V ' / <** h % o o v 5 «*• £** - o5 -n* V' > %! ^ v* iV <*>„ % '<- p V .. - V* * ^», w^&f ■*■ **., • ,-fc ^ ri- < . '" / -*»/. \> x c * ^ •%. W V > s% \ X O. 'o. - ^ ^^, *■ ^ /■ ' -p * - - '-> * o HER FATHER'S CONSENT. The American Literary Reciter READINGS, DECLAMATIONS AND PLAYS Original Compositions and Choice Selections of the Best Literature CONTAINING ALSO THE MOST COMPLETE AND MODERN RULES FOR VOICE AND PHYSICAL CULTURE FOR HOME, SCHOOL AND ALL PUBLIC AND SOCIAL ENTERTAINMENTS 37 WRITTEN, COMPILED AND ARRANGED <~ —j BY RICHARD LINTHICUM ;. THE WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR, JOURN ALIST^AND CRITIC OF LITERATURE AND PLAYS WITH INTRODUCTION, SPECIAL SELECTIONS AND LESSON TALKS BY MARVIN VICTOR HINSHAW OF THE CELEBRATED HlNSHAW SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION, ORATORY AND MUSIC Sumptuously Illustrated t& i t h "Beautiful Full Page "Photo "Pictures from Life AMERICAN LITERARY AND MUSICAL ASSOCIATION CHICAGO, ILaIa. » « ^ K CONGRESS, ~ t5* c5* t5* 1. With body erect and hands at sides, move the head to right and left, and for- ward and backward ; cultivates the muscles of the neck. 2. With hands on the hips, move the upper part of the body to right and left, and forward and backward ; this cultivates the muscles of the chest and back. 3. Close the hands, extend the arms in front, and bring the hands together behind the back; repeat at least twenty times. 4. Stand erect, with arms straight at the sides ; move the arms outward from the sides, and elevate them, bringing the hands above the head; repeat at least twenty times. 5. Hold the right arm out horizontally, palm of hand upward ; double the left arm, the tips of the fingers resting on the shoul- der; then stretch out the left arm, at the same time doubling the right arm and placing the tips of the fingers on the right shoulder ; repeat, and then make the move- ments with both arms simultaneously. 6. Holding the arms straight, swing them with a rotary motion, thrusting them forward ais they are elevated and back- ward as they are lowered, bringing them to the sides, and then repeat. 7. Lift the hands from the sides to the shoulders, then raise the arms at full length above the head, and also extend them hori- zontally, dropping them at the sides ; re- peat. 8. Standing erect, with the hands on the hips, lower the body, bending the knees, the weight resting on the toes, and rise; repeat at least fifteen times, but not too fast. 9. Placing the hands on the hips, right leg forward and left leg slightly bent; thrust the body forward, thus straighten- ing the left leg and bending the right ; then placing the left leg forward, repeat move- ments. 10. With the body bent forward, closed hands between the knees, raise the body and elevate the hands above the head, tak- ing care to keep the arms straight ; repeat. 11. Place the hands on the front side of the hips, bend the body forward, and then rise to an erect position, at the same time throwing the head backward; repeat. 12. Steady yourself with one hand on a chair; place the other hand on the hip and swing the leg forward across the other ; then backward ; repeat and then swing the other leg in like manner. 13. Steady yourself with one hand on a chair, place the other hand on the hip, and swing the leg forward and backward ; re- peat, and then swing the other leg in like manner. 14. Stretch the body forward, placing the hands on the bottom of a chair; then straighten the arms and raise the body. This must not be repeated so many times as to render the muscles sore and stiff. 15. Extend the arms forward at full length, palms downward; then move the hands backward and forward as far as pos- sible; this renders the fingers and muscles of the wrist pliant. 16. Stand erect with hands on the hips and light weight on the head ; then rise on the toes and fall. 17. Extend the arms slightly from the sides, close the hands and then rotate them; this cultivates the muscles of the arms. 18 XTbe Hrt of Elocution How to Read and Recite Correctly with Rules for the Cultivation of the Voice t£t t&1 t£& ELOCUTION is the art of reading and speaking correctly. Its rules relate chiefly to the management of the voice in the expression of thought and emotion. The vocal qualifications, necessary to enable the reader or speaker to bring out the sense and sentiment of discourse in a pleasing and impressive manner, are: First, a clear, full, resonant voice. Second, a perfectly distinct, and correct articulation. Third, such a control of the voice, as to be able to vary its modulations at pleasure. Ignorance of the right way of using the lungs and the larynx, in speaking, reading, singing, has caused more cases of bronchi- tis and pulmonary consumption among stu- dents, vocalists, clergymen and other public speakers, than all other causes combined. The right use of the breathing apparatus, in connection with the exercise of the voice, ought, therefore, to be the first sub- ject to which the attention of the stttdent of Elocution is called. Before the pupil is permitted to read a sentence, he must be taught, not by precept, but by example, how to manage the breath while exercising the voice. The person thus trained will speak, read or sing, in a clear, full, natural tone, and will grow up, in a great measure, free from the worst faults and defects in Elocution. BREATHING EXERCISE. Stand or sit erect ; keep the head up and the chest expanded; throw the shoulders well back; place the hands upon the hips, with the fingers pressing upon the abdo- men, and the thumbs extending backward ; inhale the breath slowly, until the lungs are fully inflated, retaining the breath for a few moments, then breathing it out as slowly as it was taken in. Let the chest rise and fall freely at every inspiration, and take care not to make the slightest aspirate sound, in taking or giving out the breath. Continue to take in and throw out the breath with increasing rapidity, until you can instantly inflate, and, as suddenly, empty the lungs. Repeat this exercise sev- eral times a day, and continue it as long as it is unattended with dizziness or other un- pleasant feelings. EXPRESSION. Expression includes the rules and exer- cise which relate to the management of the voice, the look, gesture and action, in the expression, thought, sentiment and passion. Exercises in articulation should be prac- ticed until a good control of the voice has been obtained. A good articulation consists in giving to each element in a syllable its due propor- tion of sound and correct expression, so that the ear can readily distinguish each word, and every syllable that is uttered. A full pure tone of voice, and a good articulation, constitute the basis of every other excellence in reading and oratory. TESTING THE VOICE. To obtain a full, deep, rich tone, the stu- dent must resort to every conceivable ex- pedient for modifying the voice. When- 19 20 TEE ART OF ELOCUTION. ever he utters a sound that is very pleasing to the ear, or that impresses his mind as being very striking or significant, he should repeat it, until he can command it without difficulty at his pleasure. The most significant, impressive and pleasing tones of the voice can not be taught, or even described; the pupil, if he ever learns them, must find them out for himself, by careful, persevering practice. In short, he must try every plan, and resort to every appliance that he can command, in his endeavors to perfect himself in the art of reading and speaking with ease, ele- gance and impressive effect. STYLES OF ELOCUTION. One of the most important matters to be considered before engaging in a reading or declamatory exercise, is the style or man- ner in which the piece should be given. In Argument, the style must be char- acterized by directness and earnestness. In Description, the speaker must proceed in precisely the same manner that he would if he were actually describing the thing spoken of. In Narration, he must proceed as if nar- rating some part of his own experience. In Persuasion, he must use those tones, looks and gestures only, which he knows are appropriate to persuasion. In Exhortation, he must appeal, beseech and implore, as the case may require. In pieces of a mixed character, he must vary the style to suit the sentiment and character of trie passage. When the reader understands the prin- ciples and rules which have been discussed, sufficiently well to be able to give a cor- rect, practical exemplification of each of them, he ought to select passages for him- self, suitable as exercises in cadence, pause, parenthesis, antithesis, climax, amplifica- tion, repetition and transition; also in pitch, force, stress, movement, quantity, in personation, in style, and in every rule in modulation and expression. He must especially practice in every kind of stress, and with every degree of force, from the most subdued whisper to the shout of enthusiastic exultation. GENERAL RULES FOR THE CULTIVA- TION OF THE VOICE. The only basis upon which a full, firm, pure tone of voice can be formed, is deep and copious breathing. To do this the chest must be well thrown out, the head erect, and the throat and mouth opened so wide that the voice will meet with no ob- struction in its course. The great object in commencing any sys- tematic course of vocal culture, ought to be to deepen and strengthen the voice. To accomplish this, the student must, in his vocal exercises, stretch the muscles about the throat and the root of the tongue, and those that regulate the action of the lower jaw, so as to form the voice lower down in the throat than he is in the habit of doing. COMPASS OF THE VOICE. To increase the compass of the voice, de- claim short passages which require intense force on a high pitch. The pupil will dis- cover, after the voice has been thus taxed to its highest capabilities, that it will per- form its office with surprisingly greater facility and ease on the natural key, and in a lower pitch than he could reach be- fore. The most contracted and superficial voice may soon be made strong and flexible by this kind of exercise; and it cannot be im- proved in any other way. If your voice is feeble, practice singing, shouting and de- claiming with the utmost force, at the top of the voice, whenever opportunity pre- sents itself, and it will soon acquire suffi- cient strength and resonance. THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 21 Gestures of the Gesture, to be appropriate and impres- must be natural. When gesture has the mere caprice speaker, it place. The speaker who is unable to manage his sive, its origin in u^. m^i^. ^a^n^ wx ..x^. will appear artificial and out of Dignity voice, is never easy and graceful in his gestures. If the voice is exercised on too high a key, or in a harsh, aspirated, guttural, or impure tone of any kind, the attitude will be stiff and awkward, and the gestures broken, irregular and difficult. But the speaker who has a good command of his voice, if he understands his subject, and is self-possessed, will speak with ease ; and his gesticulation, if not always graceful, will be appropriate and expressive. Before the pupil can be easy and natural in his action and gesticulation, he must have perfect control of his voice. Any at- tempt, therefore, which he may give to the cultivation of gesture and action, before he has obtained a good control of his voice, will be labor spent in vain. Stand or sit erect, in an easy and grace- ful position, and hold the book in the left hand on a level with the face. Look from your book to the audience, as often and as long at a time as you can, without missing the place. Make but few gestures, and then only when you arc looking at your audi- ence. To gesticulate while your eye is resting upon the book is not only inappro- priate, but ridiculous. In didactic or unimpassioned discourse, gesticulation is not necessary, farther than occasionally to slightly change the position and movement of the hands, or to move the head and body sufficiently to look at Ridicule 22 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. your audience from right to left. In dis- course of this character the gestures and movements should be executed slowly, and as gracefully as possible. In stating un- important particulars, or speaking about matters which require a quiet, narrative style, the right arm and hand should be chiefly used. There are three positions in which the hand and arm may rest, and, by slowly changing from one to the other of these positions, stiffness and rigidity in the gest- ures of the arm will be avoided. First : Let the arm hang naturally by the side. Second : Let the hand rest upon the hip, the elbow thrown well backward. Awkward Imitation Discernment Third : Let it rest between the buttons of your vest, on your bosom. In all these positions the muscle:, of the arm and hand must be relaxed, so that the attitude may be, at once, easy and natural. Descriptive gestures are those used in pointing out or describing objects. The pupil will soon acquire skill in the use of these, by practicing in accordance with the following instructions : Pronounce the names of a few objects near you, and, as you mention the name of TILE ART OF ELOCUTION. 23 it fall slowly and gracefully ; LEFT, let the arm and hand be extended to the left; on the word RIGHT, to the right. 3. Before commencing the gesture al- ways let the eye glance in the direction of the object, concerning which you are about to speak. 4. Do not move the arm and hand to the intended position by the shortest course, but describe a waving line, and let the motion be rather slow, until the position is almost reached, then let the hand move quickly to its place, in completing the gesture. Gracefulness each, extend the arm and point the fore- finger or the open hand, in the direction of the object, completing the gesture the mo- ment you utter the accented syllable of the name of the word : thus, 1. The gentleman on my right, the lady on my left, the vacant chair before me, the books, maps and pictures all around me. 2. High, Low, Left, Right : on pro- nouncing the word HIGH, raise the hand gracefully above the head ; on LOW, let The Awkward Salute 24 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. Surprise When the student has obtained a toler- able command over his arms, hands and lower limbs, let him select for himself short passages suitable as exercises in descriptive gesture and action. I. Their swords flashed in front, While their plumes waved behind. 2. His throne is on the mountain top, His fields the boundless air, And hoary hills, that proudly prop The skies, his dwelling are. 3. Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plain below. 4. Death in the front, destruction in the rear. 5. See through this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. The hanging down of the head denotes shame or grief. The holding of it up, pride or courage. To nod forward implies assent. To toss the head back, dissent. The inclination of the head implies diffi- dence or languor. The head is averted, in dislike or horror. It leans forward, in attention. Coquetry THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 25 THE EYES. The eyes are raised in prayer. They weep, in sorrow. They burn, in anger. They are downcast or averted, in shame or grief. They are cast on vacancy, in thought. They are cast in various directions, in doubt and anxiety. THE ARMS. The placing of the hand on the head, indicates pain and distress. Cheerfulness Sauciness On the eyes, shame or sorrow. On the hips, an injunction of silence. On the breast, an appeal to conscience. The hand is waved or flourished, in joy or contempt. Both hands are held supine, or they are applied, or clasped in prayer. Both are held prone, in blessing. They are clasped, or wrung in affliction. They are held forward, and received, in friendship. THE BODY. The body held erect, indicates steadi- ness and courage. 26 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. Fearlessness Thrown back, pride. Stooping forward, condescension or com- passion. Bending, reverence or respect. Prostration, the utmost humility or abasement. THE LOWER LIMBS. The firm position of the lower limbs, sig- nifies courage or obstinacy. Bended knees indicate timidity, or weak- ness. The lower limbs advance, in desire or courage. They retire, in aversion or fear. Start, in terror. Stamp, in authority or anger. Kneel, in submission or prayer. These are a few of the simple gestures which may be termed significant. Fear THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 27 VOCAL EXERCISE PREPARATORY TO READING OR SPEAKING IN PUBLIC. A beneficial influence is exerted on the voice, by the most vigorous and sustained exercises upon the elementary sounds, and by reading and declaiming with the utmost force consistent with purity of tone, imme- diately before retiring for the night. The organs of speech are thus rendered flexible for exercise on the succeeding day. Even an interval of only an hour or two, between the preliminary exercise and the subsequent effort, will, in most cases, afford the organs of speech time to rest, and resume their natural state. Anxiety Reproach The best course that can be pursued to prepare the voice for speaking within a short time, is to repeat all the elementary sounds several times in succession; then declaim a few select passages; first, with ordinary force, in the middle pitch; then, progressively elevate the pitch and increase the force and the rate of utterance ; lastly, go over them two or three times in the deepest and lowest tone you can reach. 28 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. NATURAL PITCH OF VOICE. "Every person has some pitch of voice in which he converses, sings and speaks with greater effect and facility than in any other. It should be an object of constant solicitude, with every person who desires to become a good speaker or reader, to find what is the natural pitch of his voice. Innocent Coyness HOW TO ACQUIRE A CONTROL OP THE VOICE IN EITHER HIGH OR LOW KEY. By exercising the voice with great force, for a short time in a low key — paradoxical as it may seem — you will immediately afterward be able to speak with much greater ease upon a high key ; and by ex- ercising the voice with great force in a very high pitch, you will be able within a short time afterward, to read or speak, with greater ease than before, on a low or very low pitch. Wonderment THE IDEAL POISE. THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL. t National Readings and Declamations Selections suitable for New Year's, Lincoln's Birthday, Washington's Birthday, Easter, Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas. IM ." l".l"l» .,.,1 .„.. THE OLD FARM KITCHEN. IN an old New England kitchen, where a warm wood fire burned bright, Sat honest Farmer Ketcham and his wife one winter night. The wind without was wailing, with a wild and woeful sound, And the fleecy folds of the drifting snow lay deep upon the ground; But what cared Farmer Ketcham for the tumult out of doors, For he had foddered the cattle and done the other chores. And snug in the chimney-corner in his easy-chair he sat, Silently smoking his old clay pipe and pooring the purring cat; While plying her knitting-needles, his wife rocked to and fro, Humming a hymn and dreaming a dream of the long ago. Over the old-time fire-place a rusty musket hung, And a score of strings of apples from the smoky ceiling swung. While, back in the dingy corner, the tall clock ticked away, And looked like the sagging farmhouse, fast falling to decay. The knitting fell from the woman's hands, the old man turned about, He took the pipe from his mouth and slowly knocked the ashes out; And, after thinking a moment, he said, with a solemn air — " 'Tis Christmas Eve, but the stockin's don't hang by the chimbley there." The woman sighed, and then replied, in a sad and faltering tone, "The years hev come and the years hev gone, and we are ag'in alone, An', I hev jest been thinkin' o' a Christ- mas long ago, When the winders were frosted over an' the ground wus white with snow; When we sat in the chimbley-corner, by the firelight's cheerful gleam, When our lives were full o' promise, an' the futur' but a dream, When all the rest o' our folks hed gone away to bed, An' we sat an' looked an' I listened to the whispered words you said, Till home from Benson's store came rollickin' brother John, An' a peekin' thro' the winder, saw what wus agoin' on; Then how the neighbors tattled an' talked all over town, Till you an' I were married an' quietly settled down. "While a rummagin' thro' the cobwebs in the garret t'other day, I found a pile o' broken toys in a corner stowed away; An' a lot o' leetle worn out boots a layin' in a heap, Ez they used to lay on the kitchen floor 31 32 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. when the boys hed gone to sleep. I looked at the worn-out trundle-bed, an' the cradle long laid by, An' a leanin' ag'in the chimbley there, I couldn't help but cry — Fur the faces o' my children came back to me once more; An' I almost heard the patter o' their feet upon the floor. I tho't o' the'r happy voices an' the leetle prayers they said, Ez they used to gather round me when 'twas time to go to bed. "Of all the earthly treasures we prize in this world below, The ones we love the fondest are the first to fade and go. Of all the beautiful children that came to our fireside, The one we loved most dearly wus o\ir leetle girl that died. How calm in her leetle coffin she looked in her last repose, Ez sweet ez the fairest lily, ez pure ez a tuberose. An' I can well remember the sadness o' the day, When my heart wus well nigh broken ez they carried her away. "The oldest o' our children wus a proud and han'some boy, He wus his father's fondest hope an' his mother's pride an' joy, I used to play with his chubby hands an' kiss his leetle feet, An' wonder ef ever a babe wus born more beautiful an' sweet; An' many a night, by candle light, when he was snug in bed, I've patched his leetle clo's with weary hands an' an achin' head. We sent him away to college; he did un- commonly well, Till he went to live in the city, an' married a city belle — O' all our earthly trials; o' all our worldly care; The cold neglect o' a thankless child is the hardest o' all to bear. His wife "is a woman with only high notions in her head; She couldn't well knit a stockin', nor bake a loaf of bread. 'She plays on the grand pianner, nor works with her lily hands, An' she talks in a foreign lingo that no one understands; Whenever I go to see her, I tell you it makes me smile To see how it hurts her feelin's to look at my country style. "The youngest o' our livin' boys I never could understand; He didn't take to le'rnin' no more'n a fish to land, He wus wayward an' hard to govern, not. altogether bad, He wus firm, an' proud, an' set in his ways, but not a vicious lad. An' somehow we couldn't keep him quite under our control, But I know that he had an honest heart, an' a true an' noble soul, An' a mother's prayers will go with him wherever he may be ; God keep him safe an' bring him home in His good time to me. "I miss our children's voices, fur all hev gone away — One hez gone to the better land, an' the rest hev gone astray. I wonder ef up in Heaven, where all is bright an' fair, Ef we will meet our children an' they will love us there?" NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 33 There was a rap at the outside door, the old folks gave a start; The woman sprang from her rocking-chair with a flutter at her heart; The door swung widely open and banged against the wall, And into the farmhouse' kitchen strode a stranger dark and tall. The mother looked at his bearded face a moment in surprise; She saw a quiver about his mouth and a glad look in his eyes; She lifted up her hands to Heaven, she uttered a cry of joy, And bowed her white head lovingly on the breast of her wayward boy. The red flame glowed upon the hearth, the beech logs cracked and steamed; And on the floor and time-worn walls the firelight glowed and gleamed ; That old New England kitchen had never been more bright Than it was to Farmer Ketcham and his wife that winter night. — From "Original Recitations" by Eugene I. Hall. By special permission of the Author. tSri t&& t&fr A BIRTHDAY ADDRESS. (Suitable for recitation GENTLEMEN :—Since nobody wishes to die everybody must be glad he was born. It is a good thing to have a birthday, but its pleasure is increased when your friends in this substantial way indi- cate their joy that you came into the world. Artemus Ward said: "It would have been ten dollars in the pocket of Jefferson Davis if he had never been born." But the only limitation upon natal festivities is the necessity of making a speech. The difficulty increases when the occasion has called together such a good company. It is an indisputable fact that the whole people of the United States were never so powerful, or so prosperous, or collectively and individually possessed so much in op- portunity, in liberty, in education, in em- ployment, in wages, in men who from nothing have become powers in the com- munity, and boys who from poverty have secured education and attained compe- tence, as to-day. A young man who can pay a dollar for a dinner and do no in- justice to his family has started success- at any birthday party.) fully in his career. There is scarcely one now present who cannot remember the dif- ficulty, the anxieties and the work of se- curing his first surplus dollar. Everyone of you from that dollar has, because of American conditions, and a true concep- tion of American liberty, become a leader in the pulpit, at the bar, in medicine, in journalism, in art, in the management of industries, in the work of firms and cor- porations and in business of every kind. This assemblage — and its like can be gath- ered in every state, county, city and vil- lage in our country — illustrates that true spirit of commercialism which inspires am- bition and makes a career; that true de- velopment of American manhood which is ever striving for something better in its material conditions, which has time for the work of the church, for politics, for the public service, for the improvement of the home and the pleasures of and for the fam- ily. As we advance in life we appreciate more day by day the value of time. 3i NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. With every revolution of the earth there is less left. We must economize it. We who are active in affairs and must meet many people find out who are the enemies and who the friends of our time. The scatter-brain dissipates and the sure-footed man conserves it. The late Leopold Morse, while a member of Congress, was entertained at a big house on Fifth avenue. A guest said: "Delighted to see you, Morse. Where are you stopping?" Morse replied: "At the St. Cloud Hotel." His friend said: "For Heaven's sake, Morse, don't do that again; that's the San Clou." The next day Morse went into his bank- er's, who said: "Glad to see you, Morse; where are you stopping?" Morse said, "At the San Clou." The banker said: "Come off your perch. That may do in Boston, but here it's plain English, St. Cloud." Morse, much distressed, was stopped on Wall street soon after by an acquaintance, who said: "Morse, I want to come and see you this evening; where are you stopping?" Morse answered: "Hanged if I know." Morse should have been sure of himself and stuck to it. The man who ought to be killed after the first half hour is the one who, having made an engagement, uses thirty minutes in developing a matter in which he knows you are interested and then pro- ceeds, having gained, as he thinks, your confidence, to exploit the scheme for which he came. I always turn that man down. The sure-footed man is a benefactor. In the pulpit he gives your something to take home to think about and talk over at the Sunday dinner; at the bar he makes the jury in a short time think his way and the judge is influenced by his directness and lucidity. He states his business proposition to you so quickly and so clearly that you know instantly whether you can afford to embark in it or not He dis- misses his board of directors with a ten- minute statement which reveals to them the exact condition and true prospects of the company. He tells a story so that the point punctures and delights you without giving you the horrors of knowing it long before he is through. You sit. beside him if you can at dinner, you select him for your companion in travel, you take him into your business if he is free and you make him your executor in your will. My friends, we pass this way but once. We cannot retrace our steps to any pre- ceding milestone. Every time the clock strikes, it is both the announcement of the hour upon which we are entering and the knell of the one which is gone. Each night memory balances the books and we know before we sleep whether the result is on the right or the wrong side of our account. In some measure we can meet the injunc- tion of the poet who said: "Think that day lost whose low descend- ing sun, Views from thy hand no noble action done." There is no cant in this sentiment. The noble action does not mean necessarily anything in the realms of romance or hero- ism. It may be the merest commonplace in business or association, a word of sym- pathy, kindness or encouragement, a little help sorely needed and not felt by the giver, but if it has shed one beam of bright- ness into the life of another the dividend is earned. The older we grow the more we realize that life is worth the living. We think too little of the fun there is in it. We are too parsimonious of laughter. We do not appreciate as we ought the man or the woman who can make us forget while we are amused. We cannot help the past and that man is a fool who lives in it. To-day is a better day than yesterday, but to-mor- NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 35 row is the land of promise. Let us walk through our pathways be they rugged or smooth, believing in Browning's beautiful lines: The earth is crammed with Heaven, And every common bush afire with God, But only he who sees takes off his shoes. — Chmncey M. Depew. «3* &?