yet? Well, 
 you're so slow. You'd better get all 
 ready now, before I put bim down. 
 
 [Takes Baby up and jumps him 
 up and down.] 
 Beady now? Well, I'll put him back. 
 
 [Puts Baby doivn in chair.] 
 Now, den, Baby, dess one more HP 
 smile — why, I didn't see him move. You 
 can't expect him to sit perfectly still, 
 with no one to hold him. I did say I 
 wanted one alone, but if he won't sit 
 still I'll have to hold him. 
 
 [Takes Baby up, sits down, and 
 puts him over shoulder.] 
 Why, Baby, I never knew you to act 
 like this. Sit this way? Well, but he'll 
 
 71 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 kick his feet if I stop patting him, and I 
 can't pat him in the picture, can II 
 
 [She begins to take his bonnet 
 and coat off.] 
 
 Maybe he's too hot. He's such a 
 strange child, so smart about people. 
 Xow, I don't think he likes you very 
 well — the minute he makes up his mind 
 he doesn't like people, he acts like this. 
 Yes, the doctor says he's wonderful for 
 three months! Now, oo' sit up like lil' 
 sojer boy for Mummy. 
 
 [To photographer.] 
 
 If you could whistle and clap your 
 hands while you're taking it — he likes 
 that. Now, den, sweety, — there — quick! 
 Oh, dear. You see, he doesn't like you. 
 Why, Baby! [Proudly.] See, how strong 
 he kicks? 
 
 [Gets up and ivalks with him.] 
 
 Why, he's so mad — why — I think he's 
 getting hysterical ! Oh, I must get him 
 right home, — 
 
 [Begins getting him wrapped up.] 
 
 Maybe we ought to call the doctor 
 here. You 've thrown him into hysterics, 
 that is what you've done. I don't think 
 vou have any tact with children at 
 all. ... 
 
 [Gets up, Baby in arms.] 
 
 When can I get my proofs! You 
 haven't got anything? Do you mean to 
 
 72 
 
A MODERN MARTYR 
 
 say that I've wasted this whole after- 
 noon, and risked my child's life, and you 
 haven't gotten any picture? Baby's 
 fault? How dare you say it's Baby's 
 fault, you wicked child-hater. I'll just 
 send my husband around here to have 
 you arrested for libeling my child! 
 [She flounces out.] 
 
 Olga Olsen Speaks. 
 
 Ha-do. I vant to haf ma pitture 
 tooken. Vat size? I dunno. Cabinet? 
 No — I don't vant a cabinet — I vant a 
 pitture. Oh — ya-as, cabinet pitture — 
 how moach? Dollar-fifty a dozen? Veil, 
 but I don' vant a dozen — I only vant von 
 for ma fella'. I can't git von — veil, I 
 take two, den. Gotta take six? How 
 moach ? Sivinty-five ? 
 
 [She considers it gravely.] 
 
 Veil, yus' wrap them oop, I take them 
 right 'long. Oh, you ain' got dem yet 
 — you got take dem? Oh, ya-as. 
 
 [She takes position he suggests.] 
 
 Is dese ver' I am to stood? I got-ta 
 look at dat 'ting? Veil, it won't hurt 
 me ven vou do ut, vill ut? I am shmil- 
 in\ 
 
 [Stands, hands clasped on stom- 
 ach, with sickly grin.] 
 
 73 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Did you got him? I am' heerd you 
 
 do ut. I git anudder proof? Oh, ya-as. 
 
 [Sits in chair, a- ell forward, 
 
 hands awkwardly draped over 
 
 her knees, toes turned in, head 
 
 stretched forward, with same 
 
 sickly grin.] 
 
 Foot ma foots togedder? Oh, ya-as. 
 
 Ya-as, I am shmilin'. 
 
 [Jumps at his remark that it is 
 over.] 
 
 ^ You got anudder. You awful queeck, 
 ain't you? I yus' take dem along now. 
 Got-ta devel-devel — I dunno dat vord. 
 No — I can't coom till Tarsday. Pay you 
 now? No — not till I got de pitture." No? 
 Veil, how I know you are honust man? 
 Oh, I get a tickut? Veil, 
 
 [Examines it carefully.] 
 vat does de tickut let me in to? Oh, I 
 git de pittures vid de tickut? . . . Olga 
 Olsen— 333 Hegewich Street. 
 
 [Looks at ticket.] 
 Now, dis is de proof? No — ut is de 
 tickut. Ya-as, cooni on Tarsday fur de 
 pittures? Bring dis proof? Oh — dis 
 ain't de proof — dis is de tickut to git de 
 proof. Ya-as — veil, I dunno — 
 
 [Goes out, inspecting ticket, as if 
 hypnotized, muttering to her- 
 self.] 
 
 74 
 
WHEN MEN PROPOSE 
 
 Characters : 
 Marguerite Arden, an American girl. 
 Herr Adolph Kirchoff, of Berlin. 
 Honorable Archie T'witt, of London. 
 Monsieur Alphonse Lecouvre, of Paris. 
 Carter Cobb, of little old New York. 
 Scene — Promenade deck of an ocean 
 liner. 
 
 Herr Kirchoff Speaks. 
 
 [Saunters along deck with the 
 
 military hearing of a German 
 
 officer, stops beside Miss Ar- 
 
 den's chair, and clicks his heels 
 
 together in military salute.'] 
 
 Fraueein Arden, goot morgen-morning ! 
 
 May I de honor haf, you to seet beside? 
 
 [She assents. He places chair, 
 
 sits and deposits hat, almost in 
 
 one movement. Inspects her 
 
 earnestly.] 
 
 Franlein Arden, it iss bad you do not 
 
 German spik, for I do not English goot 
 
 spik. . . . You an American voman are, 
 
 75 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 eh, Fraulein Arden? Ach, eet iss unniis- 
 tookable, die American voman — dere is 
 no von like her in die vorld! 
 [Look of surprise.] 
 
 You laff, nicht wahr ? But soon all de 
 country of Europe die youth to America 
 vill send die vife to get! I, too, to 
 America for meine vife come. 
 
 [With great seriousness.] 
 
 ^Ach, Fraulein Arden, ven I am seek, 
 mit vat you call der seaseekness, I think 
 it iss too much — I vill home go for meine 
 vife, but now, I am full of health und I 
 forgot haf . 
 
 [He beats his chest to assure her 
 he is sound.] 
 
 Fraulein Arden, eet iss tell to me dat 
 in your country dere iss no need to der 
 vater to go, if die young fraulein is 
 please, nicht wahr? Die American frau- 
 lein her own husban' can pitch out, 
 nicht wahr? Aber ya — pick out. 
 
 You eine unmarried voman are, Frau- 
 lein! Dass iss ganz goot. Fraulein Ar- 
 den, Ich leibe dich — I lof you. I haf die 
 estheem — die respeg for you, as high as 
 der smoke stack! Yill you mit me to 
 marry? 
 
 [She interrupts him, and he stops 
 in his fight, astonished and dis- 
 composed .1 
 
 76 
 
WHEN MEN PROPOSE 
 
 Ve do not Know each odder? But 
 yes, I know you fur three days — eet iss 
 enough. Come mit me to Berlin back, 
 und ve vill mit meine mutter lif. She 
 iss old und crank — seek — und need of a 
 daughter haf. Ve vill work und safe 
 und ven meine mutter dead iss, ve vill 
 be — reech ! 
 
 [At this point she bursts out 
 laughing at him. He bridles 
 with outraged pride and dig- 
 nity.] 
 Fraulein Arden, you misunderstood 
 haf. I offer you my honorable lof. Vas 
 sagen sie? If I am die only man in die 
 vorld, you vill not with me marry ? Ach 
 — you haf die cruel hertz. In my coun- 
 try die vimmen are glad to get der goot 
 husband. . . . Eet iss tell me all die 
 American vimmen mad are to marry mit 
 der foreigner, und now I find eet iss all 
 lies — lies ! 
 
 [Rises and towers above her an- 
 grily.] 
 You say, "No" to mem honorable lof 
 — you laff ! It is enough — I go ! 
 
 [With military salute he marches 
 stiffly away.] 
 
 Monsieur Lecouvee Speaks. 
 
 [Softly.] C-est une belle nuit, Mademoi- 
 selle Ardenne! What vou call "beauti- 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 full" All, Mademoiselle, I long to teach, 
 you la belle Francais — eet ees so difficul ' 
 to say ze thought poetic in — en Anglais. 
 Eet ees so pauvre — so bald — zese An- 
 glais! Mais en France, Mademoiselle, 
 eet ees different — toutes le monde spik 
 poetry en France ! An' ze lovaire — ah — 
 eet ees not so difficult for ze lovair en 
 Francais. You Americaines — you have 
 not ze time to develop ze — ze — "lesmots 
 d 'amour," what you call ze love-word. 
 You say — "my dear" — bah! "Darling" 
 non, non, non, non! "Sweetheart" — 
 mais nous, nous avons, "Mon amour," 
 "mon coeur," "ma bien aimee," . . . 
 ah, Mademoiselle, eet ees not so difficult 
 for ze lovaire en France. 
 
 [This last with a deep sigh and a 
 heart-breaking glance.] 
 Mademoiselle, you are more beautiful 
 than ze night — you are ravissant! 
 
 [Another deep sigh.] 
 You say, why do I sigh? Mademoi- 
 selle, eet ees a sigh-able thing when a 
 man is burning up wiz love an' no 
 tongue to speak it out. Ah, Mademo- 
 iselle, c'est moi! Je meur — I die for 
 love of you, sweetheart! I burn — I 
 smoke, I am Vesuvius — I am consume, 
 I am reduce to ze ash ! Do you, too, feel 
 zese burning? 
 
 [Starts at her laughter.] 
 
 78 
 
WHEN MEN PROPOSE 
 
 Mademoiselle, je ne comprend pas — 
 you say — ? 
 
 [Rises angrily.] 
 Mademoiselle, vous avez tort, I, Al- 
 phonse Lecouvre, un joke! 
 
 [Regains his composure and be- 
 gins to laugh softly, very un- 
 pleasantly, — as if to cover his 
 retreat.] 
 Mademoiselle, I make ze mistake. I 
 forget you are la belle Americaine, wiz 
 a sense of humor strongair zan love or 
 repect or courtesy. For une moment I 
 took you en serieux — pardon — vous avez 
 raison — I am un joke I laff ! Bon soir, 
 Mademoiselle — I laff. 
 
 [Swings off jauntily, laughing 
 sardonically.] 
 
 Archie Twitt Speaks. 
 
 Aw, how d'ye do, Miss Arden, how 
 d'ye do? Fine day, isn't it? Been fine 
 crossin' an' all that. Beg pawdon — oh, 
 thank you. 
 
 [He sits down, and twirls his 
 hat.] 
 
 You'll be glad to be gettin' back to the 
 other side, I suppose. Joy of home-com- 
 in' an' all that. Beastly bore, this Cus- 
 tom House business, isn't it? Rather 
 spoils the romance of home-comin'. You 
 
 79 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 don't say? I'm awfully glad to hear 
 you say that. Always heard that Amer- 
 ican women were so romantic — went in 
 for the knight "sans peur et sans re- 
 proche." 
 
 I've always liked your American wim- 
 men, meself, so healthy an' good-lookin' 
 an' original, you know. Yes, always 
 thought I might marry an American gell, 
 if I went outside me own country, you 
 know. Commendable, you say? Ilm — 
 [Inspects her closely, almost sus- 
 pecting sarcasm.] 
 
 I suppose you know an awful lot of 
 American gells, don't you? Couldn't 
 pick out a nice one for me, now, could 
 you? Haw-haw — not an international 
 agency? Haw-haw — awfully clevah of 
 you! 
 
 Me requirements? Well — a large, 
 healthy, good-lookin' woman, ye know, 
 nice temper — clevah — not too clevah. 
 I'm blessed if I get on well with these 
 awfully clevah wimmen — a fellow never 
 knows what they're drivin' at. Of 
 course, a fellow wouldn't want his own 
 wife to keep him thinkin'. 
 
 No brains at all? Oh, I'd want her to 
 have some brains. About equal to mine? 
 Oh, no, just average amount of brain — 
 ye know — about as much as you've got, 
 Miss Arden. I don't mind tellin' you r 
 
 80 
 
WHEN MEN PROPOSE 
 
 I've had some intention of proposin' to 
 you, yes, by Jove, that's the truth. . . . 
 You're not up to the requirements, you 
 think? Well, maybe not — but I've had 
 me eye on you all the way over. 
 
 "Well, if you think you aren't up to it, 
 what do you advise? What's that? Go 
 back to England? There isn't a woman 
 in America with as little sense as I've 
 got? 
 
 [Looks at her in great surprise, 
 but without resentment.] 
 
 Eeally? Dear, dear. You discourage 
 me, you do, indeed. I'll take a few 
 turns and think this over, if you'll ex- 
 cuse me. 
 
 [Bows and retires muttering.] 
 
 Not a woman in America with as lit- 
 tle sense as I've got! 
 
 Carter Cobb Speaks. 
 
 How goes the world with you this 
 good day, Marguerite, so sweet — so 
 sweet? Do I have to promise to clear 
 out at the sound of foreign heels on the 
 deck? 
 
 [He stands inquiringly by chair. 
 
 She invites him to sit doivn, so 
 
 he smiles, boivs and accepts.] 
 
 Yes, I've been keeping out of the way, 
 
 so I wouldn't interfere with the foreign 
 
 81 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 embassies. I've watched the war of na- 
 tions with much amusement. Who's in 
 the lead? 
 
 Fooling aside, I've been hoping you'd 
 get enough of those chaps before we get 
 back, and turn your attention to an 
 American laddy, who loves you mighty 
 well and wants you for his wife. 
 [Smiles at her.] 
 
 Yes, I know a fellow that answers that 
 description. He's just a plain, ordinary 
 American citizen, who can't tell a wom- 
 an that he loves her in ten different lan- 
 guages, nor make a military salute to 
 save his life. But he's got a strong 
 right arm to work for her, and a big 
 heart aching to cherish her, and all he 
 wants in this life is a chance to just take 
 care of her. 
 
 [Finishes more lightly.] 
 
 I don't suppose he has much show 
 with the belle of two continents, but I 
 just wanted to tell you about him. 
 What? Marguerite, look at me. Oh, 
 my dearest! 
 
 [Tableau!] 
 
 82 
 
NICOLETTA 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Giovanni Dimitri, proprietor of a small 
 news stand, on a corner in New 
 York. 
 
 Antonio di Navarro, an Italian immi- 
 grant, 
 
 Nicoletta, an Italian peasant girl. 
 
 Mr. Howard, a New Yorker and patron 
 of Giovanni's. 
 
 Scene — Giovanni's shop. 
 
 Giovanni Speaks. 
 
 Ah, Signor, how do? I am ver' glad 
 to see you. 
 
 [He shakes hands with Mr. How- 
 ard, smilingly.] 
 Si, Signor, I come-a back. I make-a 
 de treep to Italia — I make-a de treep 
 back to New. York. ... Si, I make-a de 
 mon' — I got il bottega — il magazino — 
 what you call — shop. Na-na — not make-a 
 de treep to Italia on bis'ness — I make-a 
 de treep for Nicoletta. 
 
 [He appeals to Howard like a 
 child asking sympathy.] 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Signor, you good fren' to GVanni — 
 you like to hear 'bout Nicoletta? You 
 will seet down? 
 
 [He proffers a chair to Howard, 
 and sits beside him, speaking 
 most of the time as if to him- 
 self. Only now and then does 
 he appeal to his hearer.] 
 It is long time 'go, in Italia, I make-a 
 de love to Nicoletta. Ah, Signor, it is 
 ver' beautiful in ma' countree, moch 
 blue sky, moch green tree. Not like-a 
 New York, na, na, na, ver' beautiful. 
 
 But ev'body zere is ver' poor. Eef 
 il padre di famiglia make-a duo soldi a 
 day — ah — 'tis ver' good. II famiglia 
 getta spaghetti, polenta, . . . but il 
 padre di famiglia notta make-a duo 
 soldi each day — na, na. Ev'body ver' 
 poor zere. So Nicoletta an' me, we can- 
 not marry wiz each ozer. 
 
 [His face clouds at mention of 
 Antonio and his hands knot.] 
 Antonio di Navarro — he ees, what you 
 say? Neighbor! Si, Signor, neighbor 
 wiz us, an' he say ev'body in New York 
 getta reech queek — ev'body make-a de 
 mon'. So I say to Nicoletta, "I, Gio- 
 vanni, I go to New York, getta reech, an' 
 sen' you de mon', eh, Carissima! An' 
 she say to me, "Si, si, G'vanni." 
 
 84 
 
NICOLETTA 
 
 So, Signor, I make-a de treep. Eeet 
 is ver' different in New York. I canna' 
 spik-a de tongue. I not getta reecli 
 queek — na, jus' work-work-work, like in 
 ma' countree. Sell-a de peanut, sell-a 
 de banan', make-a de music wit' de 
 monk — work all time, an' save for Nico- 
 letta. An' purt' soon, I gotta de nion\ 
 
 I go to Antonio — he make-a de treep 
 wit me to New York, an' now lie go to 
 make-a de treep back to Italia. He is 
 ma fren', so I go to him, I say, "Here 
 is ma mon', tell Nicoletta, G'vanni is 
 waiting. ' ' 
 
 [A veritable fury sweeps his 
 face.] 
 
 Antonio di Navarro, he take-a de 
 mon'; he make-a de treep to Italia; he 
 tell Nicoletta GVanni is dead — he keep 
 de mon' an' take Nicoletta! 
 
 [He ends hoarsely, and hurries on 
 in a frenzy.] 
 
 Giovanni? — what he do, Signor? He 
 is in New York, waiting. Ev'ry boat zat 
 comes to New York for mont ' I am zere, 
 waiting, waiting, an' no Nicoletta, so at 
 last' I say — "she is dead." 
 
 Zen come ze word Antonio di Navarro 
 have take Nicoletta! Ah, Signor, zen 
 I work-a, work-a, work-a ! Sell-a de pea- 
 nut — sell-a de banan', make-a de music 
 
 85 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 wit' de monk, an' save, till, at las', I got- 
 ta de mon'. 
 
 [Hurries on dramatically.'] 
 I make-a de treep to Italia — two day 
 I watch an' wait, an' zen when Antonio 
 di Navarro go home to Nicoletta, I, Gio- 
 vanni, I go, too, Close behin' him in ze 
 shadow, I go, too. Up ze stair behin ' 
 him, an' wait outside ze door. Purt' 
 soon he come out an' go away, an' zen 
 Giovanni, he go in. Nicoletta make-a de 
 cry upon de floor. 
 
 "Nicolletta! Nicolletta!" 
 She look at me like one zat hear ze 
 voice of ze blessed Virgin ! 
 
 [Crosses himself hastily, and 
 goes on.] 
 "Vanni! Vanni!" 
 * ' Si, Nicoletta— Vanni. ' ' 
 "Na, na — don't keel me, Vanni, don't 
 keel me. He tell me you are dead — An- 
 tonio tell me you are dead — don't! 
 Don't!— " 
 
 [He crouches away, sobbingly, as 
 if from fear, and then suddenly 
 resuming his oivn expression, 
 lie thunders.] 
 "Nicoletta — you love Antonio?" 
 "Na-na." 
 
 "You love me, G 'vanni?" 
 "Si-si, Vanni, I love you." 
 