* «■?* THANKSGIVING IN MANY LANDS. THERE'S Thanksgiving turkey for you, little boy, But 'round the North Pole, where it's quiet, They're dining to-day on a slice of roast whale With fricasseed snowballs and polar bear's tail, And the milk is ice cream when it reaches the pail, For the cows have pistache in their diet. Just listen to that, little Johnny! There's a bonny plum pudding for you, little boy, But the little boys 'round the equator Have cocoanut stew and a salad of dates, And an orange a minute as big as their pates, And a little brown monkey to hand round the plates, And bananas are used for potater! Just think about that, little Johnny! There's mince pie and doughnuts for you, little boy, But abroad all the children are living On wonderful dishes, I couldn't say what, So queer and so spicy, so cold and so hot! But the best thing of all doesn't fall to their lot— For they haven't got any Thanksgiving! You wouldn't like that, little Johnny! — Juliet Wilbor Tompkins. o5* *£• t5* THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. (The custom of decorating the graves, both of Federal and Confederate soldiers on Decora- tion Day, makes this recitation peculiarly appropriate for Decoration Day exercises.) BY the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep in the ranks of the dead: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue, 3G NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Under the lilies, the Gray. So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all:- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. our WATCHING THE NEW YEAR IN GOOD old days — dear old days When my heart beat high and bold— When the things of earth seemed full of mirth And the future a haze of gold! Oh, merry was I that winter night, And gleeful our little one's din, And tender the grace of my darling's face As we watched the New Year in. But a voice — a spectre's that mocked at love — Came out of the yonder hall; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 'twas the solemn clock That ruefully croaked to all. Yet what knew we of the griefs to be In the year we longed to greet? Love — love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream I fancied might never fleet! But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom, And these were the words it spake: "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — and they seemed to mock A heart about to break. 'Tis New Year's eve, and again I watch In the old familiar place, And I'm thinking again of that old time when I looked on a dear one's face. Never a little one hugs my knee, And I hear no gleeful shout — I am sitting alone by the old hearth-stone, Watching the old year out. But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom That solemnly calls to me; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — for so the clock Tells of a life to be; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — 'tis so the clock Tells of eternity. — Eugene Field. NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 37 GARFIELD'S TRIBUTE TO HIS FALLEN COMRADES. IF silence is ever golden, it must be here, beside the graves of fifteen thousand men, whose lives were more significant than speech, and whose death was a poem, the music of which can never be sung. With words we make promises, plight faith, praise virtue. Promises may not be kept, plighted faith may be broken, and vaunted virtue be only the cunning mark of vice. We do not know one promise these men made, one pledge they gave, one word they spoke; but we do know they summed up and perfected by one supreme act the highest virtue of men and citizens. For love of country they accepted death, and thus resolved all doubts and made im- mortal their patriotism and their virtue. For the noblest man that lives there still remains a conflict. He must still with- stand the assaults of time and fortune; must still be assailed with temptations be- fore which lofty natures have fallen. But with these, the conflict ended, the victory was won, when death stamped on them the great seal of heroic character, and closed a record which years can never blot. At the beginning of the Christian era an imperial circus stood on the summit of what is now known as the Vatican Mount in Rome. There gladiator slaves died for the sport of Rome, and wild beasts fought with wilder men. In that arena, a Gali- lean fisherman gave up his life, a sacrifice for his faith. No human life was ever so nobly avenged. On that spot was reared the proudest Christian temple ever built by human hands. As the traveler descends the Apennines, he sees the dome of St. Pe- ter's rising above the desolate Campagna, and the dead city, long before the seven hills and ruined palaces appear to his view. The fame of the dead fisherman has out- lived the glory of the Eternal City. Seen from the western slope of our Capitol, this spot is not unlike the Vatican Mount. A few years ago the soil beneath our feet was watered with the tears of slaves. Yonder proud Capitol awakened no pride, inspired no hope. The face of the goddess was turned toward the sea, and not toward them. But thanks be to God, this arena of slavery is a scene of violence no longer! This will be forever the sacred mountain of our Capitol. Here is our temple. Its pavement is the sepulcher of heroic hearts ; its dome, the bending heaven; its altar candles, the watching stars. — James A. Garfield. *5* e5* cS* THE MANGER OF BETHLEHEM. THERE'S a song in the air! There's a star in the sky! There's a mother's deep prayer And a baby's low cry! And the star rains its fire while the Beau- tiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a King. There's a tumult of joy O'er the wonderful birth, For the virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth, Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beau- tiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a King! 38 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. In the light of that star Lie the ages impearled; And that song from afar Has swept over the world. Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing, In the homes of the nations that Jesus is King! We rejoice in the light, And we echo the song That comes down through the night From the heavenly throng. Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King. «3» t5* «5* MEMORIAL DAY. THE cycling years again have brought To us, Memorial Day; The gallant men who bravely fought For us are old and gray. Their numbers, year by year, grow less, And more are laid away, Where we with flowers their graves may dress, On each Memorial Day. Then bring the blossoms fair and sweet, To deck each grass-grown bed, While reverently we all repeat: "Here lie our honored dead, Whose memory we will all revere Till time shall pass away, And sacred keep with every year A new Memorial Day." — Emma Shaw. t5* ^* ^* SIMON SOGG'S THANKSGIVING. L' ET Earth give thanks," the deacon said, And then the proclamation read. "Give thanks fer what an' what about?" Asked Simon Soggs when church was out. "Give thanks fer what? I don't see why; The rust got in an' spiled my rye, And hay wan't half a crop, and corn All wilted down and looked forlorn. The bugs jest gobbled my pertaters, The what-you-call-em lineaters, And gracious! when you come to wheat, There's more than all the world can eat; Onless a war should interfere, Crops won't bring half a price this year; I'll hev to give 'em away, I reckon!" "Good for the poor!" exclaimed the deacon. "Give thanks fer what?" asked Simon Soggs. "Fer th' freshet carryin' off my logs? Fer Dobbin goin' blind? Fer five Uv my best cows, that was alive Afore the smashin' railroad come And made it awful troublesome? Fer that hay stack the lightnin' struck And burnt to ashes? — thund'rin luck! For ten dead sheep?" sighed Simon Soggs. The Deacon said, "You've got yer hogs!" "Give thanks? and Jane and baby sick? I e'enmost wonder if ole Nick Ain't runnin' things!" The deacon said, "Simon! yer people might be dead!" NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 39 "Give thanks!" said Simon Soggs again. "Jest look at what a fix we're in! The country's rushin' to the dogs At race horse speed!" said Simon Soggs. "Rotten all through — in every State, — Why, ef we don't repudiate, We'll hev to build, fer big and small, A poor-house that'll hold us all. All round the crooked whisky still Is runnin' like the Devil's mill; Give thanks? How mad it makes me feel, To think how office-holders steal! The taxes paid by you and me Is four times bigger'n they should be; The Fed'ral Gov'ment's all askew, The ballot's sech a mockery, too! Some votes too little, some too much, Some not at all — it beats the Dutch! And now no man knows what to do, Or how is how, or who is who. Deacon! corruption's sure to kill! This 'glorious Union' never will, I'll bet a continental cent, Elect another President! Give thanks fer what, I'd like to know?" The deacon answered, sad and low, "Simon! It fills me with surprise, Ye don't see where yer duty lies; Kneel right straight down, in all the muss, And thank God that it ain't no wuss!" — W. A. Croffnt. ta& t&v (5* JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS. (Recitation for a boy from seven to ten.) FATHER calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill. Mighty glad I ain't a girl — ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples an' go swim- min' in the lake — Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride, But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I laff an' holler: "O, ye never teched me!" But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Gran'ma says she hopes that when I get to be a man, I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's He, Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know 40 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good enough for me! Excep' just 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be! And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How im- proved our Willie is !" But father, ' havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be! For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's, An' don't bust out your pantaloons, and don't wear out your shoes ; .Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon the tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be! — Eugene Field. t#*l t£& t&Rl OUR HEROIC DEAD. O SUN, subdue your splendor; O birds, forget your mirth ; O robe of mist so tender, Enshroud a lifeless earth. O sea renew your mourning; O winds, a requiem play; O heart, with grief's intoning, December wrest from May. A nation weeps And vigil keeps O'er her heroic dead. O sun, unsheath your lances; Fling out your rainbow arch; O music that entrances, Sound a triumphal march. O flag by heaven's portals Unfurl your gleaming bars; For there earth's dear immortals Forever placed your stars. A nation's praise Its tribute pays To her heroic dead. t5* ^* ^* MISTLETOE. WHEN on the chandelier I saw The mistletoe and holly, The one conclusion I could draw Led me straight on to folly. For Marjory, with cheeks aglow And lips, each one a berry, Was smiling at the mistletoe A smile peculiar, very. I watched them both, and when above Her head the green leaves fluttered, I caught and kissed the girl I love And something tender uttered. NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 41 She blushed, of course; the deed was done. Quoth she: "Since kissing's pleasant, I'll give you just another one, To be your Christmas present." Good lovers all, take note of this, The Christmas prank of Cupid. A spray of mistletoe amiss Were nothing short of stupid. t2& *3* t&& DECORATION DAY. AGAIN with reverent hands we strew Our heroes' graves with flowers of spring; How swift doth time's increasing flow, These hallowed days around us bring! And as we stand in silence near Their sacred dust, a gift we lay Upon each lowly altar here, That shall not with the flowers decay! For grateful memory twines anew Her offering with the garlands fair, Laid where long sleep the brave and true, Whose honored dust we shield with care. £nt t£fr t&rl THE MEANING OF THE AMERICAN FLAG. (Recitation for a boy.) THE American flag means, then, all that the fathers meant in the Rev- olutionary War; it means all that the Declaration of Independence meant; it means all that the Constitution of a peo- ple, organizing for justice, for liberty, and for happiness, meant. The American flag carries American ideas, American history, and American feeling. Beginning with the colonies and com- ing down to our time, in its sacred her- aldry, in its glorious insignia, it has gathered and stored chiefly this supreme idea: Divine Right of Liberty in Man. Every color means liberty, every thread means liberty, every form of star and beam of light means liberty — liberty through law, and laws for liberty. Accept it, then, in all its fullness of meaning. It is not a painted rag. It is a whole national history It is the Constitution. It is the Govern- ment. It is the emblem of the sovereignty of the people. It is the Nation. — From a speech by Henry Ward Beecher. i^* ^* ^* A GOOD COUNTRY FOR ALL. (For a very little girl. The speaker should wear the national colors, either combined in a dress or as decorations to a white dress.) I WEAR these three colors to-day, The beautiful red, white and blue, Because 'tis the Fourth of July, And I thought I'd celebrate too. I know that our country began (Though I'm sure I cannot tell why), One morning so long, long ago, And that was the Fourth of July. But one thing for certain and sure I've found out, although I'm so small, 'Tis a country good to be in For little folks, big folks, and all. 42 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. THE DIGNITY OF LABOR. (An oration for THERE is dignity in toil — in toil o£ the hand as well as toil of the head — in toil to provide for the bodily wants of an individual life, as well as in toil to promote some enterprise of world-wide fame. All labor that tends to supply man's wants, to increase man's happiness, to elevate man's nature — in a word, all labor that is honest — is honorable too. Labor clears the for- est, and drains the morass, and makes the "wilderness rejoice and blossom as the rose." Labor drives the plow, and scatters the seeds, and reaps the harvest, and grinds the corn, and converts it into bread, the staff of life. Labor, tending the pas- tures and sweeping the waters, as well as cultivating the soil, provides with daily sustenance the nine hundred millions of the family of man. Labor gathers the gos- samer web of the caterpillar, the cotton from the field, and the fleece from the flock, and weaves it into raiment soft and warm and beautiful, the purple robe of the prince and the gray gown of the peasant being alike its handiwork. Labor moulds the brick, and splits the slate, and quarries the stone and shapes the column, and rears not only the humble cottage, but the gorgeous palace, and the tapering spire, and the stately dome. Labor, diving deep into the solid earth, brings up its long- hidden stores of coal to feed ten thousand furnaces, and in millions of homes to defy the winter's cold. Labor explores the rich veins of deeply- buried rocks, extracting the gold and silver, the copper and tin. Labor smelts the iron, and moulds it into a thousand shapes for use and ornament, from the massive pillar to the tiniest needle, from the ponderous anchor to the wire gauze, from the mighty Labor Day.) fly-wheel of the steam engine to the pol- ished purse-ring or the glittering bead. Labor hews down the gnarled cak, and shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and guides it over the deep, plunging through the billows, and wrestling with the tem- pest, to bear to our shores the produce of every clime. Labor, laughing at difficul- ties, spans majestic rivers, carries viaducts over marshy swamps, suspends bridges over deep ravines, pierces the solid moun- tain with the dark tunnel, blasting rocks and filling hollows, and while linking to- gether with its iron but loving grasp all nations of the earth, verifying, in a literal sense, the ancient prophecy, "Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be brought low;" labor draws forth its delicate iron thread, and stretch- ing it from city to city, from province to province, through mountains and beneath the sea, realizes more than fancy ever fabled, while it constructs a chariot on which speech may outstrip the wind, and compete with lightning, for the telegraph flies as rapidly as thought itself. Labor, the mighty magician, walks forth into a region uninhabited and waste; he looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its desolation, then waving his wonder-work- ing wand, those dreary valleys smile with golden harvests; those barren mountain- slopes are clothed with foliage ; the furnace blazes; the anvil rings; the busy wheel whirls round; the town appears; the temple of religion rears its lofty front; a forest of masts rises from the harbor. On every side are heard the sounds of industry and gladness. Labor achieves grander victories, it weaves more durable trophies, it holds NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS 43 wider sway than the conqueror. His name becomes tainted and his monuments crum- ble; but labor converts his red battlefields into gardens, and erects significant of better things. monuments -Anonymous. to* t&& ^* HAVE YOU PLANTED A TREE? (For Arbor Day.) WHAT do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship, which will cross the sea, We plant the mast to carry the sails; We plant the planks to withstand the gales, The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee; We plant the ship when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the houses for you and me; We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, The beams and siding, all parts that be; We plant the house when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? A thousand things that we daily see: We plant the spire that out-towers the crag; We plant the staff for country's flag; We plant the shade from the hot sun free; — We plant all these when we plant the tree. THE BROWNIE'S CHRISTMAS. (Imagine this a real occurrence, and yourself the giver.) THE Brownie who lives in the forest — Oh, the Christmas bells they ring! He has done for the farmer's children Full many a kindly thing: When their cows were lost in the gloam- ing He has driven them safely home; He has led their bees to the flowers, To fill up their golden comb; At her spinning the little sister Had napped till the setting sun — She awoke, and the kindly Brownie Had gotten it neatly done; Oh, the Christmas bells they are ringing! The mother she was away, And the Brownie 'd played with the baby And tended it all the day; The Brownie who lives in the forest, Oh, the Christmas bells they ring! He has done for the farmer's children Full many a kindly thing. 'Tis true that his face they never, For all their watching, could see; Yet who else did the kindly service, I pray, if it were not he? But the poor little friendly Brownie, His life was a weary thing; For never had he been in holy church And heard the children sing; And never had he had a Christmas; Nor had bent in prayer his knee; He had lived for a thousand years, And all weary-worn was he. 44 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Or that was the story the children Had heard at their mother's side; And together they talked it over, One merry Christmas-tide. The pitiful little sister With her braids of paly gold, And the little elder brother, And the darling five-year-old, All stood in the western window — 'Twas toward the close of day — And they talked about the Brownie While resting from their play. "The Brownie, he has no Christmas," The dear little sister said, And a-shaking as she spoke Her glossy, yellow head; "The Brownie, he has no Christmas; While so many gifts had we, To the floor last night they bended The boughs of the Christmas-tree." Then the little elder brother, He spake up in his turn, With both of his blue eyes beaming, While his cheeks began to burn: "Let us do up for the Brownie A Christmas bundle now, And leave it in the forest pathway Where the great oak branches bow. "We'll mark it, 'For the Brownie,' And 'A Merry Christmas Day!' And sure will he be to find it, For he goeth home that way!' " Then the tender little sister With her braids of paly gold, And the little elder brother, And the darling five-year-old, Tied up in a little bundle Some toys, with a loving care, And marked it, "For the Brownie," In letters large and fair, And "We wish a Merry Christmas!" And then, in the dusk, the three Went to the wood and left it Under the great oak tree. While the farmer's fair little children Slept sweet on that Christmas night, Two wanderers through the forest Came in the clear moonlight. And neither one was the Brownie, But sorry were both as he; And their hearts, with each fresh footstep, Were aching steadily. A slender man with an organ Strapped on by a leathern band, And a girl with a tambourine A-holding close to his hand. And the girl with the tambourine, Big sorrowful eyes she had; In the cold white wood she shivered, In her ragged raiment clad. "And what is there here to do?" she said; "I'm froze i' the light o' the moon! Shall we play to these sad old forest trees Some merry and jigging tune? "And, father, you know it is Christmas- time, And had we staid i' the town And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees, A gift might have fallen down! "You cannot certainly know it would not: I'd ha' gone right under the tree! Are you sure that none o' the Christmases Were meant for you and me?" "These dry dead leaves," he answered her, sad, NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 45 "Which the forest casteth down, Are more than you'd get from a Christmas tree In the merry and thoughtless town. "Though to-night be the Christ's own birthday night, And all the world hath grace, There is not a home in all the world Which holdeth for us a place." Slow plodding adown the forest path, "And now, what is this?" he said; And the children's bundle he lifted up, And "For the Brownie," read, And "We wish a Merry Christmas Day!" "Now if this be done," said he, "Somewhere in the world perhaps there.is A place for you and me!" And the bundle he opened softly: "This is children's tender thought; Their own little Christmas presents They have to the Brownie brought. "If there liveth such tender pity Toward a thing so dim and low, There is kindness sure remaining Of which I did not know. "Oh, children, there's never a Brownie — That sorry, uncanny thing; But nearest and next are the homeless When the Christmas joy-bells ring." Out laughed the little daughter, And she gathered the toys with glee: "My Christmas present has fallen! This oak was my Christmas-tree!" Then away they went through the forest, The wanderers, hand in hand; And the snow, they were both so merry, It glinted like the golden sand. Down the forest the elder brother, In the morning clear and cold, Came leading the little sister And the darling five-year-old. "Oh," he cries, "He's taken the bundle!" As carefully round he peers; "And the Brownie has gotten a Christmas After a thousand years!" t5* «5* ;5* THE THREE HOLIDAYS. (For a girl FIRST BOY. OF all the days of all the year," Cried loyal Freddy Bly, "The very *splendid-est of all Comes early in July. Think of the fun! the glorious noise! That is the day — at least for boys." SECOND BOY. "Of all the days of all the year," Said little Robin Gray, "The very best, I do believe, and two boys.) Will be Thanksgiving day. A fellow has such things to eat! Thanksgiving day cannot be beat." GIRL. "Of all the days of all the year," Sang pretty Nan, "remember The dearest, happiest and best Is coming in December. What girl or boy, north, east, south, west, But knows that Christmas day is best?" — Annie L. Hannah. 46 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. RING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, And sweeter manners, purer laws. (£• ^* ^* A NEW YEAR'S TALK. HERE I am," said the New Year, popping his head in at the door. "Oh! there you are, eh?" replied the Old Year. "Come in and let me have a look at you, and shut the door after you, please!" The New Year stepped lightly in, and closed the door carefully. "Frosty night," he said. "Fine and clear, though. I have had a delightful journey." "Humph!" said the Old Year. "I don't expect to find it delightful, with this rheu- matism racking my bones. A long, cold, drive, I call it; but to be sure, I thought it pleasant when I was your age, youngster. Is the sleigh waiting?" "Yes," replied the other. "But there is no hurry. Wait a bit, and tell me how matters are in these parts." "So, so!" the Old Year answered, shak- ing his head. "They might be better, and yet I suppose they might be worse, too. They were worse before I came; much worse, too. I have done a great deal. Now I expect you, my boy, to follow my ex- ample, and be a good year all the way through." "I shall do my best," said the New Year, "depend upon it! And now tell me a little what there is to do." "In the first place," replied the other, "you have the weather to attend to. To be sure, you have a clerk to help you in that, but he is not always to be depended upon; there is a great deal of work in the department. The seasons have a way of running into each other, and getting mixed, if you don't keep a sharp lookout on them; and the months are a trouble- some, unruly set. Then you must be care- ful how to turn on wet and dry weather; your reputation depends in a great meas- ure on that. But you must not expect to satisfy everybody, for that is impossible. If you try to please the farmers the city people will complain; and if you devote yourself to the cities, the country people will call you all manner of names. I had rather devote myself to apples and that sort of a thing; everybody speaks of me as 'a great apple year;' 'a glorious year for grapes!' and so on. That is very gratify- ing to me. And one thing I want you to do very carefully; that is, to watch the leaves that are turned." "I thought Autumn attended to that sort of thing," said his companion. Photo by Eyron, N. Y. TELLING MOTHER. NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 49 "I don't mean leaves of trees," said the Old Year. "But at the beginning of a year, half the people in the world say, 'I am go- ing to turn over a new leaf!' meaning they intend to behave themselves better in vari- ous respects. As a rule, leaves do not stay turned over. I know a great many little boys who promised me to turn over a new leaf in regard .to tearing their clothes and losing their jack-knives, and bringing mud into the house on their boots, and lit- tle girls who were going to keep their bureau drawers tidy and their buttons sewed on. But I haven't seen much im- provement in most of them. Indeed, what can you expect of the children, when the parents set them the example? Why, there is a man in this neighborhood who has turned over a new leaf in the matter of smoking every year since 1868, and after the first week of each New Year he smokes like a chimney all the rest of the year." "What is his name?" inquired the New Year, taking out his note-book. "His name is Smith — John Smith," said the Old Year. "There are a great many of them, and all the rest are probably as bad as the particular one I mention, so you need not be too particular." "I'll attend to it," said the New Year. "Any other suggestions?" "Well," said the Old Year, smiling, "I have never found that young people, or young years, were very apt to profit by good advice. You must go your own way after all. Don't start any new inventions — there have been quite enough lately. Above all, take care of the children, and give them all the good weather you can conscientiously. And now," he added, ris- ing slowly and stiffly from his seat by the fire, "the horses are getting impatient, and my time is nearly up, so I start on my long drive. You will find everything in pretty good shape, I think, though, of course, you will think me an old fogy as perhaps I am. Well! well! good-bye, my boy! Good luck to you! And whenever you hear my name mentioned, try to put in a good word for old " (here give the number of the year). — Laura E. Richard. t5* d5* &5* LABOR. (Recitation for Labor Day.) PAUSE not to dream of the future be- fore us ; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; Hark how creation's deep, musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing; Never the little seed stops in its growing; More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. "Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ring- ing: Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breath- ing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower; 50 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin promptings that ever en- treat us, Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow Work — thou shalt ride over Care's com- ing billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep- ing willow; Work with a stout heart and resolute will! Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through bis veins goes the life cur- rent leaping! How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl groweth; Rich the queen's robe from the frail co- coon floweth; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; Temple and statue the marble block hides. — F. S. Osgood. t&* (5* t&& A MEMORIAL DAY EXERCISE. ELLA M. POWERS. PATRIOTIC SONG (in which all join). Selected. ORIGINAL ADDRESS (or suitable recitation). Speaker A. — The May-day air is hushed and still, The far-off muffled drums I hear, With measured tread up yonder hill, The brave old soldiers now appear. Our flag floats solemnly above Their heads, now bent and gray, But hearts are filled with tender love, As they march on their way. These men bore sabers years ago, To-day they bear sweet flowers, These to their comrades they bestow In May-day's fairest hours. But here a train of children bright Are marching on this way With flags and flowers — a gladsome sight On each Memorial Day. Enter seven children; the fourth in order bears a large flag; the others carry wreaths of flowers and small flags. The wreaths should be made of red, of white, and of blue flozvers (two of each color). They march in to soft, muffled drum- beats. They halt, and face about in line. Speaker A. — Why are you marching here to-day, With flags and wreaths of flowers, pray? Flag Bearer. — As long as this old flag shall wave, We'll deck with flowers each soldier's grave ; Their names we honor and revere, And loving tributes pay each year. All form semi-circle during the delivery of MEMORY GEMS : O Land of lands ! to thee we give Our prayers, our hopes, our service free ; NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 51 For thee thy sons shall nobly live, And at thy need shall die for thee. — Whittier. Oh, tell me not that they are dead, — that generous host, that airy array of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud above this nation. — Beecher. They fought to give us peace, and lo ! They gained a better peace than ours. — Phebe Cary. Selected quotations or recitations — found on other pages, or in Lyceum Night, Nos. 13 and 23 — can be given, alternately, by as many as desire, after which Numbers one and five hold up their wreaths of red: 1. — Our wreaths are of crimson — a blood-red hue, And before us our volunteers pass in re- view, For the red of defiance to battle incites, To strife and to war the hero invites. s-— Deep sounding on the ear, there came The din of battles' dread alarms ; The muttered roll of myriad drums, The cannon's roar, the clash of arms ; The clanking squadron's measured tread, The trumpet's wild and martial notes, While proudly gleaming overhead The standard of our country floats, — The Stars and Stripes. All wave their Hags gently during the last two lines. Wreaths are lowered as two and six raise wreaths of white: 2. — We bear the wreaths of white, so pure, The conflict has ceased and peace shall en- dure; No North and no South, no East and no West, But one land, united in peace and at rest. No more sounds the trumpet or bugle's loud call, But quiet and peace now reigns over all. 6.— The earth has healed her wounded breast, The cannons plough the field no more; The heroes rest! Oh, let them rest In peace along the peaceful shore ! They fought for peace, for peace they fell ; They sleep in peace, and all is well. — Joaquin Miller. Three and seven raise wreaths of blue: 3-— We bear the wreaths of heavenly hue, The flowers that bid us all be true, True to the soldiers now at rest, True to the land we love the best. 7-— We'll never forget those brave deeds of old, Of heroes, — a true, loyal band, Who faced the dangers of war untold, Who fought and who died for our land. 4 (Flag Bearer). — To-day we strew these sweetest flowers O'er the mounds of our heroes brave, With reverent thought through the solemn hours, We deck each soldier's grave. Whether he fought in the blue or the gray, Under the palm or the pine, Each hero with equal love we pay, Each deed shall equally shine ; And these flowers of red, and the white ones pure, And the blooms of heavenly blue, Are the colors of this old flag secure, To which each soldier was true. All (waving flags). — We love forever the stars and stripes, Forever to them we are true, We love our land and our dear old flag, Of the red, and white, and blue. These colors have long been the nation's pride, 52 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Their beauty we ever adore, By the red, white, and blue we ever abide, May they wave forevermore. All march out singing, and Blue." 'The Red, White, ^* ^* ^» ADDRESS FOR DECORATION DAY. COMPANIONS and Friends: We meet on this solemn occasion, in the performance of a sacred duty, — to revive memories of our departed heroes, to recount their deeds of valor and self-sacrifice, and to bedeck anew their honored graves with these emblems of purity, — these beautiful flowers of May. The poet says : "After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." So, indeed, does the hero who awaits the great roll-call. Flowers spring up on his grave, and the winds of early summer fan our cheeks as we scatter tokens of love upon the grassy mound, while a voice seems to whisper : Yes, life is a fever, we are all in its heated grasp. But pause in the delirium of haste for the things of this world, and come aside from the "madding crowd," to join the kindlier procession where your brow will cool and your pulse slacken. Away with any who say this day is only a sentiment. It bears more fruit than tears and flowers. The old song, " 'Tis love that makes the world go round," answers such cavillers. So when America overflows with love and forgiveness till each earth-corner feels the glow, then can we say "How far yon little candle sheds its beams!" Only thus shall war-clouds depart and the dove of Peace fold her wings on the weary world. Only thus shall the sword be beaten into a ploughshare, — shall the bliss of Eden re- turn. Say not either that this memorial per- petuates strife ! It may be to us the high- way of Peace. It calls. Excelsior ! and that upward way is not marred by bloodstains, but strewn with lilies and forget-me-nots, — emblems of purity and remembrance. Let us, then, obey these voices which say: "Rest, and come up higher." The road may yet look steep, the black wings of War and Death may still shadow the upward path, but Memorial Day gleams out each year with sunshine that will, in time, drive all clouds away. Let America be the leader up to the purer air ! Let all nations follow her to the "Plains of Peace" ! — and in that day all people will see the full fruition of hopes and tears. Pass, then, with reverent tread Among the sleeping dead ; Whilst flowers adorn the sod Let prayers ascend to God From grateful hearts, that He Will keep us ever free. t^* ^* t5* THE EAGLE SCREAMS. I AM the American Eagle, . And my wings flap together. Likewise, I roost high, And I eat bananas raw. Rome may sit on her Seven hills and howl, But she cannot Sit on me! NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 53 Will she please put that In her organ and grind it? I am mostly a bird of peace, And I was born without teeth, But I've got talons That reach from the storm- Beaten coasts of the Atlantic To the golden shores of the Placid Pacific, And I use the Rocky Mountains As whetstones to sharpen them on. I never cackle till I Lay an egg; And I point with pride To the eggs I've laid In the last hundred years or so. I'm game from The point of my beak To the star-spangled tip Of my tail feathers, And when I begin To scratch gravel, Mind your eye! I'm the cock of the walk, And the hen bird of the Goddess of Liberty, The only gallinaceous E Pluribus Unum On record. I'm an Eagle from Eagleville, With a scream on me that makes Thunder sound like Dropping cotton On a still morning, And my present address is Hail Columbia, U. S. A. ! ! See? t2fc tcr* <£& VALEDICTORIES. THE time has come when we must say Good-bye to all so true, And to life's field of action go, For we've a work to do. With our life's purpose e'er in view, May we with cheerful heart, And with a patient, willing hand Ever do well our part. Let us go onward, that by us Some little good be wrought, And teach the good and beautiful . That we have here been taught. Let us in all our future years Forever faithful be, And aid each good and noble work, That we in life may see. May we each moment well employ, The rich seeds daily sow Of truth, of joy, and happiness, As on through life we go. When we the victory have won, When all life's tasks are o'er, We'll meet with those we hold so true, To say good-bye no more. OH, joyous day! we gladly welcome thee; Before thy light cares fly and leave us free ; But one regret still lingers in each heart That now from Alma Mater we must part. Thus far we've walked together, side by side, Along the strand where beats the angry tide; But now upon its waters dark and blue We must embark — life's journey to pursue. 54 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Yet "ever onward" we will bravely steer, With God our pilot we have naught to fear ; All trials we will meet nor wear a frown — Without the cross we know there is no crown. And if- adown the shadowy by and by We doubting gaze with straining, anxious eye, A moment turn aside the tide of care To breathe for each a loving, hopeful prayer. And then once more our hearts will joyful rise, Cheered by the ray of light from youth's blue skies ; While to our tasks we'll turn as ne'er before With "Onward !" as our watchword ever- more. TO-DAY our school-days end. A place we take 'Mong workers on a sea both large and wide. With willing hands and every power awake, We now advance to scenes by us untried. Oh, may we each as years receding glide, Have strength to toil tho' stormy waves roll high; Life's waters may we ever safely ride, Push on with hopeful heart and watchful eye, Remembering that our Captain strong is al- ways nigh. It is with pleasure that we look ahead, Our Guide is one of love and yet of might. When all our feeble strength has from us fled, He'll pilot us across life's sea aright, And ever mid the deepest gloom send light. The sail is set but where's the shore, my friends, Which we shall reach? Oh, is it dark or bright? Which strand we gain upon ourselves de- pends— The dark or bright, when at God's call our journey ends. If but for self we live upon this earth, A dark, dark shore will greet our weary eyes, In work for others lies the truest worth, Though oft such work our love and pa- tience tries, We must not e'en the smallest task despise. As we do deeds for Christ our spirit nears A shining shore where jasper walls arise, And when our Father's throne of light ap- pears, We'll dwell in peace with Him thro' endless years. The selections in this department have been made with a view of supplying the most enter- taining readings and recitations for the family circle when it gathers, at the end of the day, around the evening lamp. t2& ^* ^5* PAPA'S SUM IN FRACTIONS. i ( F)APA," said a little West End girl 1 the other evening, "I'm in fractions now, but I don't understand it. Tell me about some of these examples." "Certainly, certainly," said the father. "What's the trouble?" "Why, it says here that if a man travels 25,795 miles in 25^ days, how many miles will he travel in one day?" "Say, Maria," said the old man, as he looked beamingly at his wife, "doesn't that remind us of old times? La me! It just takes me back to the little old log school- house in the woods. Why, Maria, I re- member one day — " "But, papa," interrupted the child, "I'm in a hurry. What's the answer?" "Oh! yes. Yes, of course. Give me the example again. Now I have it. If a man travels 25,795 miles in 25I days, how many miles will he travel in one day? That's an easy one. Maria, do you remember that little red-headed fellow who sat in front of you and annoyed you with his bean-shoot- er, and that hideous little Mary Bennett?" "But, papa, what's the answer?" "Oh! the answer; let me see." The man figured and calculated and said "oh!" and "ah!" and scratched out and be- gan again. Then he put his pencil in his mouth, paused a long while, and at last said: "Maria, I've sorter forgotten about this fraction of a day business. How does it go?" "Why, John," said the good woman, "You-er, you-er find the greatest common divisor, and — " "Say, Maria, that reminds me of the joke about the janitor who saw these very words on the blackboard: 'Find the great- est common divisor,' and he said: 'Well, is that durned thing lost again?' Curious how these — " "But, papa, what's the answer?" "Oh! yes; where was I? Well, you divide the 25,795 by 2 5i> ar *d the result will be the answer." "I know, papa, but what's the result?" "Didn't I just tell you that the result would be the answer? All you have to do is to put down the multiplicand — multipli- cand! Where have I heard that word? Why, Maria, it just makes me want to get out and play marbles and hookey and things." "But, Henry, you haven't solved that problem for the child." "That's so. Well, here goes. Twenty- five goes in 25 once; 25 into 7 no times, and into 79 three times and 4. And 45 once and 20, or twenty twenty-fifths of 25 and one-halfths, or 1,031 and one-fifths, or—" 55 56 ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. "Henry, what are you talking about?" "Maria, I started out to find that great- est common divisor of yours, but 'tain't no use. I say that any man who would un- dertake to walk 25,795 miles in 25^ days is just a plain, ordinary, every-day fool. He can't do it." "But, papa, what's the — " "It hasn't got any answer. Just say to your teacher that it is preposterous — the idea of a man taking such a pedestrian tour as that. Truth is, Maria," he added con- fidentially to his wife, "I never did know anything about fractions." i^v t^v ^* WHEN I BUILT THE CABIN— TWO PICTURES. The poem which follows is from the pen of John Howard Bryant, brother of William Cullen Bryant, after he reached his ninetieth year. It was written in Princeton, 111., where his home was since he pitched his cabin as a young man more than a half century ago, and where he lived ever afterwards. HERE, five and sixty years ago, I said I'll build a shelter for the years to come; And here, upon spring's flowery sod, I laid The rude foundation of my cabin home. Words cannot paint the beauty of the scene; Fire had consumed the sere grass all around, And in advance of the returning green, Gay nodding violets covered all the ground. Then came the crimson phlox, and many a flower Unnamed, from Nature's bounteous hand was cast; The early summer brought a liberal dower, That bloomed and faded as the season passed. The teeming earth in autumn's golden hours Poured forth the glory of the waning year, And far as sight could reach, the myriad flowers, In serried ranks o'erspread the landscape here. The purple aster, and the golden-rod, In queenly dress stood rivals side by side; And there, beneath the radiant smile of God, Lay the vast splendor gleaming far and wide. My thoughts recur to that far distant day, The glory that entranced my youthful eye; Glory, alas ! forever passed away, From the dear scenes that still around me lie. Ages unknown, this beauty unsurpassed, Came with the violets, died with au- tumn's sheen; But the white civilizer came at last, And with his plowshare spoiled the charming scene. For beauty spoiled, new beauty came in- stead, And stately maize soon crowned the virgin soil; White harvests gave the waiting nation's bread, Joy, peace and competence repaid the toil. AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 57 Orchards and gardens smiled through all the land, And happy cottage homes were every- where, And cities rose, as if a magic wand Had touched the earth, and, lo! a town was there. All this has passed before my wondering eyes; This mighty tide of life has still swept on, Scaled the vast heights that pierce our western skies, And built proud cities by the Oregon. t3& t3* t3* MR. SPOOPENDYKE'S SHAVE. M Y dear!" exclaimed Mr. Spoopen- dyke, dropping his razor and ex- amining his chin with staring eyes, "my dear, bring the court plaster, quick! I've ploughed off half my chin!" "Let me see," demanded Mrs. Spoopen- dyke, bobbing up and fluttering around her husband. "Great gracious, what a cut! Wait a minute!" and she shot into a closet and out again. "Quick!" roared Mr. Spoopendyke. "I'm bleeding to death! fetch me that court plas- ter!" "Oh, dear!" moaned Mrs. Spoopendyke, "I put it — on, where did I put it?" "Dod gast that putty!" yelled Mr. Spoop- endyke, who had heard his wife imperfect- ly. "What d'ye think this is, a crack in the wall? Got some sort of a notion that there is a draught through here? Court plaster, I tell ye! Bring me some court plaster before I pull out the side of this house and get some from the neighbors!" Just then it occurred to Mrs. Spoopen- dyke that she had put the plaster in the clock. "Here it is, dear!" and she snipped off a piece and handed it to him. Mr. Spoopendyke put it on the end of his tongue, holding his thumb over his wound. When it was thoroughly wetted, it stuck fast to his finger, while the carnage ran down his chin. He jabbed away at the cut, but the plaster hung to his digit until finally his patience was thoroughly ex- hausted. "What's the matter with the measly busi- ness?" he yelled. "Wher'd ye buy this plas- ter? Come off, dod gast ye!" and as he plucked it off his finger it grew to his thumb. "Stick, will ye?" he squealed, plug- ging at the cut in his chin. "Leave go that thumb !" and he whirled around on his heel and pegged at it again. "Why don't ye bring me some court plaster?" he shrieked, turning on his trembling wife. "Who asked ye for a leech? Bring me something that knows a thumb from a chin!" and he planted his thumb on the wound and screwed it around vindictively. This time the plaster let go and slipped up to the corner of his mouth. "Now, it's all right, dear," smiled Mrs. Spoopendyke, with a fearful grin. "May be you've got the same idea that the court plaster has! P'raps you think that mouth was cut with a razor ! May be you're under the impression that this hole in my visage was meant to succumb to the persuasion of a bit of plaster! Come off! Let go that mouth!" and as he gave it a wipe it stuck to the palm of his hand as if it had been born there. "Let me try," suggested Mrs. Spoopen- dyke, "I know how to do it." "Then why didn't ye do it first?" howled 58 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. Mr. Spoopendyke. "What did you want to wait until I'd lost three gallons of gore for? Oh, you know how to do it! You want a linen back and a bottle of mucilage up at your side to be a country hospital. Stick! Dod gast ye!" and he clapped the wrong hand over his jaw. "I'll hold ye here till ye stick, if I hold ye till my wife learns something!" and Mr. Spoopendyke pranced up and down the room with a face indicative of stern determination. "Let me see, dear," said his wife ap- proaching him with a smile, and gently drawing away his hand she deftly adjusted another piece of plaster. "That was my piece after all," growled Mr. Spoopendyke, eyeing the job and glancing at the palm of his hand to find his piece of plaster gone. ""You always come in after the funeral." "I guess you'll find your piece sticking in the other hand, dear," said Mrs. Spoop- endyke pleasantly. "Of course you can tell," snorted Mr. Spoopendyke, verifying his wife's assertion with a glance. "If I had your sight and a pack of cards, I'd hire a shot tower and set up for an astronomer!" and Mr. Spoopen- dyke, who evidently meant astrology, wore that piece of blood-stained court plaster on his hand all day long, rather than admit, by taking it off, that his wife had ever been right in anything. ^W <&& t2r* ABRAHAM BROUGHT TO BAY. I SAT on the seat with the colored man who drove me down to the railroad depot with a shacklety old wagon, and as we left the hotel he said: "Boss, if yo' kin dun say ober a few big words on de way down, de ole man will be 'xtremely disobleeged to yo'." "How big words do you want?" "Can't git 'em too * big, boss. I'ze a powerful hand to 'member big words an' git 'em off when a calamitous occasion pre- dominates." "Do you expect to find use for them this morning?" "Reckon I does, sah. My son, Abraham, works down to de depot, an' whenever I cums around he tries to show off ober me an' make me feel small. He'll try it on dis mawnin', fur suah, an' I jest want to be dun fixed to paralyse his desirability. Spit 'm right out, boss, an' de ole man won't forgit yo' when de watermillyun sezum cums ag'n." We had about half a mile to go, and be- fore we reached the depot I gave him a large and choice assortment of Webster's longest vocabularic curiosities. When we drew up at the platform Abra- ham was there, and also a dozen white people who were to go out on the train. It was a good opportunity for the son to show off, and he realized it, and came forward and waved his arm and shouted: "Yo' dar, ole man; ha'n't I dun toled yo' 'bout four hundred times not to sagaciate dat stupendous ole vehicle in de way of de omnibus? Sum ole niggers doan seem to have no mo' idea of de consaguinity of re- cititude dan a squash." "Was yo' spokin' to me, sah?" stiffly de- manded the father, as he stood up and glared at Abraham. "Of co'se I was." "Den, sah, I want yo' to distinctly under- stand dat, when de co-operashun of de im- ABOUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 59 perialism seems to assimilate a disreputa- ble infringement of hereditary avaricious- ness, I shall retract my individuality, but not befo' — not befo', sah!" Abraham's eyes hung out, his com- plexion became ash color, and his knees bent under him as if the springs were about to give way. It was a long minute before he could utter a sound, and then he reached for my trunk with the muttered ob- servation: "Befo' de Lawd, but things am gittin' so mixed up I can't dun tell whedder I'm his son or his fader!" c5* &?* t?* HIAWATHA'S WOOING. AT the feet of Laughing Water Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, "You are welcome, Hiawatha !" Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened With the gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on its curtains, And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter, Hardly touched his eagle feathers As he entered at the doorway. Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of basswood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered, Yet, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind And of happiness and plenty, In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful. "After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dacotahs :" Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, "That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Loveliest of Dacotah women?" And the ancient arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water ; And made answer very gravely ; "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant, As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said and blushed to say it, "I will follow you, my husband !" This was Hiawatha's wooing! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient arrow-maker 60 ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. In the land of the Dacotahs ! From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water ; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the Old Man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!" And the ancient arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying : "Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us ! Just when they have learned to love us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger!" — H. W. Longfellow. t5» t5* «5* EXERCISE IN PRONUNCIATION. A JOCUND, sacrilegious son of Belial, who suffered from bronchitis, having exhausted his finances at the annual joust, in order to make good the deficit, resolved to ally himself to a comely, lenient and docile young lady of the Malay or Caucas- ian race. He accordingly purchased a calliope, a coral necklace of chameleon hue, and securing a suite of rooms at a hotel, he engaged the head waiter as his coad- jutor. He then dispatched a letter of the most unexceptionable calligraphy extant, with a sentimental hemistich, inviting the young lady to an orchestral concert. She was harassed, and with a truculent look revolted at the idea, refused to con- sider herself sacrificable to his desires, and sent a polite note of refusal, on receiving which, he procured a carbine and bowie knife, said that he would not now forge fetters hymeneal with the queen, went to an isolated spot, severed his jugular vein, and discharged the contents of his carbine into his abdomen, with a grimace at the raillery of his acquaintances. He suc- cumbed and was irrefragably dead, and neither vagaries nor pageantry were per- mitted when he was conveyed to the mau- soleum followed by his enervated canine. ^* i2nl *£& FARO BILL'S SERMON. (He tells the story of the Prodigal Son.) [Faro Bill, of Leadville, had experienced religion, and soon thereafter, during the absence of the regular preacher, volunteered to preach the Sunday sermon.] FELLER citizens, the preacher bein' absent, it falls on me to take his hand and play it fur all it is worth. You all know that I'm just learnin' the game, an' of course I may be expected to make wild breaks, but I don't believe there's a rooster in the camp mean enough to take advan- tage o' my ignorance and cold deck me right on the first deal. I'm sincere in this new departure, an' I believe I've struck a game that I can play clear through without copperin' a bet, for when a man tackles AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 61 such a lay out as this he plays every card to win, and if he goes through the deal as he orter do, when he lays down to die an' the last case is reddy to slide from the box he can call the turn every time. "I was readin' in the Bible to-day that yarn about the Prodigal Son, and I want to tell you the story. The book don't give no dates, but it happened long, long ago. This Prodigal Son had an old man that put up the coin every time the kid struck him for a stake, an' never kicked at the size of the pile, either. I recon the old man was pretty well fixed, an' when he died he in- tended to give all his wealth to this kid an' his brother. Prod gave the old man a little game o' talk one day, and induced him to whack up in advance o' the death racket. He'd no sooner got his divy in his fist tl^an he shook the old man an' struck out to take in some o' the other camps. He had a way-up time for awhile, and slung his cash to the front like he owned the best playin' lead on earth; but hard luck hit him at last an' left him flat. The book don't state what he went broke on, but I recon he got steered up again some brace game. But anyhow he got left without a chip or a four-bit piece to go an' eat on. An old granger then tuk him home an' set him to herdin' hogs, an' here he got so hard up an' hungry that he piped off the swine while they were feedin,' and he stood in with them on a shuck lunch. He soon weakened on such plain provender, and says to himself, says he: 'Even the old man's hired hands are livin' on square grub, while I'm worrin' along here on corn husks straight. I'll just take a grand tum- ble to myself, an' chop on this racket at once. I'll skip back to the governor and try to fix things up, and call for a new deal.' So off he started. "The old man seed the kid a-comin', and what do you reckon he did? Did he pull his gun and lay for him, intendin' to wipe him as soon as he got into range? Did he call the dogs to chase him off the ranch? Did he hustle round for a club and give him a stand off at the front gate? Eh? Not to any alarming extent he didn't; no sir. The Scripture book says he waltzed out to meet him, and froze to him on the spot and kissed him and then marched him off to a clothing store, and fitted him out in the nobbiest rig to be had for coin. Then the old gent invited all the neighbors, and killed a fat calf, and gave the biggest blow-out the camp ever seen." (5* t?