 86 
 
NICOLETTA 
 
 I hear heem comin' up ze stair, I wait 
 for him inside ze door, an' pur' soon An- 
 tonio di Navarro he come in! 
 
 [Pantomime of swift upward 
 stroke of the stiletto. He looks 
 at body crumpled at Ms feet, 
 breathing hard and loud. Then 
 he kicks it, and holds out hand.] 
 "Come, Nicoletta, come, come, Caris- 
 sima. . . ." 
 
 [His eye falls on his listener, and 
 a dazed look follows, then he 
 comes to himself with a shud- 
 der, puts his hand to his fore- 
 head, and laughs half-sobbing- 
 
 iy-] 
 
 Signor, I as' you to exscuse me. For 
 one moment, I forget — I think I am back 
 zere in — 
 
 [Shrugs his shoulders, turns to 
 the right and calls.] 
 Nicoletta — Nicoletta! Ah, come out 
 — come here, Carissima. 
 
 [He takes her hand, patting it 
 softly, as if to reassure him- 
 self of her safety. Then turns 
 to Howard with a flourish, bow- 
 ing low.] 
 Signor, T make-a de pleasure to pre- 
 sent you to my wife — to Nicoletta ! 
 
 87 
 
A CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Teddy, a youthful pilgrim. 
 
 Miss Eleanor, the Sunday school 
 teacher. 
 
 Scene — Sunday school room. 
 
 Teddy Speaks. 
 
 Say, now, quit yer shoving Reddy. I 
 was not on yer feet — just look where 
 your feet is! I bet you a cent Miss 
 Eleanor is late. Or, say, I'll match you 
 pennies. You got a penny fer the plate, 
 ain't you? Sh — cheese it — there's Miss 
 Eleanor. 
 
 [Pipes out gayly to Teacher.'] 
 Good morning, Miss Eleanor. We 
 thought you was going to be late. Git 
 over, Reddy! 
 
 [Pushes the offending Reddy. 
 Stands up and elongates his 
 neck in order to see the plat- 
 form.] 
 There's the super 'tendent — we're go- 
 in' to begin. 
 
 [Looks under seat and all about 
 for hymnal.] 
 
 89 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Say, where 's my hymn book? Miss 
 Eleanor, somebody's tooken my hymn 
 book. Thanks. 
 
 [He pokes Reddy and demands.'] 
 What number hymn did he say? 23? 
 Aw, he did not, did he? 
 
 [Having found +he place, he stands 
 up, and sings most earnestly, 
 the booh held up in front of 
 him.} 
 All hail the flower of Jesus ' name, 
 Let Angels phosphate all, 
 Bring four, the royal dia-mond, 
 An' crown Him, Lord and all. 
 
 [After some pushing and scuffling 
 he sits down again.'] 
 Aw, she's go in' to ast us good deeds? 
 Have you any? . . . No, Miss Eleanor, 
 I didn't do any good deeds this week. 
 Oh, yes, I did, too. I was goin' to 
 drownd six little kittens we had, an' 
 then I didn't; I sold 'em fer ten cents 
 apiece. Well, it was a good deed, not to 
 drownd 'em, wasn't it? 
 
 [Subsides a minute, then giggles.] 
 Well, Reddy always says "Took care 
 of the Baby" fer his good deed. 
 
 [Holds up his hand and snaps 
 his fingers loudly.] 
 I got another — I forgot it. I read the 
 
 90 
 
A CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 
 
 Bible every night this week. My grand- 
 mother's go-in' to give me five dollars, if 
 I read it all through, an' I'm clear up 
 to Pu-salms. Naw, sir, I ain't goin' to 
 give that money to the heathens; I'm 
 goin' to get a pair of guinea pigs with 
 it an' sell 'em. You can make a lot on 
 'em. I know a feller that got two an' 
 put 'em in the barn one night an' the 
 next mornin' six new ones had growed! 
 I ast my father about it, an' he said it 
 was like the "Begats" in the Bible. 
 
 [Squirms a minute .in silence. 
 Whispers to Reddy.] 
 
 Do you know a tex'f Gimme one, will 
 you? 
 
 [Giggles.] 
 
 Fanny Smith said " Jesus wept." 
 Course it's funny! That's wrong. It's 
 " Jesuswept." Yes, I understand it. 
 Why — he — it means he swept. In the 
 church, I suppose. Cried? Honest? 
 Sure, I see. I thought it was "swept." 
 Yes, I got one. "Suffering little chil- 
 dern to come under me, for of which is 
 the Kingdom of Heaven." Yes'm, I 
 know what it means, but I can't ex- 
 plain it. 
 
 [Listens while text is explained, 
 his eyes wandering.] 
 
 91 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Yes 'm, I understand. Take your feet 
 over, will you? 
 
 [Snaps his fingers and waves his 
 arm.] 
 
 I know — Miss Eleanor, I know. A 
 paraniel is something in the Bible that 
 ain't true, like a fairy story, like that 
 about the fishes an' bread, an* walkin' 
 on the water, an' all that. Well, my 
 father said nobody could stand up on the 
 water. I think it means tread water; 
 don't you? 
 
 [Punches Reddy, yawns, and wig- 
 gles. Whispers.] 
 
 Gee, I wisht she'd get through with 
 paramels. Billy Scott's waitin' to swap 
 marbles with me. I heard him whistle. 
 Say, look at Lucy Flinn. She's asleep 
 an' a fly most went in her mouth. Goody 
 there's the super 'tendant now. 
 
 [Dives for his hymn book.] 
 
 What one did he say? Oh, I know 
 that one by heart. 
 
 [Gets up, shuffling with his feet.] 
 
 Say, now, don't you go an' shove me 
 in the inarch, or I'll smash your face 
 when I get you outside ! 
 
 [Sings sweetly as he marches 
 out.] 
 
 92 
 
A CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 
 
 I used to be a bad boy, 
 
 The Devil's willing tool; 
 But now, I am a good boy, 
 
 Since I joined the Sunday school. 
 
 Teacher, Teacher, why am I so happy, 
 
 happy? 
 Happy, happy, in my own dear Sunday 
 
 school? 
 
 93 
 
IN THE WINGS 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Jane Gray, an old actress. 
 Jane Gray, her young namesake. 
 The Nurse. 
 Place — The Actor's Home. 
 
 [Jane Gray, bent and feeble, hob- 
 bes out onto the porch of the 
 Home, leaning on the Nurse's 
 arm, and on a cane. Makes her 
 way to a chair.] 
 
 Jane Gray Speaks. 
 
 Slowly, Nurse, slowly — these old 
 bones of mine are nearly worn out. 
 
 [Leans on back of chair, panting; 
 then gets slowly around and 
 into chair.] 
 That's better — that's better. 
 
 [Looks about her.] 
 It's a beautiful day, Nurse; a beauti- 
 ful day. Visitor's day, you say? Ah, 
 yes, I had forgotten. . . . There was a 
 
 95 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 time when ray day at home was famous 
 throughout the land — but now — yes, I'm 
 very conifortabe, Nurse. Is the bell 
 where I can reach it! That's all, then, 
 Nurse ; thank you. 
 [Nurse exit.] 
 I hear you, Eobin Kedbreast, singing 
 up there so blithely. You won't sing so 
 gayly when you're as old as I am. . . . 
 There never seems to be any old age in 
 Nature, on the surface all is so young 
 and gay — but underneath there is de- 
 cay. . . . 
 
 [Turns face to the right and peers 
 at some one approaching.] 
 How do you do! Yes, this is Jane 
 Gray, or all that is left of her — a sort of 
 ruins — a magnificent monument. 
 
 [Laughs brokenly and tries to 
 focus her eyes on visitor.] 
 You came out from New York to see 
 me? Why, that was very kind of you. 
 Can you find a chair, or shall I ring for 
 some one? Ah, that's right — bring it 
 close, my dear; I don't hear very well. 
 And now, what is your name, dear? 
 [She starts and faces visitor.] 
 Jane Gray! My namesake? Why, 
 that's very sweet — 
 
 [Pats girl's hand.] 
 
 96 
 
IN THE WINGS 
 
 That's very sweet. How did it hap- 
 pen, dear? Your aunt, Rosa Dane, 
 named you after me ? Rosa Dane — Rosa 
 Dane — why, I remember Rosa. She sup- 
 ported me in the "Lyons Mail"; I re- 
 member her well. And how is your aunt, 
 child? Dead? Ah, yes, I might have 
 known. They're all dead, and I am liv- 
 ing on after my time. 
 
 [She lapses into reverie, coming 
 hack with start.] 
 
 Where do you live, dear? Pleasant 
 Meadows? That, has a very peaceful 
 sound. . . . Your father and mother are 
 living? Ah, yes, your father is pastor 
 there. Pastor of the flock at Pleasant 
 Meadows ! 
 
 [Lapses into reverie.] 
 
 Do you go to school, dear? [Starts."] 
 What? Going on the stage? You don't 
 say? My namesake, and on the stage? 
 And that's why ye've come to see me. 
 Your father objects, does he? Well, you 
 can't blame him. Pleasant Meadows has 
 a very protected sound. Yes, yes, dear, 
 I know it seems unreasonable to you— 
 how the caution of maturity galls youth ! 
 — but you must look on both sides of the 
 picture before you decide. 
 
 The stage is a hard taskmaster. If 
 you enlist in that great army, you must 
 
 97 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 make up your mind to many things. For 
 one thing, you can never nave a home; 
 you live like a gypsy — now here, now 
 there, always moving on. It is my be- 
 lief that an actress has no right to mar- 
 ry — for she cannot do her full duty by 
 her art, her husband and her children; 
 one or the other must suffer; so, my 
 dear, the actress dedicates herself to one 
 companion — Loneliness. 
 
 She must give her life to the public 
 to read, like an open book, and if she 
 slips, or falls, that public is her sternest 
 judge. 
 
 Then there's the money side — stage 
 folk are an improvident lot — money 
 comes easy — goes easy, and we never 
 mark the days of our affluence until we 
 are upon the days of our decline. And 
 then it is too late. 
 
 [She lapses into reverie again, 
 recalled by the girl, ivho pro- 
 tests at the picture she draivs.] 
 
 Ah, yes, my dear; then there's the 
 other side. There are all the things that 
 make the profession fascinating. Travel, 
 change, applause, flattery — there's the 
 smell of scenery, so sweet to the actor's 
 nose ; there is the sound of the orchestra, 
 tuning up — the whirr of the curtain ris- 
 ing: and then — people — tier on tier, ris- 
 
 98 
 
IN THE WINGS 
 
 ing clear to the top. It is yours to make 
 them laugh — to make thern weep — to 
 make them joy and to despair. You — 
 you — the creator — you have power to 
 do these things, and every minute is full 
 of a divine possibility. 
 
 [She has straightened up, as if 
 fired by the old thoughts into 
 a semblance of youth. Then 
 she glances bach, as if at a 
 unseen companion.] 
 
 And then comes old age creeping on 
 apace, until he stalks abreast, and keep- 
 ing step . . . and then at last — the 
 Home. Not a home where they welcome 
 you and love you — but the Home — the 
 Actor's Home. Oh, they are very kind 
 to us here, but — the time is long. 
 
 [Shakes off melancholy and 'turns 
 to girl merrily.] 
 
 But you'll think I'm a regular Gran- 
 ny Grunt. Tell me, dear, what sort of 
 thing do you want to do — comedy or 
 tragedy. Comedy? Ah, that is well — 
 make them laugh — make them laugh. 
 Couldn't you do some little thing for 
 me, so I can see what sort of actress 
 little Jane Gray will be? Good. Push 
 back the chairs and set your stage. 
 
 9. 9 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Youth will play to the Birds and to Old 
 Age! 
 
 [Turns and ivatches as girl ar- 
 ranges stage.] 
 Now, what will ye do for me? A bit 
 from Nance Oldfield? Ah — I've played 
 the part hundreds of times. What scenes 
 do you do? Yes, yes, where Alexander, 
 the young lover, comes to Oldfield, and 
 she tries to disillusion him, according to 
 her promise to his father. Good — now, 
 begin. 
 
 [She leans on her stick, her face 
 alight with interest. Half talks 
 to herself in comment.] 
 
 Hm — good voice quality. That's very 
 good — very clever. [Laughs.] The dear 
 audience, how it does laugh at those 
 lines! [Quickly.] Is that your own busi- 
 ness? That's good. . . . No — no, child; 
 take that speech, up stage at center. No, 
 wait — 
 
 [Gets to her feet sloivly and hob- 
 bles painfully.] 
 
 These old bones, they mutiny when- 
 ever I order action. Now, Oldfield stands 
 here — Alexander is there — 
 
 [She begins in cracked' voice.] 
 "The emotions, sir, they pass through 
 my — what do you call it? 
 [Shakes her head.] 
 
 100 
 
IN THE WINGS 
 
 I see I must enlighten you. Sit down 
 — sit down, I tell you. 
 
 [Takes a few steps forward, look- 
 ing at Alexander, ivho sits at 
 her left.] 
 
 "The tears, my young sir, are as real 
 as the rest, — as the sky, and that's paste- 
 board; as the sun, and he is three can- 
 dles, smirking on all Nature, which is 
 canvas, — and they are as real as our- 
 selves, the tragedy queens, with our 
 sighs, our cries, our sobs, ail measured 
 out to us by a five-foot rule. Eeality, 
 young gentleman! That begins when 
 the curtain falls, and we wipe away our 
 profound sensibility along with our 
 rouge, our whiting, and our beauty 
 spots. . . . 
 
 [Crosses down right.] 
 
 What's that you say? "Those tears 
 are dewdrops on the tree of poetry! 
 ... I vow you'll send me into a fit. 
 No, my good soul, if I was to vex my- 
 self night after night for Clymtemnes- 
 tra & Co., don't you see I should not 
 hold together long? No, thank you, I've 
 got Nance Oldfield to look after, and 
 what's Hecuba to her? For my part I 
 don't understand half the authors give 
 
 101 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 us to say. . . . Why, do you know, I 
 calculate the exact value of every poet- 
 ical passage I have to recite. Listen. 
 
 [Declaims.] 
 
 "Come, come, you spirits, 
 That attend on mortal thoughts, unsex 
 
 me here." 
 That's worth just tenpence! 
 "That my keen blade see not the wound 
 
 it makes, 
 Nor Heaven peep through the blanket 
 
 of the dark, 
 To cry— Hold, hold!" . . . 
 
 [Makes her climax with big, so- 
 norous voice; then claps hand 
 to her heart, moaning.] 
 
 It's nothing — my chair, Jane . . . it's 
 just my tired old heart. 
 
 [Gets back to her chair painful- 
 ly-} 
 
 Well, old friend, couldn't you stand 
 just one more scene? . . . No, no, don't 
 call any one; I'd rather be alone with 
 you, little Jane. 
 
 [Pants a little, her hand to her 
 heart.] 
 
 Jane, I've been ready, sitting in the 
 
 102 
 
IN THE WINGS 
 
 Wings, so long, waiting for the Call-Boy 
 Death, and he is slow in coming — slow — 
 
 [Her voice trails off to nothing, 
 her left hand flies to her heart 
 — then drops, her eyes stare, 
 and her head falls bach, the 
 mouth open, the body limp.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 103 
 
AT THE FRESH AIR CAMP 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Lizzie Tripp, from the slums. 
 
 Mrs. Morton, head of the Fresh Air 
 Camp. 
 
 Lizzie Speaks. 
 
 My name is Lizzie Tripp. I live in 
 the basement nnder Casey's saloon. 
 Yes'm, I gotta father — I guess I got 
 one, I ain't never seen him. Yes'm, I 
 gotta mother. She does scrubbin' when 
 she's sober. Yes'm, I works when I can. 
 Well, I rushes the can fer folks thet 
 can't git to Casey's their selves, an' I 
 takes care of babies. A lady gimme a 
 ticket to come to the country. No, I 
 ain't never been to the country before, 
 but I know a girl thet come onct. 
 
 [She jumps and screams in 
 fright.] 
 
 What's that? What is it! A grass- 
 hopper? Is it a animal! Oh, don't 
 catch it, it'll bite you. 
 
 [Looks at it in terror.] 
 
 105 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Ain't it awful? [Backs off quickly.] 
 
 Oh, I don't like it to jump that way. 
 Spits tobacco! Who gives it the tobac- 
 co? . . . Honust? I bet it eats snipes. 
 [She looks about suspiciously.] 
 
 Trees? Yes, there's lots of 'em, ain't 
 there? Who planted 'em? They just 
 grew here? Why don't they grow round 
 where I live? We got sun there — some- 
 times, and there's dirt — there's a whole 
 pile of it back of Casey's, but nothin' 
 grows there, ceptin' cans. . . . What's 
 the matter with them trees ? They keep 
 shiverin' all the time. The wind in 'em? 
 Oh! [Peers out half alarmed.] 
 
 What? That blue out there? Is that 
 the lake? Water — real water? Is it wet 
 water? How'd they carry it out there? 
 They didn't carry it? How'd it get 
 there? Gawd put it there? How'd he 
 do it? Is it piped, like a sewer? I seen 
 a sewer onct — they made it in Market 
 street, in a big pipe. This ain't piped. 
 Well, I don't see how He got it there; 
 do you? Go in it — in the water? I 
 wouldn't do it — I'd get all wet. Lots 
 of children play in it? Don't their 
 mothers lick 'em fer it? Nobody gets 
 licked here? Won't I git licked fer 
 nothin' out here? Gee! 
 [Peers out again.] 
 
 Where? I don't see — oh, them yel- 
 
 106 
 
AT THE FRESH AIR CAMP 
 
 low an' white things! Are those flow- 
 ers? Who put 'em there? They're stuck 
 in, ain't they? Pick 'em? Me? Nixy— 
 you want me to get pinched, don't you? 
 I don't swipe nuthin' an' git the cop 
 down on you. No cop here? Say, what 
 ye givin' me — is dat de truth? 
 
 [Screams and points.] 
 Look out — get away — there's a thing 
 — a toad? Hully Gee — take it away — 
 I'm scairt of it. Did you kill it? It'll 
 get me when I go out, won't it? Well, I 
 ain't goin' out. . . . [Points.] 
 
 Oh, look at the percession — it ain't 
 Fourth of July, is it? Well, where are 
 all them kids mar chin' to? Supper — at 
 them tables under the trees ? Is it a pic- 
 nic? Is there real food out'n a basket? 
 Did the supper grow like the trees an' 
 the flowers? . . . Sure, I'll go wit' you, 
 but I'm scairt to go alone. 
 
 [Looks about almost tearfully.] 
 It's so big, an' lonesome, an' empty 
 out here, an' I'm kind of 'fraid of 
 things; I feel's if I ought to git licked, 
 er 's if I'd got religion. ... I gotta 
 nickel, a lady gimme on the car comin' 
 out, an' I want to give it to somebuddy! 
 
 [Stands awestruck looking at 
 Mrs. Morton, ivho has leaned 
 over and kissed her. She puts 
 her hand to her cheek.] 
 
 107 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 I ain't never been kissed before! 
 
 [With a sudden opening of her 
 heart.] 
 Say — do you think Gawd bears you 
 when you tells Him things ? 
 
 [Lifts her face and holds up her 
 hand, as if to call attention to 
 her prayer. Reverently.'] 
 Gawd, I like this place, an' this lady 
 thet kissed me — thank you — Amen! 
 
 [She turns with a soft smile, puts 
 her hand in Mrs. Morton's con- 
 fidingly, and they go out to- 
 gether.] 
 
 108 
 
AT THE CHARITY FAIR 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Mrs. Dick Kendall. 
 