* c5* THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. TO me comes the brakeman, and seat- ing himself on the arm of the seat says: "I went to church yesterday." "Yes?" I said, with that interested in- flection that asks for more. "And what church did you attend?" "Which do you' guess?" he asked. "Some union mission church?" I haz- arded. "Naw," he said, "I don't like to run on these branch roads very much. I don't often go to church, and when I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular and you go on a schedule time and don't have to wait on connections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, but I don't like it." "Episcopal?" I guessed. "Limited Express," he said; "all palace 62 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. cars and $2 extra for a seat; fast time, and only stop at big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train men in uniform, conductor's punch and lantern silverplated, and no train boys al- lowed. Then the passengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor; and it makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn't stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don't often hear of a receiver being ap- pointed for that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too." "Universalist?" I suggested. "Broad-gauge," said the brakeman, "does too much complimentary business. Every- body travels on a pass. Conductor doesn't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at all flag-stations, and won't run into anything but a union depot. No smoking-car on the train. Train orders are vague though, and the train men don't get along well with the passengers. No, I don't go to the Universalist, though I know some awfully good men who run on that road." "Presbyterian?" I asked. "Narrow-gauge, eh?" said the brakeman, "pretty track, straight as a rule; tunnel right through a mountain rather than go round it; spirit-level grade; passengers , have to show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little narrow; have to sit one in a seat and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there's no stop-over tickets allowed; got to go straight through to the station you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. When the car's full no extra coaches; cars built at the shops to hold just so many and nobody else allowed on. But you don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's run up to the rules." "Maybe you joined the Free-Thinkers?" I said. "Scrub road," said the brakeman; "dirt road-bed and no ballast; no time card and no train despatchers. All trains run wild and every engineer makes his own time, just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to; kind of go-as-you-please road. Too many side-tracks, and every switch wide open all the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target lamp dead out. Get on as you please and get off when you want to. Don't have to show your tickets, and the conductor isn't expected to do anything but amuse the passengers. No, sir, I was offered a pass, but I don't like the line. I don't like to travel on a line that has no terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a division superintendent where that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he didn't take orders from any living man or dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said he'd like to see anybody give him orders, he'd run that train to suit himself or he'd run it into the ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad man, and I don't care to run on a road that has no time, makes no connections, runs nowhere and has no Superintendent. It may be all right, but I've railroaded too long to understand it." "Did you try the Methodist?" I said. "Now you're shouting," he said with some enthusiasm. "Nice road, eh? Fast time and plenty of passengers. Engines carry a power of steam and don't you for- get it; steam gauge shows a hundred and enough all the time. Lively road; when the conductor shouts 'all aboard,' you can hear him to the next station. Good, whole- souled, companionable conductors; ain't a road in the country where the passengers feel more at home. No passes; every pas- senger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. Wesleyan house airbrake on all trains, too ; AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 63 pretty safe road, but I didn't ride over it yesterday." "Maybe you went to the Congregational church?" "Popular road," said the brakeman; "an old road, too; one of the very oldest in this country. Good road bed and comfortable cars. Well managed road, too; directors don't interfere with division superintend- ents and train orders. Road's mighty pop- ular, but it's pretty independent, too. Say, didn't one of the division superintend- ents down East discontinue one of the oldest stations on this line two or three years ago? But it's a mighty pleasant road to travel on. Always has such a splendid class of passengers." "Perhaps you tried the Baptist?" I guessed. "Ah, ha!" said the brakeman; "she's a daisy, isn't she! river road; beautiful curves; sweep around anything to keep close to the river. Takes a heap of water to run it through; double tanks at every station, and there isn't an engine in the shops that can pull a pound or run a mile in less than two gauges. But it runs through a lovely country ; these river roads always do; river on one side and hills on the other, and it's on a steady climb up the grade all the way till the run ends where the fountain-head of the river be- gins. Yes, sir, I'll take the river road every time for a lovely trip, sure connections and good time, and no prairie dust blowing in at the windows. And yesterday when the conductor came around for the tickets with a little basket punch, I didn't ask him to pass me, but I paid my fare like a little man — twenty-five cents for an hour's run and a little concert by the passengers throwed in. I tell you, Pilgrim, you take the river road when you want — > — " But just here the long whistle from the engine announced a station, and the brake- man hurried to the door shouting: "Zions- ville! Zionsville! This train makes no stops between here and Indianapolis!" & & S THE RESETTLEMENT OF ARCADIA. (From "Songs of the THE rocky slopes for emerald had changed their garb of gray, When the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the bay, There were flashing lights on every wave that drew the strangers on, And wreaths of wild arbutus round the brows of Blomidon. Five years in desolation the Acadian land had lain, Five golden harvest moons had wooed the fallow fields in vain; Five times the winter snows caressed, and summer sunsets smiled, Great Dominion.") On lonely clumps of willows, and fruit trees growing wild. There was silence in the forest, and along the Uniac shore, And not a habitation from Canard to Beausejour, But many a ruined cellar and many a broken wall Told the story of Acadia's prosperity, and fall ! And even in the sunshine of that peaceful day in June, When Nature swept her harp, and found the strings in perfect tune, 6-i AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. The land seemed calling wildly for its own- ers, far away, The exiles scattered on the coast from Maine to Charleston Bay. Where, with many bitter longings for their fair homes and their dead, They bowed their heads in anguish, and would not be comforted ; And like the Jewish exiles, long ago, be- yond the sea, They could not sing the songs of home in their captivity ! But the simple Norman peasant-folk shall till the land no more, For the vessels from Connecticut have anchored by the shore, And many a sturdy Puritan, his mind with Scripture stored, Rejoices he has found at last his "garden of the Lord." There are families from Jolland, from Kil- lingworth and Lyme ; Gentle mothers, tender maidens, and strong men in their prime ; There are lovers who have plighted their vows in Coventry, And merry children, dancing o'er the ves- sels' decks in glee. They come as came the Hebrews into their promised land, Not as to wild New England's shores came first the Pilgrim band, The Minas fields were fruitful, and the Gaspereau had borne To seaward many a vessel with its freight of yellow corn. They come with hearts as true as their manners blunt and cold, To found a race of noble men of stern New England mould, A race of earnest people, whom the com- ing years shall teach The broader ways of knowledge and the gentler forms of speech. They come as Puritans, but who shall say their hearts are blind To the subtle charms of Nature and the love of humankind? The Blue Laws of Connecticut have shaped their thought, 'tis true, But human laws can never wholly Heaven's wOrk undo. And tears fall fast from many an eye long time unused to weep, For o'er the fields lay whitening the bones of cows and sheep — The faithful cows that used to feed upon the broad Grand Pre, And with their tinkling bells come slowly home at close of day. And where the Acadian village stood, its roofs o'ergrown with moss, And the simple wooden chapel with its altar and its cross, And where the forge of Basil sent its sparks towards the sky, The lonely thistle blossomed and the fire- weed grew high. The broken dykes have been rebuilt a cen- tury and more, The cornfields stretch their furrows from Canard to Beausejour, Five generations have been reared beside the fair Grand Pre Since the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the bay. And now across the meadows, while the farmers reap and sow, The engine shrieks its discords to the. hills of Gaspereau; o EH izi w w m W EH s O 9 # H B p W ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 67 And ever onward to the sea, the restless Fundy tide Bears playful pleasure yachts and busy trade ships side by side. And the Puritan has yielded to the soften- ing touch of time, Like him who still content remained in Killingworth and Lyme; And graceful homes of prosperous men make all the landscape fair, And mellow creeds and ways of life are rooted everywhere. And churches nestle lovingly on many a glad hillside, And holy bells ring out their music in the eventide ; But here and there, on untilled ground, apart from glebe or town, Some lone surviving apple-tree stands leaf- less, bare and brown. And many a traveler has found, as thought- lessly he strayed, Some long-forgotten cellar in the deepest thicket's shade, And clumps of willows by the dykes, sweet- scented, fair and green, That seemed to tell again the story of Evangeline. —Arthur Wentworth Eaton. jX j£ «5C SPOOPENDYKE'S BICYCLE. NOW, my dear," said Mr. Spoopendyke, hurrying up to his wife's room, "If you'll come down in the yard I've got a pleasant surprise for you." "What is it?" asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, "what have you got, a horse?" "Guess again," grinned Mr. Spoopen- dyke. "It's something like a horse." "I know! It's a new parlor carpet. That's what it is!" "No, it isn't, either. I said it's some- thing like a horse; that is, it goes when you make it. Guess again." "Is it paint for the kitchen walls?" asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, innocently. "No, it ain't and it ain't a hogshead of stove blacking, nor a set of dining-room furniture, nor it ain't seven gross of sta- tionary wash tubs. Now guess again." "Then it must be some lace curtains for the sitting-room windows. Isn't that just splendid?" and Mrs. Spoopendyke patted her husband on both cheeks and danced up and down with delight, "It's a bicycle, that's what it is!" growled Mr. Spoopendyke. "I bought it for ex- ercise and I'm going to ride it. Come down and see me." "Well, ain't I glad," ejaculated Mrs. Spoopendyke. "You ought to have more exercise, if there's exercise in anything, it's in a bicycle. Do let's see it!" Mr. Spoopendyke conducted his wife to the yard and descanted at length on the merits of the machine. "In a few weeks I'll be able to make a mile a minute," he said, as he steadied the apparatus against the clothes post and pre- pared to mount. "Now you watch me go to the end of this path." He got a foot into one treadle and went head first into a flower patch, the machine on top, with a prodigious crash. "Hadn't you better tie it up to the post until you get on?" suggested Mrs. Spoop- endyke. "Leave me alone, will ye?" demanded Mr. Spoopendyke, struggling to an even 6S AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. keel. "I'm doing most of this myself. Now you hold on and keep your mouth shut. It takes a little practice, that's all." Mr. Spoopendyke mounted again and scuttled along four or five feet and flopped over on the grass plat. "That's splendid!" commended his wife. "You've got the idea already. Let me hold it for you this time." "If you've got any extra strength you hold your tongue, will ye?" growled Mr. Spoopendyke. "It don't want any holding. It ain't alive. Stand back and give me room, now." The third trial Mr. Spoopendyke ambled to the end of the path and went down all in a heap among the flower pots. "That's just too lovely for anything!" proclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke. "You made more'n a mile a minute, that time." "Come and take it off!" roared Mr. Spoopendyke. "Help me up! Dod gast the bicycle!" and the worthy gentleman struggled and plunged around like a whale in shallow water. Mrs. Spoopendyke assisted in righting him and brushed him off. "I know where you make your mistake," said she. "The little wheel ought to go first, like a buggy. Try it that way going back." "Maybe you can ride this bicycle better than I can," howled Mr. Spoopendyke. "You know all about wheels! What you need now is a lantern in your mouth and ten minutes behind time to be the City Hall clock! If you had a bucket of water and a handle you'd make a steam grind- stone! Don't you see the big wheel has got to go first?" "Yes, dear," murmured Mrs. Spoopen- dyke, "but I thought if you practiced with the little wheel at first, you wouldn't have so far to fall." "Who fell?" demanded Mr. Spoopen- dyke. "Didn't you see me step off? I tripped, that's all. Now you just watch me go back." Once more Mr. Spoopendyke started in, but the big wheel turned around and looked him in the face, and then began to stagger. "Look out!" squealed Mrs. Spoopen- dyke. Mr. Spoopendyke wrenched away and kicked and struggled, but it was of no avail. Down he came, and the bicycle was a hope- less wreck. "What'dye want to yell for!" he shrieked. "Couldn't ye keep your measly mouth shut? What'd ye think we are, anyhow, a fog horn? Dod gast the measly bicycle!" and Mr. Spoopendyke hit it a kick that folded it up like a bolt of muslin. "Never mind, my dear," consoled Mrs. Spoopendyke, "I'm afraid the exercise was too violent anyway, and I'm rather glad you broke it." "I s'pose so," snorted Mr. Spoopendyke. "There's sixty dollars gone." "Don't worry, love. I'll go without the carpet and curtains, and the paint will do well enough in the kitchen. Let me rub you with arnica." But Mr. Spoopendyke was too deeply grieved by his wife's conduct to accept any office at her hands, preferring to punish her by letting his wounds smart rather than get well, and thereby relieve her of any anxiety she brought on herself by acting so outrageously under the circumstances. — Stanley Huntley. In this department are embraced the choicest patriotic literature and descriptive scenes of war from Colonial days to the present time. *2* *cfi c5* BURIAL UNDER FIRE. (Can be used either as a HIGH on the ridge where the marines pitched their tents on the shore of Guantanamo Bay, the first Cuban soil taken by American troops, are the graves of the men who were killed in the first land fighting of our war with Spain. They were buried under fire by men who overlooked no tithe of the solemn ceremony, although the singing of Spanish bullets rose clear above the voice of the chaplain. The burial squad was composed of marines from the Texas. Wrapped in flags, the honorable winding sheet of soldiers killed in battle, the bodies were borne from a tent in which they had lain to a trench dug by men who made it deep because their fear that the drenching Cuban rains would give their comrades to the buzzards was greater than their fear of the death they risked as they plied pick and shovel. Chaplain Jones of the Texas, the firing squad, a few officers and some correspond- ents stood bareheaded about the grave. From the thick cover beyond there came the irregular "putt, putt, putt" of skirmish fire and the regular sputter of the machine guns. There marines and Spanish guer- rillas were fighting from thicket to thicket. Soon there would be more dead to bury, we thought. Gently the men of the Texas lowered the flagwound "jollies" — "Soldier and sailor, reading or a recitation.) too," as Kipling has it — into the earth. The chaplain stood with his back to the cover from which came the rattle of musketry, and began the solemn service. Slow and deliberate fell the words, and seldom has their import been realized more fully than it was there at the edge of the bullet-threshed jungle. "Man that is born of woman " A bullet pecked the earth at his feet and sent it flying. Others sang overhead. Some leaves and twigs fell from the near- est trees. A man or two dropped behind the earth thrown out of the grave. The Spanish were firing on the burial party. The marines of the Texas raised their heads for a second and bowed them again. They made no other motion. The officer in command, pale ordinarily, flushed red as if angered by the enemy's sacrilege. The chaplain moved a pace from where he was standing and turned his face toward the thicket from which the bullets were coming. Then his words fell slowly and gravely, "Man that is born of woman," and so to the end. As he faced the fire those who had sought shelter stood up instantly and bowed their heads reverently. The fire slackened, ceased. The earth fell on the flags and covered them, and the heroes wrapped within. A man or two dropped a tear and a tender, parting word to his 69 ■ 70 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. comrades, and the burial party, its duty fit- tingly done, moved seaward over the crest of the ridge out of range. Half way down the crooked path which led to the landing two of the men who had stood steadily at the grave were marked by a Spanish sharp-shooter, and a Mauser bullet "pinged" above them. They ran for cover like startled game, for the funeral was over and they had no desire to make another. But the men who were at the grave that day will remember long and with a solemn sense of their great lesson the words, "Man that is born of woman." j* BARBARA FRIETCHIE. U P from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand, Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain wall. Over the mountain winding down, Horse and foot into Fredericktown. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Fredericktown She took up the flag the men hauled down. In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. "Halt!" the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire" — out blazed the rifle blast. It shivered the window pane and sash, It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word. "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog. March on!" he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet; All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the serried host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well. And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 11 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the soldier rides on his raids no more. Honor to her, and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave. Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Fredericktown. — John Greenleaf Whittier. *£T* f&rt t£r* "OLD IRONSIDES." (Written with reference to the proposed break AY, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle-shout, And burst the cannon's roar: The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more! Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood And waves were white below, ing up of the famous frigate "Constitution.") No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! O better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave! Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave: Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale! — Oliver Wendell Holmes. (5* (£* &5* BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps: They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on. I have read a fiery Gospel, writ in burn- ished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. 72 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that trans- figures you and me : As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. — Julia Ward Howe. t&* t5* ^* GRANDFATHER'S STORY. (In old-time English costume.) DO my darlings want the story I have told so oft before, Of the little drummer laddie And his gallant deed of yore? But you love to hear about it? Aye, my children, that is well, 'Twas a bright and brave example Of the spirit that should dwell In the hearts of British children, Be they high or be they low; Just "Fear God and do your duty," It is all in that, you know. Little Jack — I think I see him, Stand as you are standing now, With his cap set trim and jaunty On the curls around his brow; He was but a child, my darlings, Not much older, Will, than you; And his cheeks were just as rosy, And his eyes were just as blue. Not a man of us but blessed him For the spirit kind and gay, That we never knew to fail him From the time we marched away. From the time his mother kiss'd him, As she held him to her heart, And he kept the childish tears back, Though God knows 'twas hard to part. Then the great ship bore us over The blue ocean, lone and wide, To the distant lands where many, Many a British soldier died. Many a mile our army plodded 'Neath the burning foreign sun; Many a night we had no shelter When the toilsome day was done. Very often sick and hungry, We marched on in sorry plight;* But in marching, or in halting, By the camp fire's blaze at night, Little Jack, the drummer laddie, Cheered us as we onward went; Making light of every hardship, Always blithesome and content, Full of boyish pranks and laughter, Full of kindly winsome ways, And his gallant spirit bore him Through the hardest, longest days. Not a man of us but loved him, Though we were but rough and wild, E'en Sir John, our grim old Colonel, On the drummer laddie smiled. But, at last to our march was ended, And, at last, we knew the foe We had come to fight was near us, In the valley down below. Well, the night before the battle Our young Captain spoke to me, Short and sharp, as was his custom, — "Sergeant Moore, that gap you see, Pick your men, and guard it strictly, Post a sentinel outside, And be smart, my man, about it" — And he turn'd away to ride. Up jumped Jack, the little drummer, "Sergeant Moore, you'll let me go?" And he looked with eyes beseeching, PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 73 "I've sharp ears, as well you know." Aye, I knew it; not a hunter • Of a red deer on the track, Was so keen and quick of hearing As our blithesome drummer Jack. So I took him, it was wrong, dears — He was such a child, you see, And 'twas older hands we wanted, And the captain trusted me. Down the dark defile we scrambled, And beyond the gap we saw Where the foe was camped before us; 'Twas not wider than a door — That dark gap between two hillsides; And I saw if we could keep 'Gainst the enemy its entrance, Safe that night our men might sleep. Little Jack crept just outside it ; "I shall hear them if they stir," In my ear he whispered softly, As he leaned against a fir. "And you'll stay there!" I commanded, As I held him by the arm — "You'll not stir a step, my laddie, Save to give us the alarm!" And he answered, "Trust me, Sergeant, I'll not stir, or close an eye; 'Twill be safe to-night — our army — Or I'll know the reason why." 