 Mrs. Matthews. 
 
 Scene — Booth of All Nations at a Char- 
 ity Bazaar. 
 
 Mrs. Kendall Speaks. 
 
 [Very sweetly.] Yes, this is the 
 Booth of All Nations. May I show you 
 some of our beautiful things? Oh, a 
 reporter? 
 
 [Manner changes abruptly to one 
 of great indifference.] 
 
 Really, you will have to excuse me — 
 you are the twenty-third reporter to in- 
 terview me to-day. [Curtly.] No, I am 
 not an American Indian; I'm a Hun- 
 garian Gypsy. The articles on sale are 
 all marked, so you can look at them 
 yourself. I must attend to customers. 
 [Turns to Mrs. Mathews.] 
 
 Aren't these newspaper people tire- 
 some? Sell her anything? Of course 
 
 109 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 not — she was only a reporter. Mrs. 
 Piatt VanCruger ! That woman ! Why, 
 she told me she was a reporter. Well, 
 she didn't actually say she was, but she 
 asked who else was in the booth, and 
 that's the way reporters always begin. 
 
 [Tone full of despair.'] 
 She's worth sixty million if she's 
 worth a cent! Why didn't you stop me, 
 when you saw how I was snubbing her ! 
 
 [She motions toward some one 
 passing.] 
 Will you look at that Mrs. Caxton! 
 Isn't she a fright! How can a woman 
 get herself up like that? Her husband 
 ought to prevent it. Dick Kendall 
 wouldn't stand for it, I tell you, if I 
 looked like that. ... Is your husband 
 acting up over this Fair! It is so un- 
 reasonable, the way men go on. I was 
 just pointing out to Dick last night, the 
 way we women have to slave over this 
 thing, and how some of the husbands 
 stand by their wives, and he came back 
 at me pretty strong. He almost cursed 
 about it; he said the husbands were 
 damned fools to put up with it, and it 
 was the last time he'd stand for it. . . . 
 He says I have all the servants down here 
 helping, and he has to walk home every 
 night, because I always have the machine. 
 
 110 
 
AT THE CHARITY FAIR 
 
 and lie has to eat near-food out here, 
 because we don't serve any meals at 
 home. Some girl charged him a dollar 
 and sixty cents for a cucumber sand- 
 wich and a cup of tea last night — that 
 was his dinner. I told him he was an 
 idiot to pay it, but he said the girl was 
 awfully pretty. It's disgusting the way 
 these young girls go after the married 
 men. I just told him, though, he ought 
 to be ashamed to complain about these 
 little unimportant things, when it was all 
 for charity. 
 
 [Nods and smiles to some one ap- 
 proaching.] 
 
 Here comes Teddy Blake — watch me 
 sell him half the stock! 
 
 [Smiles .invitingly, and shakes 
 hands with Teddy.] 
 
 Hello, Teddy; how are you? Oh, do 
 I? Thanks— Dick says I look like the 
 dickens. Want to see some of our pretty 
 things! Yes, we have everything to sell 
 that grows. Here's a nice thing, a cop- 
 per smoking set — only ten dollars. Got 
 six for Christmas — ? 
 
 [Laughs and takes up something 
 else.] 
 
 Here's an Alaskan basket — awfully 
 cheap — five fifty. You can use it for 
 everything. . . . Oh, here's the cutest 
 
 111 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 thing — a combing jacket — we're selling 
 dozens of them. You put it around your 
 shoulders when you comb your hair. Oh, 
 not you — you haven't any hair — your 
 wife. All the women are crazy about 
 them — so Nan's sure to like it. Here's 
 a kimona that goes with it — sort of a 
 set. Awfully cheap — fifteen dollars for 
 the whole thing. You'll take it — good. 
 Well, we're a little short on boxes, so if 
 you could just carry it over your arm. 
 Thanks. Come round again. 
 
 [Drops change in box, turns to 
 
 Mrs. Matheivs with satisfied 
 
 smile.] 
 
 Didn't I tell you I'd fix him? What? 
 Who is getting a divorce — Teddy and 
 Nan Blake? For the Land's sake! My 
 dear, I haven't seen a paper for three 
 weeks; I've just thought nothing and 
 taked nothing but this Fair. Mercy — 
 what will the poor boy do with that 
 combing set? I've a good mind to buy 
 it back from him — at half price. 
 
 [Nods with mechanical smile.] 
 
 There's that little Maxwell cat. I 
 don 't see what they let her in for. She 's 
 keeping a list of all her sales, and she'll 
 have it published in every paper in 
 town. I never would have had her in 
 the Fair at all, if I'd had anything to 
 
 112 
 
AT THE CHARITY FAIR 
 
 say. Well, Charity or none, you have to 
 
 draw the line somewhere. She's coming 
 
 over here. [Very sweetly.] 
 
 Good afternoon, Mrs. Maxwell. We're 
 
 doing splendidly. Aren't you tired? I'm 
 
 nearly dead; my feet hurt me so they 
 
 nearly kill me. Have you? That's fine ! 
 
 [Shoots glance after departing 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell.] 
 
 Well, there's no use antagonizing that 
 sort of a person; besides, she's awfully 
 clever at making the men buy things 
 they don't want. 
 
 [Glances up at woman approach- 
 ing.'] 
 
 This woman won't buy anything — you 
 can always tell. 
 
 [Ansiuers the woman absently.] 
 Yes, the Fair is for the benefit of the 
 Lakeside Settlement. I don't know. 
 [To Mrs. Mathews.] 
 Do you know where the settlement is ? 
 Urn — hm — I thought it was somewhere 
 round that neighborhood. 
 
 [Replies to woman curtly.] 
 No, I've never been there. I don't 
 know how many children there are there. 
 [Turns looh of surprise, then as- 
 tonishment and indignation, at 
 the woman.] 
 
 113 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Beally, that is a matter of taste ! 
 
 [Turns her back on her and speaks 
 to Mrs. Matheics.] 
 
 Did you hear her? She said if I had 
 donated the money I spent on my cos- 
 tume, and gone down to the Settlement 
 and worked, I'd be in better business 
 than parading my bad manners at a so- 
 ciety Fair! It's awful the way these 
 cranks get in. 
 
 [Slightly anxious look dawns on 
 her face.] 
 
 Dear me — there comes Dick. I hope 
 he isn't in as bad a humor as he was 
 last night. [Calls out cheerfully.] 
 
 Hello, dearie; awfuly sweet of you to 
 come out so early. Going where? Home 
 to dinner? But, darling, you know the 
 cook and Annie are both helping in the 
 German Coffee House — there isn't go- 
 ing to be any dinner at home. I can't 
 go get them ; I promised they would help 
 there, and they need them. Besides, I 
 want you to help get these things packed 
 up to-night after we close. Well, all the 
 husbands are going to help. 
 
 [She begins to cry and tvorks tip 
 to a climax.] 
 
 Very well, go to town and get a decent 
 meal and leave me here, alone, to work 
 
 114 
 
AT THE CHARITY FAIR 
 
 all night. You are the only husband 
 who has acted like this, and fussed, and 
 cursed — you did; you said damn- — and 
 I do think when it's for Charity, and 
 you know how tired I am — go away, I 'm 
 entirely upset now, for the whole eve- 
 ning. 
 
 [Weeps copiously into her hand- 
 kerchief, until husband departs, 
 then turns a serene smile on 
 Mrs. Mathews.] 
 
 It's all right. I knew he'd stay out 
 and work if I cried a little. Isn't it 
 awful the way husbands force you to 
 act? I wonder if it pays to wear your- 
 self out like this, and make your serv- 
 ants and your husband cross for weeks, 
 — just for charity? 
 
 115 
 
AUNT JANE 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Aunt Jane Wiggins, who lias been to 
 "the City." 
 
 The Members of the Village Missionary 
 
 Society. 
 Scene — The Church Parlors. 
 
 Aunt Jane Speaks. 
 
 Wa'al, howdy-do, everybuddy! My 
 sakes, the nicest part of goin' on a trip 
 is gittin' home again. Howdy-do, Miss 
 Stanton! You're enjoyin' the same old 
 pore health, I see; yon ought to take a 
 trip — it ud help you. Jemimy, how nice 
 you look; I ain't seen nuthin' as stylish 
 as you are, in the City. Miss Paxon, 
 how's all them nine childern of yours? 
 Measles? Land sakes! Wa'al, it's a 
 blessin' it ain't whoopin' cough. Think 
 of nine whoops agoin' all at onct! 
 
 By rights, I ought to be to home this 
 minute a-bakin' extry pies, so's to git 
 Pa and the boys filled up. You'd think 
 they ain't et since I left, the way they 
 
 117 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 eat. I dunno's I blame 'em, considerin' 
 Tom's wife's cooldn' — she come in to 
 git their meals while I wuz gone. . . . 
 What ye got fer me to git at, Miss Par- 
 sons? Pants! Wa'al, I reckon I can 
 make out to git a pair of pants together ; 
 I've made enough of 'em. These is fer 
 a purty small heathen, ain't they? 
 
 [She holds them up and inspects 
 them. Gets out needle, thread 
 and thimble from her bag, while 
 she talks.] 
 
 I 'member the fust pair of pants I 
 made fer John, my oldest boy — he's got 
 a grocery store in Calif orny. now — I'd 
 never made none before, so J jest cut 
 'em straight, ain't sloped 'em none, you 
 know, an' they wuz certainly a funny 
 shape. You couldn't tell whether the 
 child wuz a-comin' or a-goin', and when 
 he fell down, somebuddy had to run and 
 git him up. Talkin' 'bout pants, ye 
 oughter see the kind them city dudes is 
 wearin' — looks je^' like divided skirts. 
 I seen lots of queer things in the City; 
 it does brighten a body up to git away. 
 
 No, Jemimy, I didn't mortgage the 
 farm to git there. I s'pose I may as 
 well tell you folks now as any time how 
 I got the money, so's to save you the 
 trouble of findin' out. You ail know 
 
 118 
 
AUNT JANE 
 
 'bout my nephew Bichard and his wife, 
 an' how they ben a-askin' me to visit 
 them fer ten years — well, Bichard 's 
 wife, Buth, she up an' sent me twenty- 
 five dollars and told me they wuz tired 
 of waitin,' an' to jest git on a train an' 
 come along. Wa'al, I hed saved up thir- 
 teen dollars and ten cents myself, so Pa 
 didn't hev to hand out a cent, an' I jest 
 told 'em I'd ben wantin' to go to the 
 City all my life an' now I wuz a-goin'. 
 'Fore they got their breath I wuz oft an ' 
 gone. 
 
 Wa'al, when I got to the City there 
 wuz Buth an' Bichard waitin' fer me, 
 in a autymobile. I don't s'pose I ever 
 would hev got in the thing, if it ain't 
 I'm so upset with the noises an' the ring- 
 i;i' an' clangin' tliet Bichard jes' put 
 me in an' started off before I knew what 
 he wuz doin'. 
 
 I wisht you could see thet house, Miss 
 Hawkins. * They keep three hired girls 
 an' a feller they call the Butler to open 
 the door, if anybuddy knocks, an' wait 
 at table. Land* sakes, he did worry me 
 so at first, standin' there lookin' at you, 
 an' never sayin' a word! The first day 
 at dinner, I see I had a clean napkin at 
 my place, an' I sez — "Jest have that put 
 away, Buth, I can use my pocket hand- 
 k 'chief !" an' that man let out a sneeze 
 
 119 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 or somethin' right behind me, an' I 
 nearly jumped out of my skin. Ruth 
 sez, "Barker, leave the room!" My, I 
 never would have dared speak to him 
 like that, an' when I called him Mr. Bar- 
 ker, Ruth told me I mustn't — it was just 
 "Barker." 
 
 An' the table she set — you never could 
 tell what you wuz eatin'. I never recog- 
 nized a thing thet come on the table 
 while I wuz there, an' they never had 
 pie onct. I come home pie-hungry. 
 Wa'al, I dunno's I liked it so much, but 
 I managed to make out all right. 
 
 What say, Miss Parker? Did she 
 have silk rag carpets? No, they wuz 
 little scraps of store carpet round every- 
 where, an' you wuz always slipping 
 'cause the floors is jest like ice. No, 
 they wuzn't a good rag carpet in the 
 house. 
 
 I wisht you could see 'em spend 
 money ! The first day I wuz there Ruth 
 took me down town an' bought me a silk 
 dress an' a new bunnit, an' a silk coat, 
 an' she made me wear 'em all the time. 
 It most broke my heart. I told her I'd 
 ruther keep that dress to be laid out in, 
 but she wouldn't hear of it. 
 
 They asked me where I'd like best to 
 go, so I sez I'd like to go to their church, 
 an' meet their minister, an' go to the 
 
 120 
 
AUNT JANE 
 
 Missionary Society, but Ruth says they 
 don't have 'em in the City much, an' 
 Richard he laffed an' sez — "Let's take 
 Aunt Jane to the Vuddyville!" I didn't 
 know what it wuz, so I went. I didn't 
 know it wuz the theayter, till I got 
 there. Yes, Malviny Parsons, I wuz to 
 the theayter, an' what's more, I wisht 
 you all could go, fer it ain't wicked at 
 all, barrin' some things. 
 
 iWa'al, I dunno's I can tell you what 
 it's like, Jemimy. It's sort of like a 
 church, only bigger, 'n' the part as 
 would be the altar is kind of high, with 
 a plush curtain in front of it. Richard 
 an' Ruth an' I set in a little place off 
 to one side, kind of like the choir loft, 
 but most folks set in the regular pews, 
 — seats, I mean. 
 
 There wuz a band xolayin' when we 
 come in, an' a girl come out an' 
 sung somethin' or other, in a silk 
 dress, and then she run off an' in a min- 
 ute she wuz back, dressed up in boy's 
 clothes, right there before all them peo- 
 ple, men, women an' all. It wuz terri- 
 ble, but I jest looked right up at the 
 ceilin', I never looked at her but onct, 
 an' I will say fer the girl, she only- 
 stayed a minute, an' 'fore I knowed it 
 she wuz back in some more clothes. I 
 dunno how she got herself changed so 
 
 121 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 quick. Eichard wuz laughin' an' looldn , 
 at me. "She's a lightning change artist, 
 Annt Jane," he sez. "The lightning- 
 ought to have struck her in them pants!" 
 I sez, an' just then the curtain went up, 
 an' there wuz a house with two doors 
 an' two windows. It wuz kind of dark, 
 an' purty soon a tramp-lookin' man 
 come along, an' I sez to Eichard — 
 ' ' What 's that tramp a-doin ' here ? " He 
 sez, "Sh! he's one of the actors." Wa'al, 
 the tramp got out a hammer an' a awl 
 an' begun to break into the house. I 
 told Eichard somebuddy ought to git the 
 police, but he laughed, an' not a soul in 
 that house tried to stop him. Purty 
 soon a policeman come along, an' I sez, 
 "Uh-huh," an' eveiybuddy laughed, an' 
 Eufi sez, "Sh!" When the tramp seen 
 the policeman, he ran in the door an' 
 jumped out the window, with the police- 
 man after him, an' they kep' a-appear- 
 in' an' a disappearing an' everybuddy 
 wuz yellin' an' laughin'. Purty soon 
 the tramp come out on the roof an' 
 jumped off, an' I sez — "Landsakes, I 
 bet he's killed!" But Eichard sez it's 
 just a play, an' 'fore he could explain to 
 me, the curtain whisked down, an' I 
 dunno whether he caught him er not. 
 
 Next a little girl come out, a little 
 thing no bigger 'n your Lucinda, Miss 
 
 122 
 
AUNT JANE 
 
 Parsons, with pink stockings an' shoes 
 on', an' a pink dress, an' she sung too 
 cute fer anything, an' ast somebucldy to 
 go home with her, 'cause her father wuz 
 a drunkard. When she wuz done every- 
 buddy clapped, but not a soul got up to 
 go, so I got up, an' I sez — "Hichard, 
 come along." "Where to?" he sez. 
 "Home with that child," I sez. "Set 
 right down, Aunt Jane; that's just a 
 song; she don't really want anybuddy 
 to go home with her — " he sez. "But 
 ain't her father a drunkard?" He sed 
 he didn't know. "Wa'al," I sez, il I 
 rin't never seen no drunkard's child 
 dressed like that, but no child can call 
 on me fer help in vain." 
 
 Then there wuz a couple of niggers 
 come along. No, Malviny, the child went 
 away before the niggers come out. They 
 begin talkin' an' laughin' an' I didn't 
 understand them very good, but purty 
 soon they begun to dancin' an' singin', 
 an' my sakes alive! everybuddy wuz 
 laughin' an' I wuz laughin' fit to kill. 
 They kind of shook their feet out like 
 this. 
 
 [Gets up, holds out her skirts and 
 tries to do shuffle.] 
 
 Then they wuz trained dogs an' a lot 
 of things, an' then the curtain went up 
 an' I thought I wuz lookin' right into 
 
 123 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Heaven. It wuz all sort of liazy an* 
 white, an' a Angel wuz sittin' at a or- 
 gan, an' other Angels all round up high, 
 like they'd just stopped flyin', an' one 
 of 'em sang a hymn 'bout Jerusalem, 
 an' all the rest sang in the chorus, an' 
 I wanted to git right down on my knees, 
 but they wa'nt room. The tears wuz 
 a-runnin' down my face, an' whenEich- 
 ard an' Euth saw I wuz a-cryin' they 
 kind of cried, too. When that holy vision 
 faded, I turned to Eiehard an' I sez — 
 "That's the grandest sight I ever see, 
 an' I think the theayter is a better place 
 than folks give it credit fer bein'. I 
 wisht our hull congregation wuz down 
 here, minister an' all, to see that Angel 
 scene, fer it would make better men an' 
 women of 'em all." Euth she just 
 hugged me an' sez I'm a dear old soul — - 
 an' there ye are, Miss Parsons. I guar- 
 antee them pants '11 hold together fer 
 the rampaginest heathen on Afric's 
 coral strand. 
 
 [Rands over her seiving, puts 
 
 away her things in her bag.] 
 Landsakes, you must be tired out 
 listenin' to me run on, but— why, yes, 
 Miss Parsons, I will lead in prayer. 
 
 [She stands up and folds her 
 
 hands, reverently, her eyes 
 
 closed.'] 
 
 124 
 
AUNT JANE 
 
 "Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for 
 the blessings we have, and don't think 
 we're ungrateful, if we ask fer some 
 more. If in Thy merciful goodness, 
 Thou couldst let all these women go fer 
 a trip to the City, so's they could see 
 that Angel scene, how it would enrich 
 their lives. Even if they had to see the 
 girl with the pants, Lord, the Angel 
 scene would make up for it. Forgive 
 our sins, Lord; make us better folks, 
 an' lead us Home at last. Amen." 
 
 [She turns to the rest of them.] 
 
 I want to say before I go, thet I would 
 rather be the porest old woman in the 
 village an' live right here, then to be 
 the richest woman in the City, — an' 
 thet's the best part of takin' a trip! 
 
 125 
 
THE SHAMPOO WOMAN 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Mrs. 'Grady, a shampoo artist. 
 
 Mrs. Alden, her patron. 
 
 Scene — Mrs. Alden' s Dressing-room. 
 
 Mrs. 'Grady Speaks. 
 
 [Mrs. 0' Grady enters, places bag 
 on chair, and puts on her apron 
 while she talks.] 
 