'Twas his safety that I thought of; Do you mark me, Bess and Will? I was fearful of his straying Into danger down the hill. For I knew his fearless spirit, And I meant he should abide Where, at lightest hint of danger, I could call him to my side. But 'twas long before the dawning That a breathless comrade came, Bidding us fall back, and quickly — Speaking in the captain's name. They'd not try to pass, he told us, As along the path we filed, And we all — may God forgive us ! In our haste forgot the child. But not far had we proceeded Ere we heard the rolling boom, Up the narrow path behind us, Of our lad's familiar drum, Followed by the crack and rattle Of a rifle in our rear. So we turned upon the instant — (In our hearts an awful fear For the child we had deserted) — Face to face we met the foe. There were but a score of them, Will — How we cut them down, you know. On we went; some few were wounded; It was but the chance of war — 'Till we heard a feeble drum-beat, And a well-known blithe "hurrah!" There was Jack beneath the fir tree, With a broken leg and arm, While, with but one hand, brave laddie, He was beating the alarm. Dropping shots, you see, had struck him, And he fainted, so he said, And the enemy had left him 'Neath the dusky fir for dead. But he soon came to, and fearing They'd surprise us in the pass, On his drum he beat a warning As he lay upon the grass. "But what ailed you not to follow When you heard us move away!" Thus I asked him, sitting sadly . By his little cot next day. "Follow you?" he cried. "Why, Sergeant, You had told me not to stir From the spot where I was posted, In the shelter of the fir. Could I disobey my orders? I was sentinel, you know, 74 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. And you were not out of hearing When I caught a sound below; And the enemy was on me — I'd have beat you a tattoo If I'd had the time; but, Sergeant, I was hit before I knew. Then I tried to warn you after, Lest they took you by surprise; It was but my duty, Sergeant," Said the lad with shining eyes. Thus he saved our camp; we knew it; And the bravest in the land, When the boy got well, have said it, As they shook him by the hand. "But we cannot all be heroes;" Nay, my lad, you're right enough; But we can be brave and faithful, And, believe me, that's the stuff Which makes best and bravest soldiers. Strong to bear and swift to do — Are the boys who learn contentment, And are patient, kind and true. Don't make much of little hardships, Help a comrade when you can; You'll have many ,a foe to fight, Will, Ere you come to be a man. So will you, my darling Bessie, As to womanhood you grow; But "Fear God and do your duty," That's the safest rule I know. — Helen Marion Bnrnside. & S jt THE REGULAR ARMY MAN. HE ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," Ter sparkle in the sun; He don't parade with gay cockade, And posies in his gun; He ain't no "pretty" soldier boy, So lovely, spick and span ; He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Reg'lar Army man; The marchin', parching Pipe-clay starchin', Reg'lar Army man. He ain't at home in Sunday-school, Nor yet a social tea; And on the'day he gets his pay He's apt ter spend it free; He ain't no temp'rance advocate; He likes ter fill the can; He's kinder rough an', maybe, tough, The Reg'lar Army man; The rarin', tarin', Sometimes swearin', Reg'lar Army man. No Statell call him "noble son!" He ain't no ladies' pet, But let a row start anyhow, They'll send for him, you bet! He don't cut any ice at all In fash'n's social plan; He gits the job ter face a mob, The Reg'lar Army man; The milling drillin', Made for killin', Reg'lar Army man. They ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off ter war; He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach" From Mayor or Governor; He packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, Ter start the fight and start it right, The Reg'lar Army man; The rattlin', battlin', Colt or Gatlin', Reg'lar Army man. PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 75 e makes no fuss about the job, He don't talk big or brave, He knows he's in ter fight and win Or help fill up a grave; He ain't no "mamma's darlin'," but He does the best he can; And he's the chap that wins the scrap, The Reg'lar Army man; The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Reg'lar Army man. — Joe Lincoln. <£r* fc?» (£• WHEN THE SPANISH WAR BROKE OUT. HE gits roun' now on just one peg Ter beat the very Ian'! Thank God! he's only got one leg — They won't take my ol' man. (He lost that leg in our last war, But I could never tell whut fer.) I sets an' sees him hobblin' roun' — They's sojers passin' through, An' "Dixie's" wakin' up the town, An' "Yankee Doodle" too. I hears him holler, "Hip, hooray!" (Thank God! they can't take him away.) He seen his fightin' days. He went With Jackson an' with Lee. An' now he's come ter be content Ter set roun' home with me. He's lost one leg — that's gone shore. ■ Thank God! he'll never lose no more. But when the ban' plays "Dixie" — my! It sets him wild ag'in! He cheers the boys a-trompin' by An' want's ter jine in! But I— I sez, "Come, that'll do! They don't want one-leg folks like you." So let 'em fight from left ter right All over sea an' land — I thank the Lord, by day an' night, They won't take my ol' man! He's lost one leg — that's gone fer shore. Thank God! he'll never lose no more. <£ & <& THE SONG OF THE GUN. THE furnace was white with steel a-light, When my newborn spirit came In a molten flood of the war-god's blood, In a passion of fire and flame. I looked o'er the deep from a lofty steep With a strong heart full of pride ; Like a king alone on his stately throne Whose word no man denied. My thunder spoke from the battle smoke, When the waves ran crimson red, And heroes died by my iron side, Till the foreign foemen fled. The sentence of death was in my breath, And many a ship went down — Oh, the gun is lord of the feeble sword, And greater is his renown. Now the long grass hides my rusty sides, And round me the children play; But I dream by night of a last great fight, Ere the trump of the Judgment Day. For men must fight in the cause of right, Till the time when war shall cease; And the song of the gun will ne'er be done Till the dawn of lasting peace. 76 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. THE TWO GREAT FLAGS. TWO proud flags to the skies unfurled, Types of an English-speaking world ; Types of the world that is yet to be, Rich and happy and proud and free; Types of a world of peace and law, Closer together in friendship draw! Can ye descry with the sight of seers, What shall be wrought in coming years? E'en but a century more will teach A thousand millions the English speech! Vast Australia, from sea to sea, Peopled all with our kin will be. Grand New Zealand, a busy hive, Britain in duplicate then, will thrive; While the Dark Continent, dark no more, Lighted with industry, law and love. India's boundless, human sea, Great and honored and justly free, India then shall speak the tongue Shakespeare uttered and Milton sung. What of Columbia's later fame? What for her can the century claim? Ask what the century past has done; Gaze on the triumphs that she has won. Give the imagination rein; People each tenantless hill and plain; Swell her borders, and all around, View the Republic, ocean bound! Yes, but a century more will teach A thousand millions the English speech. And, as the centuries onward roll, Earth shall feel it from pole to pole. Speech, the grandest that man has known, Gathering thought from every zone ; Law, the best that the human mind Ever devised to rule mankind; Literature, from every pen Ever wielded to gladden men, — Covering Earth like a whelming sea, Anglo-Saxon the world shall be. Two proud flags to the skies unfurled, Types of an English-speaking world; Types of the world that is yet to be, Types of a world of peace and law, — Close together in friendship draw! — Hubert M. Skinner. t&* to* t5* THE "COWARD" IN BATTLE. THERE is a regiment with its right flank resting on the woods — its left in an open field near a group of haystacks. Three pieces of artillery in front have been playing in the pine thicket half a mile away for the last ten minutes, but without pro- voking any reply. Watch this man — this Second Lieuten- ant of Company F. He is almost a giant in size. He has a fierce eye, a roaring voice, and men have said that he was as brave as a lion. When the regiment was swung into position and the battery opened he said to himself: "How foolish in us to attack the enemy when he was seeking to retreat! This blunder will cost us many lives. Our fire will soon be returned, and it will be good-by to half our regiment. I shall be one of the first to fall. If I was one of the rear-rank privates, I'd give all the money I hope ever to have." As three— five — ten minutes pass away and the fire is not returned, the coward be- gins to pluck up heart. He blusters at the men, tries to joke with the officers on his right, and says to himself: "This may turn out all right after all. We are in no danger thus far, and if the enemy retreats we shall share the credit. I must try and make everybody believe that I am disappointed PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 77 because we have not been ordered to ad- vance." Boom — shriek — crash! Now the enemy open fire in reply. They have six guns to answer three. In two minutes they have the range and a shell kills or wounds five or six men. The coward's cheeks grow pale. He whispers: "Great heavens; we shall all be slaughtered! Why doesn't the colonel order us to retire? Why are men kept here to be shot down in this way? What a fool I was not to go on the sick list last night! If it wasn't that so many are looking at me, I'd lie down to escape the fire!" Another shell — a third — fourth — fifth, and thirty or forty men have been killed. Men won't stand that long. They must either retreat or advance. "We shall advance," whispers the cow- ard. The order will come to dash forward and take those guns. Shot and shell and grape will leave none of us alive. What folly to advance! I hope I may be slightly wounded, so I shall have an excuse for seeking cover in some of these ditches." An aid rides up to the Colonel and gives an order. The Colonel rides to the head of his line and orders the lines dressed for an advance. The men dress under a hot fire, and the coward groans aloud: "It is awful to die this way! How idiotic in me to accept a commission — to enter the ser- vice — to put myself in front of certain death! Oh, dear! If I could only get some excuse for lagging behind!" The lines dash forward into the smoke — the enemy's fire grows more rapid — the dead and wounded strew the ground. Where and what of the coward? Three days later, the Colonel's report will read: "I desire to make special mention of Lieutenant . As the regiment ad- vanced, the Captain and First Lieutenant of Company F were killed by the same shell, leaving the Second Lieutenant of Company F in command. He was equal to the emergency. Springing to the head of the company, he encouraged the men, led them straight at the guns, two pieces of which were captured by the Company." A month later the coward was a Captain. o?* e5* ft5* NATHAN HALE. SPEED, speed thee forth," said Wash- ington, On Harlem's battle plain, "For yonder lies the British foe, Bring back his plans of battle, Go!" The volunteer of twenty-one, Whose heart was never known to quail, Bowed — heard his orders, — bowed again, 'Twas Captain Nathan Hale. One night when shone the harvest moon, His boat shot thro' the spray, Blithely across the starlit sound To where upon Manhattan's ground The British were encamped, and soon The soldier-boy was on their trail — Captured their plans,— "Now for the fray," Cried fearless Nathan Hale. But e'er his noble task was done Within the foeman's bounds, A yell came up from Briton throats, He saw their shining scarlet coats — "What, ho ! a spy from Washington," Ah, Heaven, then was he doomed to fail; As round a hare spring famished hounds, They close round Nathan Hale. PATRIOTISM AND WAR. Condemned to death the hero lay With shackles on his limbs, . And mem'ry brought New London town, His sweetheart with her curls of brown, His anxious mother, old and gray, Alas, how will they hear the tale. A welcome tear and blue eye dims Of valiant Nathan Hale. They led him forth 'mid gibes and jeers To meet the patriot's fate, The solace of God's Holy Word He asked, but ne'er a Briton stirred, Their oaths still fell upon his ears, Their robber flag waved in the gale, Their eyes fired by revenge and hate Were fixed on Nathan Hale. Like bloodhounds eager for his gore They cried out, "Hang the spy." Undaunted there the hero stands, And lifting up his shackled hands, The while his captors raved and swore, A flush came o'er his cheek so pale "Back, cowards, I'll show you how to die," Cried noble Nathan Hale. "A hundred lives, ye knaves accurst I'd yield, and bliss were crowned, ■ To burn that blood-stained rag o'erhead, And raise the Stars and Stripes instead. I'm ready now, fiends, do your worst, To Freedom's glorious dawn all hail !" The hangman's rope is thrown around The neck of Nathan Hale. Forgotten? ne'er while Freedom's stars Shine forth in deathless light, From out the flag he loved so well, For which he lived and fought and fell. His guerdon was the soldier's scars. And death, far from his native vale — Brave heart, that throbbed for love and right, Brave soldier, Nathan Hale. t5* %2fr c<5* GETTYSBURG, 1895. THE fields of Gettysburg are green Where once the red blood ran; The oak leaves throw a dancing sheen Where perished horse and man; The saplings whisper on the hill Where rolled a fiery tide, And songbirds splash the laughing Where armies fought and died. A marble sentry scans the field And granite cannons frown Where dusty regiments once wheeled And shot and shell rained down; But o'er the sentry's martial face Now sits the cooing dove, Breaking the silence of the place With murmuring notes of love. rill The only colors in the glades Are those of buds and flowers; The swift and sudden fusillades Are made by passing showers. Huge haycarts now are chariot cars, And soldiers, boys at play; The only camp fires are the stars, The fiery glory, day. Thank God that all things in this life Together move for right; That Night and her half-sister, Strife, Shall die in joy and light; That through a mystery above His mercies ne'er shall cease; That out of hate shall issue love, And out of war come peace. PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 79 FLAG OF THE RAINBOW. This recitation may be made very effective if the National Flag be placed where it can be readily pointed to. The "Star Spangled Banner" might be played softly during the rendering of the poem. FLAG of the rainbow, and banner of stars, Emblem of light and shield of the lowly, Never to droop while our soldiers and tars Rally to guard it from outrage unholy. Never may shame or misfortune attend it, Enmity sully, or treachery rend it, While but a man is alive to defend it : Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. Flag of a land where the people are free, Ever the breezes salute and caress it ; Planted on earth, or afloat in the sea, Gallant men guard it, and fair women bless it. Fling out its folds o'er a country united, Warmed by the fires that our forefathers lighted, Refuge where down-trodden man is in- vited : Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. Flag that our sires gave in trust to their sons, Symbol and sign of a liberty glorious, While the grass grows and the clear water runs, Ever invincible, ever victorious. Long may it waken our pride and devotion, Rippling its colors in musical motion, First on the land, and supreme on the ocean : Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. <5* t(5* «(?• THE TORPEDO-BOAT. SHE'S a floating boiler crammed with fire and steam ; A toy, with dainty works like any watch ; A working, weaving basketful of tricks — ■ Eccentric, cam and lever, cog and notch. She's a dashing, lashing, tumbling shell of steel, A headstrong, kicking, nervous, plung- ing beast ; A long, lean ocean liner — trimmed down small ; A bucking broncho harnessed for the East. She can rear and toss and roll Your body from your soul, And she's most unpleasant wet — to say the least ! But see her slip in, sneaking down, at night ; All a-tremble, deadly, silent — Satan sly. Watch her gather for the rush, and catch her breath ! See her dodge the wakeful cruiser's sweeping eye. Hear the humming! Hear her coming! Coming fast! (That's the sound might make men wish they were at home, Hear the rattling Maxim, barking rapid fire), See her loom out through the fog with bows afoam! Then some will wish for land — They'd be sand fleas in the sand Or yellow grubs reposing in the loam. 80 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. QUEBEC. (From "Songs of the OUEBEC! how regally it crowns the height, Like a tanned giant on a solid throne ! Unmindful of the sanguinary fight, The roar of cannon mingling with the moan Of mutilated soldiers years agone, That gave the place a glory and a name Among the nations. France was heard to groan; England rejoiced, but checked the proud acclaim, — Great Dominion.") A brave young chief had fall'n to vindi- cate her fame. Wolfe and Montcalm! two nobler names ne'er graced The page of history, or the hostile plain; No braver souls the storm of battle faced, Regardless of the danger or the pain. They passed unto their rest without a stain Upon their nature or their generous hearts. One graceful column to the noble twain Speaks of a nation's gratitude, and starts The tear that Valor claims and Feeling's self imparts. *5* ^* ^* TREKKING. Song of the Boer women. TREKKING trekking, trekking! Will never the trekk be done? Will never the rest, will never the home be won and forever won? Are we only as beasts of the jungle afoot for the fleeing prey, With a lair in the bush at midnight, on the veldt a trackless way? Ever the word is "onward" — ever our white train goes Deeper and deeper northward beyond the grasp of our foes — Deeper and deeper northward our fathers went before, But the door of the veldt is closed, is closed ! Where can we trekk to more? Trekking, trekking, trekking! Think you we love not our home ? Think you my father prized not the farm of the yellow loam? And mother, I see her weeping beside my brother tall, Turning and gazing northward beyond the mountain wall. The cattle, they seem to be standing dumb in a brute despair ; With a longing look at the pastures they feel the trekk in the air ! Even old Yok seems broken ; he turns from the tempting bones ; I see him there in the corner, manlike, brooding alone ! Trekking, trekking, trekking! Through the Zululand we go, The midnight tiger stalking us, and ever the savage foe — Before — the savage foe to meet, the "red- coat" foe behind — What have we done to be blown about like a leaf upon the wind? Ah, over the Vaal we shall find our peace — over the rushing Vaal — The Lord has led us to rest at last ; blindly we followed his call; PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 81 The land he promised is ours to keep — is ours forever to keep — Piet, what noise is that in the fold ? Think you a wolf at the sheep ? Trekking, trekking, trekking! We have trekked till our tall, strong men Have sworn an oath by our father's God we shall never trekk again ! The doors of the northward veldt are closed; the doors of our heart are strong ; They shall ope their lock to a brother's knock, but not to the threat of wrong ! There is the gun your father bore when he climbed Majuba's hill; 'Tis yours, Piet, to bear it now with your father's faith and will, For the land is ours — the land is ours — if ever a land was won; You go at«the dawn, you say, my son ? Yes, go at the dawn, my son ! — John Jerome Rooney. t5* <5* ?5* DON'T CHEER, BOYS; THEY'RE DYING. When the Spanish ships were sinking at the battle of Santiago and the waters were thick with dead and dying Spaniards, the sailors on the United States battleship Texas began to cheer. Captain Philip checked them with these words : "Don't cheer, boys, the poor devils are dying." THE smoke hangs heavy o'er the sea, Beyond the storm-swept battle line, Where floats the flag of Stripes and Stars, Triumphant o'er the shattered foe. The walls of Morro thunder still their fear ; Helpless, a mass of flame, the foeman drifts, And o'er her decks the flag of white. Hushed voices pass the word from lip to lip, And grimy sailors silent stand beside the guns, "Cease firing. An enemy is dying. Do not cheer." "An enemy is dying. Do not cheer." Thy servants' glorious tribute to Thy name, Christ, Lord, who rules the battle well, Who, watching, guards our destinies, And seeth e'en the sparrows fall. Redly, through the drifting smoke, the sun looks down On silent guns and shot-pierced bloody wreck, Long lines of weary men, with heads bowed low, Give thanks, in presence of Thy reaper grim. Thy will be done, O Lord, Thou rulest all. t5» (,5* &?* HOBSON AND HIS CHOSEN SEVEN. COME, kings and queens the world around, Whose power and fame all climes resound ! Come, sailors bold and soldiers brave, Whose names shall live beyond the grave ! Come, men and women, come, boys and girls, Wherever our flag to the breeze unfurls ! Come one, come all, let none stand back, Come, praise the men of the Merrimac ! Out from the water, .out from the fire, Out from the jaws of death most dire ! Far up in the fame and light of heaven, See Hobson with his chosen seven ! 83 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. MARCHING SONG OF THE ROUGH RIDERS. ROUGH riders were we from the west, Gallant gentlemen the rest, Of volunteers the best; Rallied to the flag at Roosevelt's behest To carve our way to glory. When the Spanish shells and, shrapnel burst, Our losses were the worst — The chaplain even cursed. "Charge!" cried Colonel Roosevelt, and charged the first To carve our way to glory. Our rapid fire tore the Spanish line to bits, And scared them into fits; Their leaders lost their wits ; Up the hill we went and stormed their rifle pits To carve our way to glory. Intrenched within the pits long we lay, By night as well as day, Sore at the delay; In our rear the yellow fever raged at Sib- oney To cheat us out of glory. When no bloody Spaniards are left to run, Cuba will be won, Our duty will be done; Dead and living every single one Has carved his way to glory. (■5* t5* «i5* DE BUGLE ON DE HILL. IDOAN' like de noise er de marchin' ob de boys — An' I 'low I doan' s'pose I evah will — Er de trampin' ob de feet to de drum's wild beat, Er de blowin' ob de bugle on de hill. Hit minds me ob de day when Gabe marched away An' ole missus stood beside de cabin do'; Sumpin' whispahed in my eah 'bout my little volunteah, An' sade he nevah will come back no mo'. I's thinkin' mos' to-day ob how he marched away, Wid de bright sun a-climbin' up de sky ; Marched out an' down the street to de drum's wild beat, An' den how dey fotched 'im home to die. Oh, de sad, moanful way missus bowed her head to pray, When Gabe said, "Hit's gittin' mighty still, ' But I'll rise an ? jine de boys when I heah de cannon's noise, Er de soun' ob de bugle on de hill!" Dar's a spot mighty deah to dis ole darky heah, ' Whar de sunshine am peekin' trough de palms. Wid his hands 'pon his breast dar my sol- dier's gone to rest, Jest peacefully a-sleepin' in de calms; An' de drum's wild beat er de tread ob marchin' feet I know cain't disturb 'im now until De Lo'd gibs command, den I know he'll rise an' stan' At de blowin' ob de bugle on de hill. This department has been selected and arranged with a view of providing the children with the kind of recitations they like. It embraces a wide variety — cute, pretty, funny, patriotic, and moral. Each piece has been submitted to children who have taken part in public entertainments and has met with their enthusiastic approval. t5* <5* t£& THE DOLL'S LESSON. A doll is seated in a small chair facing the audience. A little girl, wearing glasses and with a book in her hand, addresses the doll. WELL, little girl, you wish to come to school, do you? I hope you are a very good girl, and will not give me any trouble. What is your name? Lucy, is it? Well, Lucy, do you know your letters? Can you read and spell and write? You don't know anything, eh? How shocking! Well, then, I will try to teach you how to spell your name the first thing, because every little girl, when she is as big as you, ought to know how to spell her name. Lucy — that's an easy name to spell. Now say "L" — you can remember that if you'll just think of "Aunt El.;" then "U"— u, remember, not me — that's L-U. Next comes "C" — that's what you do with your eyes, you know— "C." L-U-C, and the last is "Y," that's easy— "Y." Why, of course! And now you have it all! — L (for Aunt El.)-U (not me)-C (with your eyes)-and Y (why, of course) — Lucy. That is very good. You'll soon be a good scholar, I see ! Now you may take a recess. t5* (5* t5* THE BAD LITTLE BOYS. THREE bad little boys kept wide awake Once on a Christmas Eve ; Though their mothers tucked them up in bed And kissed and covered each curly head, They just played make-believe. "We'll wait and watch for Santa Claus, And we won't make any noise; And we'll see him drop From the chimney-top!" Said these wicked little boys. Then the house grew lonely — dark and still, And the fire died in the grate And the wind that over the chimney blew Wailed like a witch, and said: "You-oo Are sitting up too late." And the snow that pelted the window-pane Made faces at them all; And the clock on the mantel ticked, "Oh, ho! I know — I know — I know — I know!" And the shadows danced on the wall. 85 86 JUVENILE GEMS. The clothes in the corner looked like ghosts With" the shadows over them shed; And they wanted to scream, but they couldn't speak, For they heard the stairs go crickety- creak, Like the goblins were going to bed! And then — down the chimney came Santa Claus, Fresh from his snowy sleigh; But they thought 'twas a ghost from the goblin crowd, And all together they screamed so loud That they frightened him away! — Frank L. Stanton. (5* c5* cS* ABOUT FIRE CRACKERS. (For a boy.) IF there were no fire crackers What could a small boy do To keep the nation's birthday? I do not know. Do you? How can I show my gladness For Independence Day, Unless with noisy crackers I bang and blaze away? When I am a man like you, (Points to some one in the audience), I shall not make a noise, But instead, I'll sit and scold About those noisy boys. So, hurrah! I'm glad we shipped King George across the seas, If we hadn't, pray, what use Could I have had for these? (Pulls a pack of fire-crackers out of each pocket and holds them up.) c?* ^* *(5* THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. OH! the quietest home on earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of care; Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, And Peace had folded her pinions there. But one day there joined in our household band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why ; Like slaves we trembled before his might, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry; For never a soul could his power with- stand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- land. He ordered us here, and he sent us there — Though never a word could his small lips speak — With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, "Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's- land." But his abject slaves they turned on me; Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there JUVENILE GEMS. 87 The while they worshiped with bended knee The ruthless wretch with the missing hair, For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- land. Then I searched for help in every clime, For Peace had fled from my dwelling now Till I finally thought of old Father Time, And low before him I made my bow. "Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from- No-man's- land?" Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim. I'll take the tyrant under my care: Watch what my hour-glass does to him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned. Is this same bald-head from No-man's- land. tG& (5* ^* THE HOLE IN HIS POCKET. GUESS what he had in his pocket. Marbles and tops and sundry toys Such as always belong to boys, A bitter apple, a leathern ball ? Not at all. What did he have in his pocket? A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw, A brass watch-key, broken in two, A fish-hook in a tangle of string? — No such thing. What did he have in his pocket? Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made, Buttons, a knife with a broken blade, A nail or two and a rubber gun ? — Neither one. What did he have in his pocket? Before he knew it slyly crept Under the treasures carefully kept, And away they all of them quickly stole — 'Twas a hole! ^* <5* to* GEORGE WASHINGTON'S LITTLE HATCHET. (Told by Robert J. Burdette, the Preacher-Humorist, with occasional questions by a five- year-old hearer.) AND so, smiling, we went on. "Well, one day, George's father — " "George who?" asked Clarence. "George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father—" "Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest. "George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day George Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a — " "Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted with a gleam of bewitch- ing intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn't. We knew how to talk to children. So we went on: "George Washington. His — " "Who gave him the little hatchet?" "His father. And his father—" "Whose father?" "George Washington's." "Oh!" 88 JUVENILE GEMS. "Yes, George Washington. And his father told him — " "Told who?" "Told George." "Oh, yes, George." And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy inter- rupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said: "And he was told—" "George told him?" queried Clarence. "No, his father told George — " "Oh!" "Yes; told him he must be careful with the hatchet—" "Who must be careful?" "George must." "Oh!" "Yes; must be careful with his hatch- et—" "What hatchet?" "Why, George's." "Oh!" "With the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out in the grass all night. So George went round cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to a splendid apple tree, his father's favorite, and cut it down and — " "Who cut it down?" "George did." "Oh!" "But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and — " "Saw the hatchet?" "No, saw the apple tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favorite apple tree?' " "What apple tree?" "George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and — " "Anything about what?" "The apple tree." "Oh!" "And George came up and heard them talking about it — " "Heard who talking about it?" "Heard his father and the men." "What were they talking about?" "About this apple tree." "What apple tree?" "The favorite tree that George cut down." "George who?" "George Washington." , "Oh!" "So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he — " "What did he cut it down for?" "Just to try his little hatchet." "Whose little hatchet?" "Why, his own, the one his father gave him." "Gave who?" "Why, George Washington." "Oh!" "So George came up and he said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I — ' " "Who couldn't tell a lie?" "Why, George Washington. He said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was — ' " "His father couldn't?" "Why, no; George couldn't." "Oh! George? oh yes!" " 'It was I cut down your apple tree ; I did—' " "His father did?" "No, no; it was George said this." "Said he cut his father?" "No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree." "George's apple tree?" "No, no; his father's." "Oh!" "He said—" "His father said?" JUVENILE GEMS. 89 "No, no, no; George said. 