 Good marnin', Mum; I hope I see yez 
 well, Mum. Yis, 'tis a gran' day, an' 
 foine fer dhryin' the scalp. Ye 're all 
 riddy, I see, Mum. Will yez sit here in 
 the sun, Mum! 
 
 [Places chair for Mrs. Alden. 
 drapes a towel round her neck, 
 and takes down her hair, plac- 
 ing the hairpins on table beside 
 her.] 
 
 Ye've got the foinest head of hair av 
 any lady Oi worr-ruk for! Oi say thot 
 to all av them! Dade I don't Mum. Tis 
 
 127 
 
MOBE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 the truth Oi'm tellin' ye, ye've got a 
 gran' head av hair! 
 
 [She rubs Mrs. Alden/s hair and 
 brushes it, talking all the time.] 
 It makes Mrs. Findlay's hair look 
 loike thurty cints. Yis, this is her-r day. 
 too. Does she use phwat? No, darlin'; 
 she uses good old hydrogen pyroxide, 
 that's phwat she uses. Her hair is as 
 black as ink, whin 'tis lift alone. Mrs. 
 Findlay — she's a wonder, she is. She 
 ought to 'a' been a playactor, she ought. 
 01 've been puttin' that shtuff on her, 
 an' a-bleachin' out her hair, fer three 
 years, an' she niver fails to till me, 
 phwat a blond baby she wuz ! 
 
 Yis, there's mony a lady thot uses ut, 
 but not so many as used to. Ivry wan 
 av thim sez 'tis only to bring out the 
 gold an' brighten oop the hair! Ye 
 moight as well talk av bringin' gold out 
 av clay bricks as out av black hair, to 
 my thinkin'. Ye niver saw a bleached 
 woman thot couldn't sphot anither 
 bleached woman a mile off, an' yit they 
 always think no wan suhpects thim. 
 There ye are — ready to wash. 
 
 [She goes to faucet, turns on 
 water, feels it, moves the chair 
 over for Mrs. Aid en to sit in, 
 and begins to wash her hair.] 
 
 128 
 
TEE SHAMPOO WOMAN 
 
 Am I drowndin' ye, darlin'? Hot, is 
 ut? There — is thot all roight? I would- 
 n't burn ye fer the wor-rld. Though 
 there's some wimmen I shampoo I just 
 as soon scald as not! There — thot's 
 over. 
 
 [Wraps towel about her head and 
 moves chair back to original 
 position. Begins to rub and 
 dry hair.] 
 
 Now, we'll soon be done. Your hair 
 is so noice an' soft, Mum. I got wan 
 lady with hair loike foine wire, an' she's 
 forever tellin' me she can't do nuthin' 
 wid ut, it's so soft. She sez to me the 
 ither day, she sez — "Maggie" — shesez, 
 "phwat shall Oi do wid me hair — 'tis so 
 soft?" "Well," I sez, "if 'twas moine," 
 I sez, "Oi'd use cold starch!" 
 
 I tell ye, Mum, hair is awful contrary 
 stuff, so it is. Some hair is the manest- 
 natured, cross-grained, stubbornest stuff 
 on the face av the urth. An' 'tis loike 
 a baby; ye can't punish ut. 'Tis often 
 Oi'm achin' to use the back av the brush, 
 irstid av the bristles. 
 
 Red hair is the manest av all. Ye can 
 labor with ut fer a loifetoime, an' in the 
 ind, 'tis the same mane-sphirited up- 
 sthandin' stuff that it wuz at the furst, 
 an' all yer pains arr washted. Noice 
 
 129 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 brown hair loike yer own, Mum, is the 
 pleasantest sphoken hair to be associ- 
 ated with. No, I ain't a blarney, Mum; 
 Oi'm a truth-tellin ', high-moinded Oirish 
 Aritocrat, somephwat rejuced in circum- 
 stances ! There ye are — Mum. 
 
 [Takes off apron, packs hag, and 
 gets ready to go.] 
 Oi have done tin heads to-day, Mum. 
 Tin a day, foive days a wake, an' ivry 
 day '11 be wash day by an' bye! Two 
 wakes frum to-day, Mum. Good-bye, 
 Mum — a pleasant day to ye, Mum. 
 
 [Goes out, nodding farewell.] 
 
 130 
 
HEROINES 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Myrtle Teague, of the Depot Restaur- 
 ant, Pinhook, Indiana. 
 [Imitation of a George Ade hero- 
 ine.] 
 
 Ezry Taggart, a Hoosier farmer. 
 
 Buddy, " chore boy." 
 
 Myrtle Speaks. 
 
 Say, fer the Land's sakes, who upset 
 this custard pie? Well, look-a-here, 
 Buddy, when you go to upsettin' a pie, 
 you git one with a top to it. I never 
 seen such a mess, and "44" due here 
 any minute. Git a rag and wipe it up. 
 [Catches sight of Ezry, ivho sa- 
 lutes.] 
 
 Mornin', Ezry; how are you? No, set 
 down. I ain't got nuthin' to do till "44" 
 gits in, and she's late to-day. Due at 
 12:10. Yes, we alius git a crowd on 
 "44." They come a-crowclin' in here 
 like a herd of hungry buffaloes. I tell 
 you, the station eatin' house is the place 
 
 131 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 to see folks ! Why, we git wunmen in 
 here, every day, nice lookin' winunen, 
 too, jest pushin' and scratchin' to git up 
 to the counter first, and men bellerin' 
 fer their food like elephants. 
 
 Jest last night we had a feller in here, 
 good-lookin' feller, too, awful stylish- 
 lookin'. Well, he set up to the counter 
 and he ordered up everything in sight. 
 He had two cups of coffee, six dough- 
 nuts, two pieces pie, a glass of milk and 
 a pickle. Well, every time I went past 
 him he handed me out a jolly, an' at 
 last I sez to him, "Look-a-herc, young 
 feller; we don't have none of the free 
 an' easy kind in here, so don't you git 
 near with me ! ' ' He sez, ' ' No offense 
 intended, Pretty!'' Well, I didn't pay 
 no attention to him till he had et, and 
 then I sez, " Sixty cents!" He threw 
 down fifty cents and a dime, and then 
 he hands out a quarter. 
 
 "Here's somethin' fer you — " he sez; 
 "git yerself a diamond tiara or a rib- 
 bon!" 
 
 Well, I jest shoved the quarter back 
 towards him, holdin' on to it all the time, 
 and I sez : 
 
 "I never was one to pluck the blue 
 ribbon off'n the prize exhibit!" I sez, 
 jest like that. 
 
 Jest then the Porter yells "All 
 
 132 
 
HEROINES 
 
 aboard" and I had to hustle, so I never 
 thought no more about it till I went to 
 git my quarter, and would you believe it 
 — every cent of it was counterfeit. All 
 except the dime, and that was thin. 
 Some four-flush drummer handin'off the 
 bit coin! Oh, I tell you, you got to 
 watch 'em. 
 
 - How's your folks, Ezry? huh? You 
 don't say? Fer the land sakes, Ezry, 
 how many is that? Nine 'er 'leven, you 
 can't remember which? [Laughs.] I 
 don't blame you. I wuz a-drivin' past 
 your place last week, and I sez "Ezry 
 Taggart's place looks like the Orphant 
 Asylum ! ' ' 
 
 Say, I see by the mornin' "Spread 
 Eagle" thet Miss Co'nelia Higgins is 
 visitin' down to your place. Who's she 
 after down there? You don't say? 
 Dont' she beat all? She's goin' to git 
 a man, if she has to lassoo him and drag 
 him to the altar! 
 
 [Startled glance at him, then, 
 coyly.] 
 
 Who told you that? All over t*-wn! 
 Well, I wisht the folks in this town 
 would mind their own business. , . .Yes, 
 he's a nice feller Jethro Judc* is his 
 name. Oh, no, he don't live herf, he's a 
 city feller. Well, he's a self m?de man, 
 Ezry, he's a Pullman car conductor. No, 
 
 133 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 I raet liim here. 'Bout six weeks ago it 
 wuz. The Christian Endeavors had a 
 lawn-fete up to Hawkins' Grove and 
 Jethro had came in on one of the evenin' 
 trains, and somebody had took him up 
 there. He wuz standin' with Freddy 
 Brown when I come in. Freddy told 
 me 'bout it afterwards. He sez Jethro 
 punched hum and sez — 
 
 " Gee— who's the Queen of Sheba?" 
 
 "Why, that's Myrtle!" 
 
 "Say, I'd be a willing performer in 
 that direction" — he sez, and so Fred 
 brought him up. Well, I seen as soon 
 as I spoke to him that he wuz a feller 
 with a lot of 'savoir de faire' so I put 
 on my most 'rickershay' manner, jest 
 fer the sake of the town, you know. I 
 couldn 't shake him. He come down here 
 to the restarong with me, and we had a 
 piece of pie and a cup of coffee, on Mm, 
 and he's been comin' in twict a week 
 since. 
 
 Oh, no, there ain't no real date set. 
 It's grand to have a gentleman friend so 
 high up in the railrcad. Why, I can go 
 from here to Kokomo any time, fer 
 nuthin'. 
 
 [She starts at sound of engine 
 whistle.] 
 
 There's '44' a-whistlin'. Come round 
 134 
 
HEROINES 
 
 again, Ezry. Eegards to the folks. 
 Buddy, reach me that pie knife, and git 
 ready, fer "apres nous the deluge!" 
 
 [Her French is 'pronounced ac- 
 cording to the spelling.'] 
 
 II. 
 
 Characters 
 
 Lady Cecily Dunwald. 
 
 [Imitation of a Bernard Shaw Heroine.] 
 
 Monsieur Alphonse Daurigny, a French 
 Portrait Painter. 
 
 Lord Dunwald. 
 
 Captain Philip Travers, IT. S. A. 
 
 Scene — Drawing room at Dunwald Cas- 
 tle, where Lady Dunwald is 
 serving the Fainter with tea. 
 