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.' And his father said: 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand trees than have you tell a lie.' " "George did?" "No, his father said that." "Said he'd rather have a thousand apple trees?" "No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple trees than — " "Said he'd rather George would?" "No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie." "Oh! George would rather have his father lie?" We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pat- tered down the stairs we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree. %5* to* tc& THE AMERICAN BOY. LOOK up, my young American! Stand firmly on the earth, Where noble deeds and mental power Give titles over birth. A hallow'd land thou claim'st my boy, By early struggles bought, Heaped up with noble memories, And wide, aye, wide as thought! What though we boast no ancient towers Where "ivied" streamers twine, The laurel lives upon our soil, The laurel, boy, is thine. And though on "Cressy's distant field," Thy gaze may not be cast, While through long centuries of blood Rise spectres of the past, — The future wakes thy dreamings high, And thou a note mayst claim — Aspirings which in after times Shall swell the trump of fame. And when thou'rt told of knighthood's shield And English battles won, Look up, my boy, and breathe one word — ■ The name of Washington. <5* <5* (5* MRS. RABBIT'S SCHOOL. M RS. RABBIT had a school Of little bunnies, five; Said she: "I think each one's a fool, As sure as I'm alive. "I've tried to teach them numbers, I've tried to make them sing, And now the term is almost out, They haven't learned a thing." Committee came, one day, to see If they were doing well She told him how, of all the five, Not one could read or spell. Said he: "My friend, I do believe Of time it is a waste To try and teach a rabbit, And not consult his taste." 90 JUVENILE GEMS. So, he took away their "Primers," And in each little paw He placed — now what do you suppose? A good-sized turnip, raw. How they got on, I cannot tell, But this, I know, is true: When school was out, they knew as much As other rabbits do. — "Treasure Trove." LITTLE BY LITTLE. ONE step and then another, and the longest walk is ended; One stitch and then another, and the wid- est rent is mended; One brick upon another, and the highest wall is made; One flake upon another, and the deepest snow is laid. Then do not frown nor murmur at the work you have to do, Or say that such a mighty task you never can get through; But just endeavor, day by day, another point to gain, And soon the mountain that you feared will prove to be a plain. ^» <5* %5* A HUMAN QUESTION POINT. SIXTY questions make an hour, One for every minute; And Neddy tries, with all his might, To get more questions in it. Sixty questions make an hour, And as for a reply; The wisest sage would stand aghast At Neddy's searching "Why?" Sixty questions make an hour, And childhood's hours are brief; So Neddy has no time to waste, No pauses for relief. Sixty questions make an hour, Presto! Why, where is Ned? Alas, he's gone, and in his place A Question Point instead! t2& *5* ^* ONLY A BOY. ONLY a boy with his noise and fun, The veriest mystery under the sun; As brimful of mischief and wit and glee, As ever a human frame can be, And as hard to manage — what! ah me! 'Tis hard to tell, Yet we love him well. Only a boy with his fearful treadj Who cannot be driven, must be led! Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, And tears more clothes and spoils more hats, Loses more kites and tops and bats Than would stock a store For a week or more. Only a boy with his wild, strange ways, With his idle hours or his busy days, With his queer remarks and his odd replies, Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise, Often brilliant for one of his size, JUVENILE GEMS. ai As a meteor hurled From the planet world. Only a boy who may be a man If nature goes on with her first great plan — If intemperance or some fatal snare Conspires not to rob us of this our heir, Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care, Our torment, our joy! "Only a boy!" «5* t5* «£• DON'T. I BELIEVE, if there is one word that grown-up folks are more fond of using to us little folks, than any other word in the big dictionary, it is the word D-o-n-t. It is all the time "Don't do this," and "Don't do that," and "Don't do the other," until I am sometimes afraid there will be nothing left that we can do. Why, for years and years and years, ever since I was a tiny little tot, this word "Don't" has been my torment. It's "Liz- zie, don't make a noise, you disturb me," and "Lizzie, don't eat so much candy, it will make you sick," and "Lizzie, don't be so idle," and "Don't talk so much," and "Don't soil your clothes," and "Don't everything else." One day I thought I'd count how many times I was told not to do things! Just think! I counted twenty- three "don'ts," and I think I missed two or three little ones besides. But now it is my turn. I have got a chance to talk, and I'm going to tell some of the big people when to Don't! That is what my piece is about. First, I shall tell the papas and mammas — Don't scold the children, just because you have been at a party the night before, and so feel cross and tired. Second, Don't fret and make wrinkles in your faces, over things that cannot be helped. I think fretting spoils big folks just as much as it does us little people. Third, Don't forget where you put your scissors, and then say you s'pose the children have taken them. Oh! I could tell you ever so many "don'ts," but I think I'll only say one more, and that is — Don't think I mean to be saucy, because all these don'ts are in my piece, and I had to say them. — E. C. Rook. v^ ^* ^* LITTLE BOY BLUE. (The children's favorite recitation.) THE little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket molds in his hands. Time was, when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair, And that is the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. "Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, He dreamt of the pretty toys. And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue — O, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true. 92 JUVENILE OEMS. Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue, they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them, and put them there, —Eugene Field. 10& 1£& t&* THE DOLL QUEEN. THE little rag doll is queen — Her realm is a maiden's heart, And there she will reign serene, And play the important part. A bundle of rags is she, With collar of scraggy fur; She's only a doll to me, But more than a doll to her. A doll that I thought a prize I gave to the little maid, That opened and shut its eyes, And beauty of face displayed; But somehow it seemed to me She never received the care I daily and hourly see Bestowed on a doll less fair. The doll that can really talk, The doll in the silken dress, The doll that is made to walk, Lies lonely in some recess; Forgotten and pushed aside, It lies in the dust apart, While that of the rags in pride Is held to the maiden's heart. The doll is a doll to me, A bundle of rags and fur, And yet I am quick to see It's more than a doll to her; And so it maintains its place, Unrivaled it holds its own; In rags and a painted face It stands in her heart alone. i5* i5* %2^ THE DOLL'S FUNERAL. WHEN my dolly died, when my dolly died, I sat on the step and cried, and I cried; And I couldn't eat any jam and bread, 'Cause it didn't seem right when my doll was dead. And Bridget was sorry as she could be, For she patted my head and "Oh," said she, "To think that the pretty has gone and died!" Then I broke out afresh, and I cried and cried. And all the dollies from all around Came to see my doll put under the ground ; There were Lucy and Mary Clack Brought their dolls over all dressed in black. And Emmeline Hope and Sara Lou Came over and brought their dollies, too.' And all the time I cried, and cried, 'Cause it hurt me so when my dolly died. We dressed her up in a new white gown, With ribbons and laces all around; And made her coffin in a box JUVENILE GEMS. 93 Where my brother keeps his spelling blocks, And we had some prayers, and a funeral, too; And our hymn was "The Two Little Girls in Blue." But for me, I only cried and cried, 'Cause it truly hurt when my dolly died. We dug her a grave in the violet bed, And planted violets at her head; And we raised a stone and wrote quite plain : "Here lies a dear doll who died of pain." And then my brother he said "Amen," And we all went back to the house again. But all the time I cried and cried, Because 'twas right when my doll had died. And then we had more jam and bread, But I didn't eat 'cause my doll was dead. But I tied some crape on my dollhouse door, And then I cried and cried some more. I couldn't be happy, don't you see! Because the funeral belonged to me. And then the others went home and then I went out and dug up my doll again. %&r* xs& tcfr WHEN MAMMA CLEANS HOUSE. OUR folks have been cleaning house — and, oh! it is just dreadful, I think! Why, a little girl might just as well have no mamma as to have a mamma who is cleaning house. She does not have any time to tend to me at all. She ties her head up in an old apron, and wears an ugly old dress, and she don't look a bit pretty. Then she pulls everything out of its place, and the house looks — oh! so bad. We do not have any good dinners, either 'cause there's no time to stop to get them ready. And I cannot find my dear Margaret that was broken a little, and the sawdust ran out of her. Mamma said she made so much dirt that she must be burnt up, and oh! I'm afraid that is where she has gone. And ever so many of my playthings are lost — lost in the housecleaning. What if they were old and broken! I loved them. So is it any wonder I think housecleaning is a dreadful thing? When I grow up to be a big woman, I mean never to clean house at all, but be just as dirty and happy as I can. What's the world made of if it isn't made of dirt? ^* tcfr t5* JACK AND A GAY little rabbit, Of frolicsome habit, Went out for a cool midnight stroll; And a strange fixture meeting, Though it set his heart beating, "Dear me!" said the rabbit, "how droll!" He stopped for a minute, To see what was in it. And nibbled a bit at the bait ; THE RABBIT. Very tempting he found it, He walked all around it, And then he went in at the gate. But quicker than winking, And quicker than thinking, Master Rabbit was swung on high, And not a bit tardy, Came little Jack Hardy From where* he'd been hiding close by. 94 JUVENILE OEMS. The old moon was crying, The pine-trees were sighing, And I think that the stars were in tears, As into his casket, Jack's snug, covered basket, Poor Bunny was dropped by the ears. Then Jack fled the gateway, In order that straightway Some other good game he might trap, When Bunny kicked over The basket and cover, And scampered off to his home and his wife! *5* t5* t5* VALEDICTORY. THE golden glow of a summer's day Rests over the verdant hills, And the sunlight falls with mellow ray On fields and laughing rills; But ere its last beam fades away Beyond the mountain high, Our lips must bravely, sadly say The parting words, "Good-bye." Kind friends and parents gathered here, Our gratitude is yours For all your care and sympathy, Which changelessly endures. We'll try to use the present hours So they will bring no sigh, When to our happy days of school We say our last "Good-bye." <5* t£* Dear teacher, we shall ne'er forget The lessons you have taught: We trust the future may perfect The work your hands have wrought; And may they bring good gifts to you, These years that swiftly fly, And may you kindly think of those Who bid you now "Good-bye." "Good-bye!" it shall not be farewell — We hope again to meet; But happy hours are ever short, And- days of youth are fleet. There's much to learn and much to do. Oh, may our aims be high, And ever lead toward that bright land, Where none shall say "Good-bye." COULDN'T TAKE THE HINT. YOUNG SPOONOGLE never knows when to leave when he calls on a young lady; he likes the sound of his own voice so well that he talks on and on, while the poor girl grows light-headed with the tax on her strength and wishes the mantle- piece of Elijah would fall on the tiresome caller. There is a young lady in a certain city who made up her mind to give Spoonogle a lesson. So one Sunday night when he called, she was as cordial as possible up to eleven o'clock. Then, having had a four- volume history of Spoonogle's life, with an extended account of his influence in politics and business, she began to get dizzy and have a ringing in her ears. At that mo- ment her young brother rushed into the room, and said hurriedly: "Pa wants the morning papers, sis!" "Look in the vestibule, Willie," she answered gently. "I think I heard the boy leaving them some hours ago." Spoonogle never took the hint, but drawled on about one thing and another in which the oft-repeated letter I, as usual, bore a conspicuous part. The next interruption was the head of JUVENILE OEMS. 95 the house, who entered briskly rubbing his hands. "Good morning — good morning," he said cheerily. "Ha! Spoonogle, you're out early. Well, 'early bird catches the worm.' It's going to be a fine day, from present appearances." Spoonogle was dazed, but he concluded the old man had been drinking, # and sat back with a "Come one, come all, this rock shall fly from its firm base as soon as yours truly" air that was decided and convinc- ing- A half hour passed away, and the good mother hurried in. "Dear me! I'm late," she said as she en- tered, "I smelled the coffee an hour ago and knew breakfast was waiting; but — oh! Good morning, Mr. Spoonogle!" Then the sweet youth took the hint, and drawing himself together, he got out into the hall and opened the front door, just as the hired girl rung a bell, and the small boy yelled "Breakfast!" over the banisters. ta& t5* c5* LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE. LITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, and brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board and keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out! Onct they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs — An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, His mammy heard him holler, an' his daddy heard him bawl, An' when they turned the kivvers down he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' everywheres, I guess, But all they ever found was this — his pants an' round-about — An' the gobble-uns '11 git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! An' one time a little girl 'ud alius laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one an' all her blood an' kin. An' onct, when they was "company," an' old folks was there, She mocked 'em, an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' jist as she kicked her heels an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great Big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin', 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the gobble-uns '11 git you 96 JUVENILE GEMS. Ef you Don't Watch Out! An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes Woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away — You better mind your parents and yer teachers fond an' dear, An' cherish them 'at loves you, and dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the po' an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the gobble-uns '11 git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! &5* t5* ^* MABEL AND HER MOTHER. AT her easel, brush in hand, Clad in silk attire, Painting "sunsets" vague and grand (Clumsy clouds of fire!) Flaxen hair in shining sheaves; Pink and pearly skin; Fingers, which, like lily leaves, Neither toil nor spin; — At her belt a sun-flower bound, Daisies on the table, Plaques and panels all around — That's aesthetic Mabel! In the kitchen, fork in hand, Clad in coarse attire, Dishing oysters, fried and panned, From a blazing fire: Dusty hair in frowsy knots; — Worn and withered skin; — Fingers brown and hard as nuts, (When the frosts begin;) — Baking-board, one side aground; Washtub, on the other; Pots and skillets all around, — That is Mabel's mother! c5* t2& tS* THE FARMER'S LIFE. (For Four First Boy. THIS is the way the happy farmer Plows his piece of ground, (Extend arms forward as though holding a plozv.) That from the little seeds he sows A large crop may abound. This is the way he sows the seed, (Make motion as of taking seed out of a bag and scattering with the right hand.) Boys.) Dropping with careful hand, In all the furrows well prepared Upon the fertile land. This is the way he cuts the grain (Make motion as of cutting with a scythe.) When bending with its weight; And thus he bundles it in sheaves, (Arms curved downzvard and extended for- ward.) Working long and late. JUVENILE GEMS. 97 And then the grain he threshes thus (Hands as though grasping a Hail, and strike with force.) And stores away to keep; And thus he stands contentedly (Stand straight, arms folded and smile on face.) And views the plenteous heap. x3& <5* (5* BE IN EARNEST. NEVER be ashamed to say, "I do not know." Men will then believe you when you say, "I do know." Never be ashamed to say, "I can't afford it;" "I can't afford to waste time in the idleness to which you invite me;" or "I can't afford the money you ask me to spend." Never affect to be other than you are — either wiser or richer. Learn to say "No" with decision; "Yes" with caution. "No" with decision when- ever it resists temptation; "Yes" with caution whenever it implies a promise; for a promise once given is a bond inviolable. A man is already of consequence in the world when it is known that we can im- plicitly rely upon him. Often have I known a man to be preferred in stations of honor and profit because he had this repu- tation; when he said he knew a thing, he knew it; and when he said he would do a thing, he did it. <5* &?* v5* THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK. I'M nine years old! an' you can't guess how much I weigh, I bet ! Last birthday I weighed thirty-three! An' I weigh thirty yet! I'm awful little for my size — I'm purt' nigh littler 'an Some babies is! — an' neighbors all calls me "The Little Man!" An' Doc one time he laughed and said: "I 'spect, first thing you know, You'll have a spike-tail coat an' travel with a show!" An' nen I laughed — till I looked round an' Aunty was a-cryin' — Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got "curv'ture of the spine !" I set — while Aunty's washing — on my little long-leg stool, An' watch the little boys and girls a-skip- pin' by to school; An' I peck on the winder an' holler out an' say: "Who wants to fight the little man 'at dares you all to-day?" An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls peeks through, An' they all says : " 'Cause you're so big, you think we're 'feared o' you?" An' nen they yell, and shake their fist at me, like I shake mine — They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got "curv'ture of the spine!" At evening, when the ironin's done, an' Aunty's fixed the fire, An' filled an' lit the lamp, and trimmed the wick an' turned it higher, An' fetched the wood all in fer night, an' locked the kitchen door, An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up through the floor — 98 JUVENILE GEMS. She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' makes the tea, An' fries the liver an' mush, an' cooks a egg fer me; An' sometimes — when I cough so hard — her elderberry wine Don't go so bad fer little boys with "curv- ture of the spine." But Aunty's all so childish like, on my account, you see, I'm 'most feared she'll be took down — i an' 'at's what bothers me — 'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would git sick an' die, I don't know what she'd do in Heaven — till I come, by an' by, For she's so ust to all my ways, an' every- thing, you know, An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' worry over so — 'Cause all the little childrens there's so straight an' strong an' fine, They's nary angel 'bout the place with "curv'ture of the spine." — James Whitcomb Riley. <■?* <5» t5* EVENING AT THE FARM. OVER the hill the farm-boy goes, His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand ; In the poplar-tree, about the spring, The katydid begins to sing; The early dews are falling; Into the stone heap darts the mink; The swallows skim the river's brink; And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes,, Cheerily calling, "Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day; Harness and chain are hung away ; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, The cooling dews are falling: The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling: "Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone as- tray — "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" Now to her task the milkmaid goes, The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling: The new milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling, "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!" ■ To supper at last the farmer goes, The apples are pared, the paper read, JUVENILE GEMS. 99 The stories are told, then all to bed. Without, the crickets' ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling. The housewife's hand has turned the lock; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose, But still in his sleep the farm-boy goes Singing, calling — "Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" (5* c5* «■?* ARATHUSA'S BROTHER JACK. MY name's Jack. I'm eight years old. I've a sister Arathusa, and she calls me a little torment. I'll tell you why : You know Arathusa has got a beau, and he comes to see her every night, and they turn the gas 'way, 'way down 'till you can't hardly see. I like to stay in the room with the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room every night. I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went to the door to let Al- phonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. Then they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down on the sofa, and I couldn't hear nothing but smack! smack! smack! Then I reached out and jerked Arathusa's foot. Then she jumped and said "Oh, mercy, what's that?" and Alphonso said she was a "timid little creature." "Oh, Alphonso, I'm happy by your side, but when I think of your going away it almost breaks my heart." Then I snickered right out, I couldn't help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through the keyhole and said, "I do believe that's Jack, nasty little torment, he's always where he isn't wanted." Do you know this made me mad, and I crawled out from under the sofa and stood up be- fore her and said, "You think you are smart because you have got a beau. I guess I know what you've been doing; you've been sitting on Alphonso's lap, and letting him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If it hadn't been for that old false front of yours, pa would have let me have a bicycle like.Tom Clifford's. You needn't be grind- ing them false teeth of yours at me, I ain't a-going out of here. I ain't so green as I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I don't care if you are twenty-eight years old, you ain't no boss of me!" SHE DIDN'T WANT MUCH. I WANTS a piece of cal'co To make my doll a dess; I doesn't want a big piece; A yard'll do, I guess. I wish you'd fred my needle, And find my fimble, too — I has such heaps o' sewin' I don't know what to do. LofC. I wants my Maud a bonnet She hasn't none at all; And Fred must have a jacket; His ozzer one's too small. I wants to go to grandma's; You promised me I might. I know she'd like to see me; I wants to go to-night. 100 JUVENILE GEMS. She lets me wipe the dishes, And see in grandpa's watch — I wish I'd free, four pennies To buy some butter-scotch. My Hepsy tored her apron A tum'lin down the stair, And Caesar's lost his pantloons. And needs anozer pair. I wants some newer mittens — I wish you'd knit me some, 'Cause most my fingers freezes, They leaks so in the fum. I wored 'em out last summer, A pullin' George's sled; I wish you wouldn't laugh so — It hurts me in my head. I wish I had a cookie; I'm hungry's I can be. If you hasn't pretty large ones, You'd better bring me free. I wish I had a p'ano — Won't you buy me one to keep? O, dear! I feels so tired, I wants to go to sleep. t5* ^* ^* PATIENCE WORKS WONDERS. IF a string is in a knot, Patience will untie it. Patience can do many things; Did you ever try it? If 'twas sold at any shop I should like to buy it; But you and I must find our own; No other can supply it. t5* t5* *5* KITTY IN SCHOOL. COME, Kitty, I'll tell you what We'll do this rainy day; Just you and I, all by ourselves, At keeping school, will play. The teacher, Kitty, I will be; And you shall be the class; And you must close attention give, If you expect to pass. No, Kitty, "C-A-T" spells "cat." Stop playing with you tail ! Your are so heedless, I am sure. In spelling you will fail. "C-A" oh, Kitty! do sit still! You must not chase that fly! You'll never learn a single word, You do not even try. I'll tell you what my teacher says To me most ev'ry day- She says that girls can never learn While they are full of play. So try again — another word; "L-A-C-E" spells "lace." Why, Kitty, it is not polite In school to wash your face! You are a naughty, naughty puss, And keep you in I should; But then, I love you, dear, so much I don't see how I could! Oh, see! the sun shines bright again! We'll run out doors and play; We'll leave our school and lessons for Another rainy day. — Kate Ulmer. < « ft ft MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 157 singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song. ) April. (Outside.) Pretty little three Sparrows in a tree, Light upon the wing; Though you cannot sing, You can chirp of Spring: Chirp of Spring to me, Sparrows, from your tree. Never mind the showers, Chirp about the flowers, While you build a nest: Straws from east and west, Feathers from your breast, Make the snuggest bowers In a world of flowers. You must dart away From the chosen spray, You intrusive third Extra little bird ; Join the unwedded herd! These have done with play, And must work to-day. April. (Appearing at the open door.) Good-morrow and good-bye : if others fly, Of all the flying months you're the most flying. March. You're hope and sweetness, April. April. Birth means dying, As wings and wind mean flying; So you and I and all things fly or die ; And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying. But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my show- ers, And a lapful of flowers, And these dear nestlings, aged three hours ; And here's their mother sitting, Their father merely flitting To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers. (As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them.) April. What beaks you have, you funny things, What voices, shrill and weak; Who'd think anything that sings Could sing with such a beak? Yet you'll be nightingales some day And charm the country-side, When I'm away and far away, And May is queen and bride. (May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss. April starts and looks round.) April. Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good- bye. May. That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh; Your sorrows half in fun, Begun and done And turned to joy while twenty seconds run. At every step a flower Fed by your last bright shower, — (She divides an armful of all sorts of -flowers with April, who strolls away through the garden.) May. And gathering flowers I listened to the song Of every bird in bower. The world and I are far too full of bliss, To think or plan or toil or care; 158 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. The sun is waxing strong, The days are waning long, And all that is, Is fair. Here are May buds of lily and of rose, And here's my namesake-blossom, May; And from a watery spot See here, forget-me-not, With all that blows To-day. Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, Blackbird and lark and* thrush and dove, And every nightingale And cuckoo tells its tale, And all they mean Is love. (June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly towards May, who seeing her, exclaims:) May. Surely you're come too early, sister June. June. Indeed I feel as if I came too soon To round your young May moon. And set the world a-gasping at my noon, Yet must I come. So here are strawberries, Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please ; And there are full-blown roses by the score, More roses and yet more. {May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds.) June. The sun does all my long day's work for me, Raises and ripens everything; I need but sit beneath a leafy tree And watch and sing. (Seats herself in the shadozv of a labur- num.) Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee, Or lulled by noontide's silence deep, I need but nestle down beneath my tree' And drop asleep. (June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling.) July. (Behind the scenes.) Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled, Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled ! Take which you will, speckled, blue, yel- low, Each in its way has not a fellow. (Enter Jidy, a basket of many-colored irises swung upon his shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up to June, and tickles her with the grass. She wakes.) June. What, here already? July. Nay, my tryst is kept ; The longest day slipped by you while you slept. I've brought you one curved pyramid of bloom, (Hands her the plate.) Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees, As downy, bask and boom In sunshine and in gloom of trees. But get you in, a storm is at my heels ; The whirlwind whistles and wheels, Lightning flashes and thunder peals, Flying and following hard upon my heels. (June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor.) July. The roar of a storm sweeps up From the east to the lurid west, MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 159 The darkening sky, like a cup, Is filled with rain to the brink; The sky is purple and fire, Blackness and noise and unrest; The earth, parched with desire, Opens her mouth to drink. Send forth thy thunder and fire, Turn over thy brimming cup, O sky, appease the desire Of earth in her parched unrest; Pour out drink to her thirst, Her famishing life lift up; Make thyself fair as at first, With a rainbow for thy crest. Have done with thunder and fire, O sky with the rainbow crest; , O earth, have done with desire, Drink, and drink deep, and rest. (Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of grain.) July. Hail, brother August, flushed and warm, And scathless from my storm. Your hands are full of corn, I see, As full as hands can be: And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm In their recovered calm, And that they owe to me. (hdy retires into the shrubbery.) August. Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, Barley bows a graceful head, Short and small shoots up canary, Each of these is some one's bread; Bread for man or bread for beast, Or at very least A bird's savory feast. Men are brethren of each other, One in flesh and one in food; And a sort of foster brother, Is the litter, or the brood Of that folk in fur and feather, Who, with men together, Breast the wind and weather. (August descries September toiling across the lawn.) August. My harvest home is ended ; and I spy September drawing nigh With the first thought of Autumn in her eye, And the first sigh Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly. (September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with fruit.) September. Unload me, brother. I have brought a few Plums and these pears for you, A dozen kinds of apples, one or two Melons, some figs all bursting through Their skins; and pearled with dew These damsons, violet-blue. (While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground, selects vari- ous fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.) September. My song is half a sigh Because my green leaves die; Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying; And well may Autumn sigh, And well may I Who watch the sere leaves flying. My leaves that fade and fall, I note you one and all; I call you, and the Autumn wind is calling, Lamenting for your fall, And for the pall You spread on earth in falling. 160 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. And here's a song of flowers to suit such hours : A song of the last lilies, the last flowers, Amid ruy withering bowers. In the sunny garden bed Lilies look so pale, Lilies droop the head In the shady, grassy vale; If all alike they pine In shade and in shine, If everywhere they grieve, Where will lilies live? (October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his button-hole.) October. Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over, Even if the year has done with corn and clover, With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, it's true, Some leaves remain, and some flowers too, For me and you. Now see my crops. [Offering his produce to September.] I've brought you nuts and hops; And when the leaf drops, why the walnut drops. (October wreathes the hop-vines about September's neck, and gives her the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but zvithout shutting the door. She steps into the background; he advances to the hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast.) October. Crack your first nut, light your first fire, Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar, Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher ; Logs are as cheery as sun or as star, Logs we can find wherever we are. Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves, Spring, one bright day, will lure back the flowers ; Never fancy my whistling wind grieves, Never fancy I've tears in my showers ; Dance, nights and days ! and dance on, my hours. [Sees November approaching,] October. Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim And grim, With dismal ways. What cheer, November? November. (Entering and shutting the door.) Nought have I to bring, Tramping a-chill and shivering, Except these pine cones for a blaze, — Except a fog which follows, And stuffs up all the hollows, — Except a hoar frost here and there, — Except some shooting stars, Which dart their luminous cars, Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air. (October, shrugging his shoulders, with- draws into the background, while Novem- ber throws her pine cones on the fire and sits down listlessly.) November. The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired Of all that's high or deep; There's naught desired and naught re- quired Save a sleep. I rock the cradle of the earth, I lull her with a sigh; MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 161 And know that she will wake to mirth By and bye. (Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the direction of the door. He knocks.) November. (Calls out zvithout rising.) Ah, here's my youngest brother come at last: Come in, December. (He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry, etc.) Come in and shut the door, For now it's snowing fast; It snows, and will snow more and more; Don't let it drift in on the floor. But you, you're all aglow ; how can you be Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold. December. Nay, no closed doors for me, But open doors and open hearts and glee To welcome young and old. Dimmest and brightest month am I ; My short days end, my lengthening days begin ; What matters more or less sun in the sky, When all is sun within? (He begins making a wreath as he sings. ) Ivy and privet dark as night I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show, And holly for a beauty and delight, And milky mistletoe. While high above them all is set Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure and pale; Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet May keep, so sweet and frail; May keep each merry singing bird, Of all her happy birds that singing build: For I've a carol which some shepherds heard Once in a wintry field. (While December concludes his song, all the other months troop in from the garden, or advance out of the background. The tzvelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the Curtain falls.) — Christina G. Rossetti. Jt J8 & PAT DOLAN'S WEDDING. Characters. Nicholas Neverslip, a modern hus- band. Patrick Dolan, an Irish lad. ' Matilda, Neverslip's wife. Miss Spyall, a gossip. Biddy Crogan, a domestic. Scene : — A drawing room. Time, even- ing. Table and two chairs, C. Nicholas discovered standing near L. E. with cane and gloves in hands: he calls to his wife, who is supposed to be up stairs dressing for the opera. Nicholas. — My dear, it is half-past sev- en ; do hurry ; I am sure we will be late. Matilda. — I am coming — be with you in one minute. Has Biddy fastened the back gate? Nicholas (aside). — I know we'll be late (calls), Biddy! (crosses to R. E.) Biddy. — I'm here, sur. [Enter Biddy R. E.] What do you want wid me, sur? Nicholas. — Biddy is the back gate fast- ened? Biddy. — I'll see, sur, (turns to go.) Nicholas. — Biddy ! 162 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Biddy. — Sur ! Nicholas. — Biddy, I am going to the opera; that is, we are, Mrs. Neverslip and myself. Matilda ( calls ) . — Nicholas ! Nicholas. — Well, what's the matter? Matilda. — Where did you lay my fan? Nicholas. — I never touched your fan. (looks at his watch.) It is twenty minutes to eight; I declare we will be late. Biddy (aside). — I wonder if he means to keep me shtandin' here all night? Nicholas (to Matilda). — I am going! Matilda. — Here I come. Nicholas. — It is time you were coming. Matilda. — Oh, dear! Nicholas. — What's the matter? Matilda. — Oh, you've hurried me so I've gone and dressed without my fichu; I can never go without it. Nicholas (aside). — Confound her fish- hook, (aloud) Snails and turtles! are you never coming? Biddy (aside). — I'm nather a gate post nur a clothes prop, (aloud) Mr. Never- slip, I'll be goin' to the kitchen; I lift the banes on the sthove; I think they're burn- in'. [Exit Biddy R. E.] Nicholas. — For mercy sake do come. Matilda (singing). — I am coming, darling, coming Nicholas. — How provokingly cool you are. [Enter Matilda L. E.] Matilda. — Now, my dear, we'll be off. [Both start toward L. E.] Why, where's your hat? Nicholas (feels his head). — Good gra- cious! It is up stairs — Matilda, dear, will you get it for me? Matilda. — You cruel man (knock heard from without.) Both. — Horrors ! Some one at the door ! Nicholas. — Biddy ! [Enter Biddy R. E.] Biddy. — Ay, sur! Nicholas. — Biddy, we're out. Biddy. — Yer what? Nicholas. — We're out; that is, we soon will be. We do not wish to see anyone — you comprehend? Biddy (angrily). — Don't want to see anyone. I comprehend ! Sur, I'm an hon- est Irish girl, and I niver comprehend any- body, (arms akimbo) Niver! [Prolonged knock at the door.] Nicholas. — Go to the door and say we're out ! Biddy (aside). — The man is surely out of his head. [Exit Biddy L. E.] Matilda. — Oh my! we'll never get off. Nicholas. — My dear, it's all your own fault. Matilda (puts handkerchief to eyes). — Dear, dear ! Nicholas. Hark ! Miss Spyall (from without). — Take this card to Biddy (from without). — They're out, mum. Miss Spyall. — Then I'll just step in a moment and write a line or two. Biddy. — But they're out. Matilda. — Oh grief! It is that awful Spyall; good-bye opera to-night. Nicholas. — We might as well give up now. [Enter Biddy L. E. walking backward followed by Miss Spyall.] Miss Spyall (aside). — Out of the street; ah! I understand! (Extends hands to Nicholas and Matilda) — (aloud) How delighted I am to see you ! What ! going out? Biddy. — Yis, out; they're out-— outward bound, I forgot part of the wurruds. Nicholas. — Silence, Bridget ! MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 163 pii Matilda. — We need you no longer, Biddy. Biddy. — Indade, ye'll give me two wakes' notice. I'll not lave now. Matilda. — I mean we do not need you here. You may go to the kitchen. Oh, bother! My hair is coming down. Biddy get me a hair-pin, quick ! [Exit Biddy R. E.] Miss Spyall. — What a beautiful dress; is it all silk? Nicholas. — Part muslin, Miss. Matilda. — Nicholas, you shock me. Nicholas (Pulls out watch and starts to go). — Oh, oh, oh! Miss Spyall. — Going to church? Nicholas. — No, not to church. Miss Spyall. — Oh, I see; the museum. Nicholas. — We have an engagement. Miss Spyall. — A wedding ? That's it ! I know. Who is it? Do tell me if it is Nancy Beadle? I thought she and John — Matilda. — My husband and I are about going down town on important business, it is time we were there now. Miss Spyall. — Anything important ? You know I can be trusted. Nicholas. — Gone! gone! gone! Miss Spyall. — Hey? Matilda. — Miss Spyall, you will please excuse me this evening, we must go at once. [Enter Biddy R. E. with clothes-pins in each hand.] Nicholas (pointing to watch). — We've lost our seats. (Matilda and Miss Spyall take seats.) Biddy (to Nicholas). — Niver moind me; still, I'll bring two chairs from the dining- room if ye insist. (To Matilda) Here's the puns, mum. Matilda. — Stupid girl, these are clothes- pins. Miss Spyall. — What a silly creature. Biddy (aside). — The spalpeen! Nicholas. — Excuse me. I must get my hat. [Exit L. E.] Matilda. — Oh, he's a darling man ! Miss Spyall. — Spe-len-did ! (A crash is heard.) Matilda. — What have you done? Nicholas (groans). — Broken my shins, smashed my hat and upset your toilet stand ! Matilda. — You wretch — edly unfortu- nate man. [Enter Nicholas L. E. limping with smashed hat in hand.] Miss Spyall. — I must be going. Matilda. — We are going to the opera. Nicholas. — To hear the final chorus. Miss Spyall. — How delightful! Matilda.— Biddy, keep a sharp look out. [Exit all except Biddy L. E.] Biddy. — Yis, I'll kape a sharp look out. I'll first take a look at the back gate. Poor Pat's been waitin' at that same gate for a whole hour; faith he's stharved wid the cold (starts and listens) Arrah, what's that? Sure some one's in the kitchen. I hear a brogan on the stairs — the saints pro- tect me. [Enter Pat R. E., looking around cautiously.] Oh, Pat Dolan! How dare ye frighten me loike that? How did ye enter the house ? — What if the folks had been in ? Pat. — Whist, me darlin'; I saw them lave by the front door, and in the wink of an eye, it's meself that lepped over the fence; I thried the back door, it was un- latched, and here I am, Biddy dear! Biddy. — Niver do the loikes of that again. You might be shot for a burglar or a dynamiter. Pat. (sitting at table). — Niver fear, Biddy dear; go ye and bring a crust of bread and sup of — of something stronger than tay, if yer have it ; sure I've room here 1C4 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. for a loaf, and I'm thrimblin' wid wake- ness Biddy. — I'll see what's lift in the pantry. Be aisy till I come back. (Starts to go.) Pat.— Biddy ! Biddy. — What, darlint? (Pauses.) Pat. — Do ye hear anything? Biddy. — It's the Niverslips! Run for your life! Pat. — Be aisy; it's me poor heart beat- in' ; and nothin' more. It always bates whin I see that face. Biddy (Looks over her shoulder). — What face? I see no face! Pat. — Don't be a greenhorn. I mane your own lovely countenance. Biddy. — Oh, ye blarney ! [Exit R. E.] Pat. (Rises from chair and walks up and down the stage). — Humph! this is a very foine house. It lacks the comforts of a home, howiver, for there's not the sign of a pipe or a 'bacca bowl about the room. They're evidently mane people. [Enter Biddy R. E. carrying tray, on which are loaf of bread, a knife, a black bottle and two glasses.] Look at that now! If that isn't the tip of hospitality my name's not Patrick Dolan. Biddy (places tray on table). — Now, Pat, ye must not trifle over the sup, (fills glass from bottle) but drink it at once. It would niver do to have the folks foind ye here. Pat (takes glass). — Here's to our wed- ding day (drinks), Oh! ah! (jumps to his feet and runs about stage holding his throat) I'm pizened, I'm kilt. Biddy (following him about). — Shpeak, shpeak, me darlint Pat. Pat (gasping and pointing to bottle). — Look — look — look at that! What's in the bottle? Biddy. — Sure I can't read. (Hands bot- tle to Pat.) Pat. — Saint Patrick defind me! (reads) "Pure Jamaica Ginger," Oh! it's atin me up! (Noise heard without.) Biddy. — Hark! (Both listen.) Nicholas (from without). — We should have taken an umbrella; hurry in or we shall be drowned with the rain. Pat (agitated). — Put me away! hide me! cover me up! Biddy. — Run! No — shtop — they're here! get under the table. Pat (crawls under table). — Bad luck to the rain ! Biddy.— Arrah! What shall I do? He's opening the door wid the noight key. Kape shtill, Pat. Nicholas. — Walk in Miss Spyall; it is only a shower. [Enter Neverslip, Matilda and Miss Spy- all L. E.] Miss Spyall (aside). — Refreshments, as I live! (Aloud) I feel real chilly! If I were home I'd have a bowl of hot tea, or something warm. Biddy. — I was thinkin' mum, that ye might be cold. Matilda.— What's that, Biddy? Biddy. — I thought ye'd need a warrum drink and a bite, so I've the bottle and bread handy for yez. (Points to bottle.) Nicholas (takes bottle). — Jamaica Gin- ger. Matilda. — The idea! Bread and gin- ger. Why, Biddy, you are certainly be- coming insane. Miss Spyall (aside). — I thought they were too mean to have cake and wine, I thought it was a pound cake. How disap- pointed and hungry I feel. (Aloud) I won- der if it still rains? Nicholas. — Be seated, ladies. Biddy, go to the door, and see if it has stopped MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 165 raining. — (Matilda and Miss Spyall take seats at table). I will see if I can find an umbrella for Miss Spyall. [Exit L. £.] Pat. — (Pat's head rises slowly from be- hind table). Miss Spyall. — Does Mr. Neverslip smoke much? Matilda. — Never at all. Why do you ask? Miss Spyall. — I thought I detected a strong odor of an old pipe. Pat (aside). — Ye spalpeen! (Pulls her ear and stoops behind table.) Miss Spyall. — Oh! (indignantly). Don't do that again. I dislike such famil- iarity. Matilda (astonished). — Why, what's the matter with you? Miss Spyall. — I guess if I were to pull your ear you would know how it feels. There! (They turn their backs to each other angrily). (Pat peeps from under table and pulls Matilda's ear). Matilda (springing to her feet). — You impudent gossip! How dare you? (Rubs her ear.) If you want exercise, try pedes- trianism ; I will excuse your presence. (Points to door). Miss Spyall (rising and backing off). — I am shocked beyond expression, (aside) If I only get out — the woman's surely mad. [Enter Nicholas L. E. with umbrella] Matilda. — My dear, give Miss Spyall the umbrella; she is surely ill and should get home with all possible speed. Miss Spyall. — Not at all, not at all, sir ; it is your insolent wife who needs your at- tention. Nicholas. — What is the meaning of such singular language? (Picks up bot- tle.) You have not been tampering with this? [Enter Biddy R. E. holding shawl in her hands.] Biddy. — Look at me shplendid shawl! An illigant present that oi've just received. (unfolds shawl and advances towards rear of table). Nicholas. — Some other time, Biddy ; we are engaged at present. Miss Spyall (aside). — The whole fam- ily are certainly crazy. Matilda. — I'm in no humor to look at shawls ; I prefer taking a dissolving view of somebody's back. (Looks at Miss Spy- all.) Biddy (holds up shawl zvith both hands). — Pat, get behind the shawl. Pat. — (crawls behind the shawl, screens himself from view, and moves off with Biddy). Biddy (backing towards the door). — It shows better at a distance, mum. Nicholas (advancing to Biddy). — This must cease. Biddy. — Don't come too close; ye'll shpoil the effect. Matilda. — Take the shawl from her. Nicholas. — Let me have it. (Pulls shawl from Biddy, exposing Pat to view). Pat (bozving). — Yez'll pa r don me, but I was always bashful. Nicholas. — Explain yourself, at once ! Matilda. — Look after the teaspoons ! Miss Spyall (aside). — Here's a nut to crack! Here's a scandal. Biddy (crying and holding apron to eyes). — I'll tell yez the truth. Patsy and meself are engaged to be married, and seein' as I was to be lift alone in this big barn of a house, an' bein' timid, the poor man jist happened in to kape me company for a few minutes. Pat. — What she says is intirely true, your honors ; it's meself that can bring a reference the lingth of me arrum. 166 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Nicholas. — Enough. Biddy is too good a girl to be guilty of even a wrong thought. Our spoons are safe, and I (all advancing to front) have but one suggestion to make, that in future you entertain him in the kitchen, where you will not be likely to be disturbed by unwelcome visitors. Matilda. — If I thought I would be free from unwelcome visitors (looking at Miss Spyall) I'd go to the kitchen too. Pat. — The nixt kitchen we mate in will be the kitchen of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Dolan ; how do you loike that ? Miss Spyall (aside). — Well I'm sup- plied with a lot of fresh news anyhow. (All take positions.) Nicholas. — And as there appears to be a wedding near at hand, we must prepare for it ; so we'll say good night — and dream of getting ready. [curtain.] — Geo. M. Vickers. ■£<£<£ THE UNHAPPY HOME. A TEMPERANCE PLAY. (Characters — Man and his wife; Nellie, a daughter, ten years old; Friend, dressed in a man- of-the-world style; A. and B., two young men, dressed in business suits.) Scene I. MR. L. and his wife on the stage; Mr. L. dressed for his work, and about to go.) Mrs. L. — Albert, I wish you would give me seventy-five cents. Mr. L. — What do you want seventy-five cents for? Mrs. L. — I want to get some braid for my new dress. Mr. L. — Haven't you something else that will do? Mrs. L. — No. But, then, braid is cheap ; and I can make it look quite pretty with seventy-five cents. Mr. L. — Plague take these women's fashions. Your endless trimmings and thing-a-ma-jigs cost more than the dress is worth. It is nothing but shell out money when a woman thinks of a new dress. Mrs. L. — I don't have many new dresses. I do certainly try to be as econom- ical as I can. Mr. L. — It is funny kind of economy, at all events. But if you must have it, I sup- pose you must. ( Takes out his purse, and counts out carefully seventy-live cents, and puts his purse azvay angrily. He starts to go; but when at the door, he thinks he will take his umbrella, and goes back for it. Finds his zmfe in tears, which she tries hastily to conceal.) Mr. L. — Good gracious ! Kate, I should like to know if you are crying at what I said about the dress. Mrs. L. — I was not crying at what you said. I was thinking of how hard I have to work. I am tied to the house. I have many little things to perplex me. Then to think — Mr. L. — Pshaw ! What do you want to be foolish for? (Exit.) (In the hall he was met by his little girl, Lizzie.) Lizzie — (holding both his hands.) Oh, papa, give me fifteen cents. Mr. L. — What in the world ao you want it for ? Are they changing books again ? Lizzie — No. I want a hoop. It's splen- did rolling; and all the girls have one. Please, can't I have one? MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 167 Mr. L. — Nonsense ! If you want a hoop, go and get one off some old barrel. (Throws her off.) Lizzie — (in a pleading tone.) Please, Papa? Me. L. — No, I told you ! (She bursts into tears, and he goes off muttering, "Cry, then, and cry it out.") Scene II. (Albert and Wife enter.) Mrs. L. — I am glad you are home thus early. How has business gone to-day? Mr. L. — Well, I am happy to say. Mrs. L. — Are you very tired? Mr. L. — No; why? Mrs. L. — I want you to go to the sew- ing circle to-night. Mr. L. — I can't go; I have an engage- ment. Mrs. L. — I am sorry. You never go with me now. You used to go a great deal. (Just then Lizzie comes in crying, drag- ging an old hoop, and rubbing her eyes.) Mr. L. — What is the matter with you, darling? Lizzie — The girls have been laughing at me, and making fun of my hoop. They say mine is ugly and homely. Mayn't I have one now? Mr. L. — Not now, Lizzie; not now. I'll think of it. (Lizzie goes out crying, followed by her mother. A friend of Mr. L. enters.) Friend — Hello, Albert! What's up? Mr. L. — Nothing in particular. Take a chair. Friend — How's business? Mr. L. — Good. Friend — Did you go to the club last night ? Mr. L. — Don't speak so loud ! Friend — Ha, wife don't know — does she? Where does she think you go? Mr. L. — I don't know. She never asks me, and I am glad of it. She asked me to go with her to-night, and I told her I was engaged. Friend — Good ! I shan't ask you where, but take it for granted that it was with me. What do you say f 01 a game of billiards ? Mr. L.— Good! I'm for that. (They rise to go.) Have a cigar, Tom? Friend — Yes. (They go out.) Scene III. (Two men in conversation.) B. — Billiards ? No, I never play billiards. A.— Why not? B. — I don't like its tendency. I cannot assert that the game is, of itself, an evil, to be sure. But, although it has the ad- vantage of calling forth skill and judgment, yet it is evil when it stimulates beyond the bounds of healthy recreation. A. — That result can scarcely follow such a game. B. — You are wrong there. The result can follow in two ways. First, it can lead men away from their business. Secondly, it leads those to spend their money who have none to spend. Look at that young man just passing. He looks like a me- chanic; and I should judge from his ap- pearance that he has a family. I see by his face that he is kind and generous, and wants to do as near right as he can. I have watched him in the billiard saloon time after time, and only last night I saw him pay one dollar and forty cents for two hours' recreation. He did it cheerfully, too, and smiled at his loss. But how do you suppose it is at home? A. — Upon my word, B., you speak to the point ; for I know that young man, and what you have said is true. I can furnish you with facts. We have a club for a lit- erary paper in our village. His wife was very anxious to take it; but he said he could not afford the $1.25 for it. And his 168 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. little Lizzie, ten years old, has coaxed her father for fifteen cents, for a hoop, in vain. My Nellie told me that. B. — Yes; and that two hours' recreation last night, would have paid for both. It is well for wives and children that they do not know where all the money goes. ^* t5* ^* LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD, or THE WICKED WOLF AND THE VIRTUOUS WOOD-CUTTER. Characters : Jack, the woodcutter, who rescues Red Riding-Hood from the Wolf, quite by ac- cident. The Wolf, a wicked wretch, who pays his devours to Little Red Riding-Hood, but is defeated by his rival. Dame Margery, mother of Little Red Riding-Hood, a crusty role, and very ill- bred. Little Red Riding-Hood, a fascinating little pet, so lovely that you are not likely to see two such faces under a hood. The Fairy Felicia, a beneficent genius, versed in spells, and quite au fait in magic. Granny, an invisible old girl, by kind permission of the Prompter. [The dresses are easily enough made, with the exception of the Wolf's. A rough shawl or a fur jacket will answer the purpose, and the head can be made of pasteboard. There is always someone in a community, however small, with ingenuity for such work. The Butterfly in Scene II is affixed to wire held at the wings. The Prompter reads the part of Granny, standing close to the bed, in order to assist in getting rid of the Dummy when Wolf is supposed to eat it] Scene I. The outside of Little Red Riding-Hood's Cottage. Enter Red Riding-Hood's Mother. She runs about the stage look- ing for her child. M OTHER. Red Riding-Hood! Red Riding-Hood, I say! Where can the little monkey hide away? Red Riding-Hood! O dreary, dreary me ! Provoking child, where ever can she be ! [Looks off on both sides.] She is a shocking disobedient child, Enough to drive a loving moth- er wild ; But stay ! where are the butter and the cake That to her grandmother she has to take? Fetches basket from cottage and shows cake and butter. Here is the cake, and here's the butter, see! The nicest cake and butter that could be. These in the basket I will neatly lay, A present to poor Granny to convey. They are not tithes, though given to the wicker; Puts them in basket. Bless me, I wish the child were only quicker! Red Riding-Hood, Red Riding- Hood ! Dear, dear ! Enter Little Red Riding-Hood. R. R.