 Lady Dunwald Speaks. 
 
 Alphonse, you paint with words, as 
 well as with brushes! I've always 
 thought of love as an outgrown fallacy 
 of the past and now you bring it to me 
 a breathing, living reality! 
 
 [Walks about thoughtfully.] 
 
 135 
 
MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 Ah, yes, it seems very simple to you. 
 You say, ' ' Give me the rest of your life 
 and we'll make a little Paradise of our 
 own." But, my good friend, what are 
 we going to do with those other two? 
 What other two? Why, my husbands. 
 [Looks at him in surprise.'] 
 
 Two, an unusual number you say? 
 Possibly, but then I am unusual, I'm a 
 type. No, I never told you the tale, I 
 thought it would bore you. Of course, 
 if you like. 
 
 [She sits facing him.] 
 
 Two years ago, in America, I was 
 married to young, handsome, dashing 
 Captain Philip T ravers of the United 
 States Army. We bored each other for 
 one dreary year, and then we decided to 
 separate. We drew up a contract of 
 separation and I insisted upon Philip's 
 signing it, for I knew him to be entirely 
 without conscience, and he insisted on 
 my signing, for exactly the same reason. 
 
 No, there was no talk of divorce. You 
 see, we were so hopelessly in debt that 
 I knew there was no chance of alimony, 
 so we just separated. . . . Oh, yes, 
 I had the usual number of parents. 
 I might have gone to them, but they 
 were always so uncongenial. I never 
 could see why children should be ex- 
 
 136 
 
HEROINES 
 
 pected to love their parents. They know 
 nothing about these people whom they 
 are thrown in with, by chance. No, I 
 couldn't go there, so I took what money 
 there was, and came to London. 
 
 Shortly after that I met Lord Dun- 
 wald, rich, respectable, middle aged — 
 fifty — and he did me the honor to ask 
 me to run away and marry him. There 
 was really not much choice. I had no 
 time to explain to Philip, and I had no 
 impulse to explain to Dunwald, so we 
 were married. Of course, I cabled Philip 
 at once to begin proceedings for deser- 
 tion. Unluckily my cable found him in 
 New York on leave of absence. What 
 did he do? Took the next steamer, and 
 came across to talk it over. Voila! 
 There I was with two of them on my 
 hands ! 
 
 Of necessity I had to explain Dunwald 
 to Philip, and Philip was unreasonable 
 enough to insist on my explaining him 
 to Dunwald. So I introduced them. 
 They took to each other like brothers — 
 they seemed to feel the deepest sympa- 
 thy for each other, and now they are 
 the modern Damon and Pythias ! 
 
 I believe it has been decided that 
 Philip returns to New York and divorces 
 me — Dunwald is paying the expenses — 
 and then he returns to be our house 
 
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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 guest for a montn or so. And now, you 
 come to complicate things! Oh, Al- 
 phonse, is it your curly hair or your 
 soul, that makes me love you so No 
 doubt it is your curly hair 
 
 [She walks about and finally 
 
 leans on the mantle opposite 
 
 him.'] 
 
 Yes, that is the question, what are we 
 
 to do? The only thing that occurs to me 
 
 is that we should put the whole matter 
 
 before my husbands and see how they 
 
 feel about it. 
 
 [Looks at him in great astonish- 
 ment.'] 
 How? Oh, my dear Alphonse, not in 
 this day of the triangular marital peace 
 conference ! Well, of course, if their de- 
 cision does not agree with ours, why 
 then I'll go ahead and do my own way. 
 Yes, I always get what I want because 
 I know how to take it. 
 
 [She stands before him and con- 
 tinues ivhim sic ally.] 
 I am the Great Egotist with a capital 
 "E!" There is no God but Selfishness 
 and I am his Prophet ! There is a great 
 deal of rubbish talked about altruism. 
 Why, selfishness is the highest altruism ; 
 selfishness is the great devoloper; it is 
 
 138 
 
HEROINES 
 
 an octopus that sucks in all that comes 
 within its grasp; it is selfishness that 
 prompts us to go out and experience 
 new things, and it is experience that 
 makes us valuable citizens — Selfishness 
 is the note of Now! 
 
 Take my own case for instance. I have 
 come to a place where Love is what I 
 need for my development. You bring it 
 to me, you inspire it in me — we comple- 
 ment each other — now, why should those 
 other two, who have served their pur- 
 pose in the development of Me, why 
 should they interfere with our comple- 
 tion? 
 
 It is absurd — they shall not. Ah, 
 there is Dunwald now. I hear his voice 
 in the hall. We'll tell him about it. 
 
 [Turns to greet Dunwald and 
 Travers who enter. She gives 
 a hand to each one graciously.] 
 
 " Good afternoon, Dunwald. And you 
 too, Philip. You come at the psycho- 
 logical moment! You both know Mon- 
 sieur Daurigny. Alphonse, my hus- 
 bands. 
 
 [She walks to tea table.] 
 
 May I give you some tea! You've 
 
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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 had yours? Oh. Sit down, then, will 
 
 you? 
 
 [She motions Dumvald to a chair 
 at C. and T ravers to a chair at 
 her left. Daurigny is at the 
 far right.] 
 
 You see, Monsieur Daurigny and I — 
 we — find that we love each other, and 
 we wish to consult you as to the best so- 
 lution of our difficulty. 
 
 [Turns to Dumvald 'petulantly.] 
 Oh, now, Dunwald, please, please, 
 don't be conventional If you must in- 
 dulge in a diatribe on a woman's duty 
 to her husband, won't you please do it 
 in the next room ? I simply cannot bear 
 that. 
 
 [In a hurt tone.] 
 
 But I am thinking of you, Dunwald, 
 I am thinking of you more than I ever 
 have of anyone, except myself! We all 
 know your ideas on morality as the 
 backbone of the British aristocracy, but 
 that has nothing to do with this case. 
 [Turns to T ravers.] 
 
 Can't you stop him, Philip,? 
 
 [Pantomime, while Philip speaks.] 
 
 That's it. If you would just listen to 
 my idea. Well, Dunwald, couldn't you 
 go to New York with Philip and both of 
 
 140 
 
HEROINES 
 
 you divorce me there ? It would be sim- 
 ple, quiet and inexpensive. . . . The 
 alternative is obvious, Dunwald. And 
 think how embarrassing for all of us, if 
 I were divorcing you at the same time 
 that Philip was divorcing me! 
 
 Here we are four sensible people — 
 
 why not leave the decision to obviously 
 
 the most open minded of us all — Philip. 
 
 [Turns on Dunvjald in aggrieved 
 
 way.] 
 
 I should think he had some rights, 
 
 Dunwald, he's my first husband ancl 
 
 your best friend! .... Well, will 
 
 you agree to act on his decision! . . 
 
 . And you, Alphonse? .... As 
 
 for me, Philip, I know you will decide 
 
 exactly as I would myself. 
 
 [She turns to him and nods and 
 smiles to all he says, ivith a 
 gesture of appeal to the other 
 two 7 now and then.] 
 Splendid — thank you so much, Philip. 
 You see, how simple it is. 
 [Wearily.] 
 I'm sorry you feel so annoyed, Dun- 
 wald. Thank you. You may kiss my 
 cheek, Dunwald. 
 
 [Presents her right cheek.] 
 And you, Philip, thank you again. 
 
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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 You may kiss my other cheek 
 
 Come, Arphonse, we will leave them and 
 go for our motor ride. 
 
 III. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 hulda soldberg. 
 
 [Imitation of an Ibsen Heroine.] 
 
 Herman Soldberg, her husband. 
 
 Scene — Living room at the Soldberg 
 house. 
 
 [Hulda enters slowly, dragging 
 one foot after the other with 
 effort. She has her eyes fixed 
 in a glassy stare and starts at 
 her husband's ivord.] 
 
 Hulda Speaks. 
 
 You sent for me, and I am here. 
 
 [She sinks into chair beside table, 
 
 and fixes her big eyes on him.'] 
 
 You ask me what is the matter! I 
 
 have waited days, weeks, and months, 
 
 for this moment, and now it has come 
 
 there are no words. . . . All the bit- 
 
 142 
 
HEROINES 
 
 terness, the disappointment — the suffer- 
 ing. . . . 
 
 [Catches her throat as if chok- 
 ing.] 
 
 For six years I have lived under your 
 roof, been the mistress of your house- 
 hold and the head of your table. In all 
 that time what have you known of my 
 Soul? What do you care that it has 
 been cramped, dwarfed, misshapen here ? 
 . . . And now, I am going away. 
 There must be somewhere in the world, 
 either in Norway or in Africa, some lit- 
 tle cottage where my Soul may be alone 
 and drink of freedom. . . . 
 
 [Turns on him.] 
 
 You? Oh, you've roofed me, clothed 
 me, and fed me. That's enough no 
 doubt. . . . What do you do with 
 your life? You go each day to a dingy 
 place and make paltry money — you 
 come home at night and what do you 
 bring to me? I want to go and see 
 "Ghosts" or some other uplifting 
 drama, and you — you want a trivial 
 musical show! Eeal music, the key to 
 my being — what does it mean to you? 
 You think "Tristan and Isolde" is 
 something to be slept through ! 
 [In a hollo tv voice.] 
 
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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 
 
 "Have you never suspected that all 
 these years you were sitting opposite, 
 not a woman, but a starving Soul? I've 
 borne this heaped up misery as long as 
 I can. The one thing I've longed for, 
 all my life, the thing I've begged you 
 for, on bended ^nees, you have denied 
 me — You ! To ask me what it is, when 
 you know it is a check book of mine 
 own ! A check book of mine own ! 
 
 [She breaks off weeping bitterly, 
 and turns to go.] 
 I am going out into the world — where 
 my soul can be free ! 
 
 [She drags out, one arm raised 
 high above her head.] 
 
 144 
 
DEC 36 1902