-H. Here I am, ma. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 169 Mother. You wicked puss, come here ! Take this to Granny! Poor old soul, she's ill; Give her my love and these tid- bits. R. R.-H I will. Won't it be nice? Through wood and field I'll walk, And have with Jack, perhaps, a little talk. Dear Jack ! At thought of him why quickly beat, heart? Dear Jack ! he's no Jack-pud- ding, but a sweet-tart! Won't I catch butterflies and gather flowers ! Mother. Mind you don't dawdle and be gone for hours, But go straight there and back again with speed, And do not loiter in lane, wood, or mead, Or else a great big wolf shall come to eat you ; At any rate your loving moth- er'll beat you! Threatens R. R.-H. with stick. Enter Jack, at back. Jack. Where is Red Riding-Hood, my heart's delight? La, there's her mother! What a horrid fright! Mother. What are you doing here, you rascal Jack? Be off, or I will hit your head a crack. [Strikes at him, but misses.] Jack. Before your hits, ma'am, I pre- fer a miss ; « Bows to R. R.-H. So blow for blow, I mean to blow a kiss. [Kisses hand to R. R.-H.] Mother. Kisses to bk Jack. Hush ! don't be coarse and low : If you don't like my company, I'll go; Your words are violent, your temper quick, So this young woodcutter will cut his stick. He and R. R.-H. exchange signs, blow kisses, etc. Exit Jack. Mother (to R. R.-H.). That spark is not your match, and you're to blame. To take delight in such a paltry flame. Now go ; and lose no time upon the road, But hasten straight to Grand- mother's abode. R. R.-H. I will not loiter, mother, by the way, Nor go in search of butterflies astray. Instead of picking flowers, my steps I'll pick, And take the things to Granny, who is sick. Good-by, dear mother. Mother (kisses her.) There, my dear, good-by. R. R.-H. See how obedient to your word I fly! Mother. A one-horse fly! What non- sense you do talk! You have no wings, and so of course must walk. You go afoot. How now, miss? Wherefore smile? R. R.-H. Why go afoot? I've not to go a mile; That was the reason, mother, why I smiled. Mother. That joke's so far-fetched, that it's very miled. [Exeunt. 170 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Scene II. A Forest Glade. Enter Red Riding-Hood. R. R.-H. How nice the wood is, with its cool green shade! I must sit down and rest here, I'm afraid; Though mother would declare I'm only lazy. I'm very tired and weary. [Yawns, then sees flower and starts.] Lawk! a daisy! [Picks flowers.] It can't be wrong some pretty flowers to pull; With them I'll fill my little apron full, And take to please my poor old granny's eye. Butterfly flies across the stage. O, isn't that a lovely butterfly? [Runs after it.] Stop, little butterfly, a moment, do. Tries to catch it, and runs into the arms of Jack, who enters. I've caught it. Jack. Beg your pardon, I've caught you. [Kisses her.] R. R.-H. Don't you be rude, sir! Fie, why treat me thus ! Jack. You thought to take a fly, I took a bus. I love you, pretty maid! Sup- pose we say That we'll be married? Just you fix the day. [Em- braces her.] R. R.-H. You're very pressing, sir ! Well, let me see: Next Wednesday a wedding's day shall be. Jack. An earlier date far better, dear, will do; Say, why not Tuesday as the day for two? Another kiss! R. R.-H. A kiss? O dear me, no! Farewell. To poor old Granny's I must go, For mother has commanded me to take The poor old soul some butter and a cake. Jack. I'm off to work, then. R. R.-H. Whither you go pray? Jack. I'm not quite sure, but mean to axe my way. [Exit. R. R.-H. Now I must hurry off to Granny. Fairy appears. Law! How lovely! such a sight I never saw. Fairy. I am a fairy, and your friend, my dear; You'll need my aid, for there is danger near. Your disobedience to your mother's will Has given bad fairies power to work you ill. R. R.-H. Thanks, beauteous fairy. But no harm I meant, And of my disobedience much repent. Fairy. I know it, and will therefore prove your friend; You shall o'ercome your troubles in the end. Remember when your case my help demands, You've naught to do save simply clap your hands. Exit Fairy. R. R.-H. How very sorry I am now that I MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 171 Was disobedient: let the time slip by, Neglected Granny and my mother's words, To gather flowers and list to singing birds, To hunt the butterflies. 'Twas wrong, I fear — But, goodness gracious me, what have we here? Enter Wolf. Wolf. O, what a very pretty little girl ! Such rosy cheeks, such hair, so nice in curl ! (Aside.) As tender as a chicken, too, I'll lay; One doesn't get such tidbits ev- ery day. (To R. R.-H.) What brings you wander- ing in the wood like this, And whither are you going, pretty miss? R. R.-H. I'm bound for Granny's cot- tage, but I fear I've strayed from the right path in coming here. I'm taking her a currant-cake and butter; So nice, their excellence no tongue can utter. Wolf (aside). However excellent, I'll bet I lick it ; . As to the cake, I'll gobble pretty quick it. (To R. R.-H.) And where does Granny live? R. R.-H. Not far from this ; It's near the river. Wolf (pointing off). Then, my little miss, Along that path you have but to repair, And very shortly you will find you're there. R. R.-H. O, thank you; now I'll go. [Exit. Wolf. And I'll be bound You'll find that same short cut a long way round. The nearest road to the cottage take, And of old Granny I short work will make, And then I'll gobble you up, little dear. I didn't like to try and eat you heres You might object to it — some people do — And scream and cry, and make a hubbuboo; And there's a woodcutter, I know, hard by, From whose quick hatchet quick-catch-it should I ! Here goes to bolt old Granny without flummery, A spring — and then one swal- low shall be summery ! [Exit. Scene III. Interior of Grandmother's cottage. On the right hand, close to the wing, a bed with a dummy in it with a large night- cap. Wolf is heard knocking. Granny (spoken from the wing close by the bed). Who's there? Wolf (imitating R. R.-H.) Your little grandchild, Granny dear. Granny. That child has got a shocking cold, that's clear. Some carelessness — she's got her feet wet through With running in the rain or heavy dew, Perhaps without her bonnet; and, of course, 172 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. The little donkey is a little hoarse. Her words she used not croak- ingly to utter — What do you want? Wolf. I've brought you cake and but- ter, But can't come in, the door my strength defies. Granny. Pull at the bobbin, and the latch will rise. Enter Wolf. Granny. How are you, little darling? Wolf. Darling ! Pooh ! You didn't bolt your door, so I'll bolt you ! Granny. O, mercy ! murder ! what is this I see? Some frightful spectre must the monster be! Wolf. Don't make a noise, for you're a hopeless hobble in; I'm not a ghost, but soon shall be a gobble-in' ! Wolf flings himself on the bed; shrieks and growls are heard. The dummy is removed without the audience being able to see it, as Wolf is in front of it. Wolf (coming down). Yahen! yahen ! yahen ! yahen ! yahen ! I've finished her ere she could angry be with me. I didn't give her time to dis- agree with me. Now for a night-gown (takes one) and a night-cap (takes one). Good! [Puts them on.] How do I look as Grandma Riding-Hood ? Gets into bed and covers himself up. A knock is heard at the door. Wolf (imitating Granny's voice). Who's there ? R. R.-H. Your little grandchild, Granny dear; I have a cake and butter for you here. Wolf Pull at the bobbin and the latch will rise. Enter R. R.-H. R. R.-H. Good morning, Granny! here are the supplies. Sets down basket. Wolf. Good morning, dear, come sit beside my bed. I'm very bad indeed, child, in my head. R. R.-H. sits on the side of bed. R. R.-H. Why, Granny, what big ears you've got? Wolf. My dear, That is that Granny may the better hear. R. R.-H. And, Granny, what big eyes you've got! Wolf. Dear me! That is that Granny may the better see. R. R.-H. Then, Granny, what big teeth you've got? O, la! Wolf. To eat you up with all the better. [Springs out of bed and strikes an attitude.] Ha! R. R.-H. screams, and runs away; Wolf pursues her round the table. Enter Jack. Jack. As I was passing by, I just dropt in. [To Wolf.] Shall I drop into you? Wolf. O, pray begin! Jack. You hideous brute, your wicked game I'll stop. Hits Wolf with axe. How do you like that, monster? Wolf. That's first chop ! Jack. That isn't all — another chop to follow ! MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 173 Strikes him again. They struggle. Wolf falls with a loud cry. Don't halloa, sir! Wolf. I must — I'm beaten hollow; You've felled me to the earth. Jack. Yes, I'm the feller! I'll beat you black and blue. Wolf (aside). Then I'll turn yeller! Goes into convulsions, shrieks, and feigns to be dead. Jack flings down axe, and embraces R. R.-H. R. R.-H. You've saved my life, dear Jack! What can I do To show my love and gratitude to you? Jack. Sweetest Red Riding-Hood, say you'll be mine, To jine our hands the parson I'll en jine. Wolf creeps behind them, and secures the axe. Wolf (leaping up). That en-gine won't assist you, tender pair; Snatches up R. R.-H. with one arm, brand- ishing axe. If that's your line, why I shall raise the fare. Jack. He's got the axe — O, here's a nice quandary! R. R.-H. (claps hands). You'll raise the fare? Then I will raise the fairy! Fairy appears at the back. Enter R. R.- H.'s Mother. Mother. You wicked child, where have you been? Oho! You're listening to the shoot of that young beau ! But I'll forbid it, and I'll have my way. Fairy comes forward. Fairy. Excuse me, but your orders I gainsay. Mother. Who are you, madam, I should like to ask? Fairy. I am the Fairy of the Wood, whose task It is to aid the weak against the strong, And set things right when they are going wrong. You, Master Wolf, please keep that hatchet ready; For that sad jest of eating the old lady, You shall die, jester, by that very tool! Dame Margery, you have acted like a fool. Mother. Good Mistress Fairy, why, what have I done? Fairy. Jack is no peasant, but a prince's son, Stolen from the crib by an old cribbing gypsy, When he was little- and his nurse was tipsy. Mother. You don't say! Jack. I a prince! R. R.-H. Good gracious, mother! Is he that 'ere? Fairy. He's that heir, and no other. Your mother won't reject his house and lands, Though she did him ; so here I join your hands, With blessings, from the Fairy of the Wood, On brave Prince Jack and fair Red Riding-Hood. m MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. TAKING THE CENSUS. Scene — A farm house. Characters — Mrs. Tonchzvood at the washtub being quizzed by the census taker. CENSUS TAKER— Good morning, madam. Is the head of the house at home ? Mrs. Touchwood — Yes, sir, I'm at home. C. T. — Haven't you a husband? Mrs. T. — Yes, sir, but he ain't the head of the family, I'd have you to know. C. T. — How many persons have you in your family? Mrs. T. — Why bless me, sir, what's that to you? You're mighty inquisitive, I think. C. T. — I'm the man that takes the census. Mrs. T. — If you was a man in your senses you wouldn't ask such impertinent questions. C. T. — Don't be offended, old lady, but answer my questions as I ask them. Mrs. T. — "Answer a fool according to his folly!" — you know what the Scripture says. Old lady, indeed ! C. T. — Beg your pardon, madam; but I don't care about hearing Scripture just at this moment. I'm bound to go according to law and not according to gospel. Mrs. T. — I should think you went neither according to law nor gospel. What busi- ness is it to you to inquire into folks' affairs, Mr. Thingumbob? C. T. — The law makes it my business, good woman, and if you don't want to ex- pose yourself to its penalties, you must answer my questions. Mrs. T.— Oh, it's the law is it? That alters the case. But I should like to know what the law has to do with other people's household affairs? C. T. — Why, Congress made the law, and if it don't please you, you must talk to them about it. Mrs. T.— Talk to a fiddle-stick! Why, Congress is a fool, and you're another. C. T. — Now, good lady, you're a fine, good-looking woman ; if you'll give me a few civil answers I'll thank you. What I wish to know first is, how many are there in your family? Mrs. T. — Let me see {counting on her fingers'] ; there's I and my husband is one — C. T. — Two, you mean. Mrs. T. — Don't put me out, now, Mr. Thinkummy. There's I and my husband is one C. T. — Are you always one? Mrs. T— What's that to you, I should like to know. But I tell you, if you don't leave off interrupting me I won't say an- other word. C. T. — Well, take your own way, and be hanged to you. Mrs. T. — I will take my own way, and no thanks to you. {Again counting her ■fingers.] There's I and my husband is one ; there's John, he's two ; Peter is three, Sue and Moll are four, and Thomas is five. And then there's Mr. Jenkins and his wife and the two children is six; and there's Jowler, he's seven. C. T.— Jowler! Who's he? Mrs. T. — Who's Jowler! Why, who should he be but the old house dog? C. T. — It's the number of persons I want to know. Mrs. T. — Very well, Mr. Flippergin, ain't Jowler a person? Come here, Jowler, and speak for yourself. I'm sure he's as personable a dog as there is in the whole State. C. T. — He's a very clever dog, no doubt. But it's the number of human beings I want to know. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 175 Mrs. T. — Human! There ain't a more human dog that ever breathed. C. T. — Well, but I mean the two-legged kind of beings. Mrs. T. — Oh, the two-legged, is it? Well, then, there's the old rooster, he's seven; the fighting-cock is eight, and the bantam is nine C. T. — Stop, stop, good woman, I don't want to know the number of your fowls. Mrs. T. — I'm very sorry indeed, I can't please you, such a sweet gentleman as you are. But didn't you tell me — 'twas the two- legged beings C. T— True, but I didn't mean the hens. Mrs. T. — Oh, now I understand you. The old gobbler, he's seven, the hen turkey is eight ; and if you'll wait a week there'll be a parcel of young ones, for the old hen turkey is setting on a whole snarl of eggs. C. T. — Blast your turkeys! Mrs. T. — Oh, don't now, good Mr. Hip- perstitcher, I pray you don't. They're as honest turkeys as any in the country. C. T. — Don't vex me any more. I'm get- ting to be angry. Mrs. T.— Ha ! ha ! ha ! C. T. [striding about the room in a rage.] — Have a care, madam, or I shall fly out of my skin. Mrs. T. — If you do, I don't know who will fly in. C. T; — You do all you can to anger me. It's the two-legged creatures who talk I have reference to. Mrs. T. — Oh, now I understand you. Well, then, our Poll Parrot makes seven and the black gal eight. C. T. — I see you will have your own way. Mrs. T. — You have just found out, have you! You are a smart little man! C. T. — Have you mentioned the whole of your family? Mrs. T. — Yes, that's the whole — except the wooden-headed man in front. C. T. — Wooden-headed? Mrs. T. — Yes, the schoolmaster what's boarding here. C. T. — I suppose if he has a wooden head he lives without eating, and therefore must be a profitable boarder. Mrs. T. — Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken there. He eats like a leather judgment. C. T. — How many servants are there in the family? Mrs. T. — Servants ! Why, there's no servants but me and my husband. C. T. — What makes you and your hus- band servants? Mrs. T. — I'm a servant to hard work, and he is a servant to rum. He does noth- ing all day but guzzle, guzzle, guzzle ; while I'm working, and stewing, and sweating from morning till night, and from night till morning. C. T. — How many colored persons have you ? Mrs. T. — There's nobody but Dinah, the black girl, Poll Parrot and my daughter Sue. C. T. — Is your daughter a colored girl? Mrs. T. — I guess you'd think so if you was to see her. She's always out in the sun — and she's tanned up as black as an Indian. C. T. — How many white males are there in your family under ten years of age? Mrs. T. — Why, there ain't none now ; my husband don't carry the "mail since he's taken to drink so bad. He used to carry two, but they wasn't white. C. T. — You mistake, good woman; I meant male folks, not leather mails. Mrs. T. — Let me see; there's none ex- cept little Thomas, and Mr. Jenkins' two little girls. 176 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. C. T. — Males, I said, madam, not fe- males. Mrs. T. — Well, if you don't like them, you may leave them off. C. T. — How many white males are there between ten and twenty? Mrs. T. — Why, there's nobody but John and Peter, and John ran away last week. C. T. — How many white males are there between twenty and thirty? Mrs. T. — Let me see — there's the wood- en-headed man is one, Mr. Jenkins and his wife is two, and the black girl is three. C. T. — No more of your nonsense, old lady; I'm heartily tired of it. Mrs. T— Hoity toity ! Haven't I a right to talk as I please in my own house? C. T. — You must answer the questions as I put them. Mrs. T. — "Answer a fool according to his folly" — you're right, Mr. Hippogriff. C. T. — How many white males are there between thirty and forty? Mrs. T. — Why, there's nobody but I and my husband — and he was forty-one last March. C. T. — As you count yourself among the males, I dare say you wear the breeches. Mrs. T.— Well, what if I do, Mr. Im- pertinence? Is that anything to you? Mind your own business, if you please. C. T. — Certainly — I did but speak. How many white males are there between forty and fifty? Mrs. T.— None. C. T. — How many between fifty and sixty ? Mrs. T— None. C. T. — Are there any between this and a hundred? Mrs. T. — None except the old gentle- man. C. T. — What old gentleman? You have not mentioned any before. Mrs. T. — Why, grandfather Grayling — I thought everybody knew grandfather Gray- ling — he's a hundred and two years old next August, if he lives so long — and I dare say he will, for he's got the dry wilt, and they say such folks never dies. C. T. — Now give the number of deaf and dumb persons. Mrs. T. — Why, there is no deaf persons, excepting husband, and he ain't so deaf as he pretends to be. When anybody axes him to take a drink of rum, if it's only in a whisper, he can hear quick enough. But if I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he's as deaf as a horse-block. C. T. — How many dumb persons? Mrs. T.— Dumb ! Why, there's no dumb body in the house, except the wooden- headed man, and he never speaks unless he's spoken to. To be sure, my husband wishes I was dumb, but he can't make it out. C. T. — Are there any manufactures car- ried on here? Mrs. T.— None to speak on, except tur- nip-sausages and tow cloth. C. T. — Turnip-sausages ? Mrs. T. — Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there anything so wonderful in that? C. T. — I never heard of them before. What kind of machinery is used in making them ? Mrs. T. — Nothing but a bread-trough, a chopping-knife and a sausage filler. C. T. — Are they made of clear turnips? Mrs. T. — Now you're terrible inquisitive. What would jou give to know? C. T. — I'll give you the name of being the most communicative and pleasant woman I've met with for the last half-hour. Mrs. T. — Well, now, you're a sweet gen- tleman, and I must gratify you. You must know we mix with the turnip a little red MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 177 cloth, just enough to give them a color, so they needn't look as if they were made of clear fat meat; then we chop them up well together, put in a little sage, summer savory, and black pepper; and they make as pretty little delicate links as ever was set on a gentleman's table ; they fetch the high- est price in the market. C. T. — Indeed ! Have you a piano in the house ? Mrs. T.— A piany! What's that? C. T. — A musical instrument. Mrs. T. — Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down at the Corners, has one. You see, Sary got all highfalutin about the great Colu- shun down to Bosting, and down she went ; an' when she came back the old man got no rest until she had one of the big square music boxes with white teeth — 'spose that's what you call a piany. C. T. — You seem to know what it is, then. Mrs. T. — Yes, sir. Have you anything more to ax? C. T. — Nothing more. Good morning, madam. Mrs. T. — Stop a moment ; can't you think of something else? Do now, that's a good man. Wouldn't you like to know what we're going to have for dinner ; or how many chickens our old white hen hatched at her last brood ; or how many — C. T. — Nothing more — nothing more. Mrs. T. — Here, just look in the cup- board, and see how many red ants there are in the sugar-bowl ; I haven't time to count them myself. C. T. — Confound your ants and all your relations. [Exit in bad humor.] &5* c?* t^» MR. PINCHEM'S CLERK. Scene. — An office with a desk or table on zvhich are an inkstand, a pile of ledgers and some extra sheets of paper. Mr. Pinchem, with gray wig and zvhiskers and spectacles, sits in his office busily en- gaged in figuring up his accounts. He does not look up from his paper, but keeps on figuring while his clerk enters and takes a seat near the table in such a position as to both face the audience. Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I — I — Mr. Pinchem. Have you got those goods off for Kalamazoo? Clerk. Yes, sir, they are off. Mr. Pinchem, I — Mr. P. And about that order for starch ? Clerk. That has been attended to, sir. Mr. Pinchem — Mr. P. And that invoice of tea ? Clerk. That's all right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have — Mr. P. And that cargo of sugar? Clerk. Taken care of as you directed, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long — Mr. P. What about Bush and Bell's con- signment ? Clerk. Received in good order, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted — Mr. P. And that shipment to Buffalo? Clerk. All right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted to speak to you — Mr. P. Ah! speak to me? Why, I thought you spoke to me fifty times a day. Clerk. Yes, sir, I know, but this is a private matter. Mr. P. Private? Oh! Ah! Wait till I see how much we made on that last ten thousand pounds of soap — six times four are twenty-four; six times two are twelve MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. and two to carry make fourteen ; six times nought are nothing and one to carry makes one ; six times five are thirty, seven times four — ah ! well go ahead, I'll finish this afterwards. Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I have been with you ten long years, — Mr. P. Ten, eh ! Long years, eh ! any longer than any other years? Go ahead. Clerk. And I have always tried to do my duty. Mr. P. Have, eh ? Go on. Clerk. And now I make bold — Mr. P. Hold on! What is there bold about it? But, never mind, I'll hear you out. Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask — ask — I want to ask — Mr. P. Well, why don't you ask then? I don't see why you don't ask if you want to. Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask you for — for — Mr. P. You want to ask me for the hand of my daughter. Ah ! why didn't you speak right out? She's yours, my boy, take her and be happy. You might have had her two years ago if you had mentioned it. Go long, now, I'm busy. Seven times six are forty-two, seven times five are thirty-five and four are thirty-nine, seven times eight — Clerk. Mr. Pinchem — Mr. P. What! You here yet? Well, what is it? Clerk. I wanted to ask you for — Mr. P. Didn't I give her to you, you rascal ! Clerk. Yes, but what I wanted to ask you for was not the hand of your daughter, but a raise of salary. Mr. P. Oh! that was it, eh? Well, sir, that is an entirely different matter ; and it requires time for serious thought and earnest deliberation. Return to your work. I'll think about it, and some time next fall, I'll see about giving you a raise of a dollar or so a week. Seven times eight are fifty- six and three are fifty-nine — (Curtain Falls.) KC& (5* ^* KINDNESS AND CRUELTY. (For a big boy of twelve PAUL/ — Are you the boy who called me names the other day? Charles — If you are the boy who threw stones at a toad, I am the boy who called you cruel. P. — Then I shall give you a beating. C. — I do not see how that would change the fact. You would still be cruel. P. — Are you not afraid of me? C. — I am just about as afraid of you as I am of our big rooster when he jumps on a fence and crows. P. — I am larger and stouter than you are. and a little boy of eight.) C. — So a hawk is larger than a king- bird; but the king-bird is not afraid of him. P. — Why did you call me cruel for ston- ing an ugly toad? C. — Because it is a cruel act to give need- less pain to any living thing. P. — Would you not like to have all the toads put out of the way? C. — By no means. The toad is of use, and does us no harm. Four or five toads will keep a garden free from bugs, worms and flies that would spoil the leaves. A MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 179 good gardener would rather have you strike him than kill a toad. P. — I never heard before that a toad was of any use. C. — Probably all the creatures in the world are of use, in some way, though we may not yet have found it out. But what harm did you ever know a toad to do? See how he tries to hop out of your way as soon as he hears your step. P. — It is true ; I never heard of a toad's doing any harm. What is your name? C. — My name is Charles Larcorn. P. — Charles Larcom, I have been in the wrong, and you have been in the right. Will you shake hands with me? C. — Gladly; I'd much rather shake hands than fight. P. — I was cruel in stoning the toad, and you said no more than the truth about me. C. — I think we shall be good friends. Come and see me; I live in the white house by the brook, near the old willow tree. P. — I know the house. Will you go and picK berries with me next Saturday after- noon ? C. — That I will ; and my brother would like to go, too. P. — I'll call for you at three o'clock; till then, good-bye. C. — Good-bye, Paul Curtis; I'm glad to have met you. c5* t?» c5» A PEACH PIE. Characters — The Baker, A Little Girl. (As the Curtain Rises the Baker is Seen Arranging His Goods.) (Enter Little Girl.) GIRL — Do you sell pies? Baker — Yes, my little girl. Girl — My mamma said you sold pies. How much are they? Baker — Ten cents apiece. Girl — Give me a peach pie. Baker — (looking over wares). I am all out of peach pies. However, I have some nice mince pies. Girl — But I want a peach pie. Baker — Well, I am all out. Girl — My mamma said you kept peach pies. Baker — Well, so I do, but just now I am out of them. Girl — I am willing to pay you for one. Baker — Yes, I know, but I haven't any. Girl — My mamma said if I gave you ten cents vou would give me a peach pie. Baker — So I would if I had any. Girl — Any what? Baker — Peach pies. Girl — That's what I want. Baker — Yes, but I haven't any. I have nothing but mince pies left. Girl — But I don't want a mince pie. I want a peach pie. Baker — Well, I haven't any. Girl — You sold mamma a peach pie yesterday for ten cents. Baker — Yes, I had peach pies yesterday. Girl — How much do you want for peach pies ? Baker — If I had any to sell, I would let you have one for ten cents. Girl — I have got ten cents in my hand. Baker — I don't doubt it, my little girl. Girl — And I want a peach pie. Baker — I haven't any peach pies ; I'm all sold out. Don't you understand? Girl — You sold my mamma a peach pie yesterday for ten cents. 180 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Baker — Of course I did. I had some to sell yesterday, and if I had any to sell to- day, I. would let you have it. Girl — This is a baker shop, isn't it ? Baker — Of course it is. Girl — And you sell pies and cakes ? Baker — Of course I do. Girl — Then I want a peach pie. Baker — Little girl, go home. I shall never have any more peach pies to sell. Do you hear ? Never any more peach pies ! (Curtain.) *&* Ci5* (5* A GROVE OF HISTORIC TREES. (Arbor TREE planting on Arbor Day, for economic purposes in the great West, has given to the prairie States many thou- sand acres of new forests, and inspired the people with a sense of their great value, not only for practical purposes, but for climatic and meteorological results as well. The celebration of Arbor Day by the public schools in several of the older States by the planting of memorial trees, as origi- nated at Cincinnati, in the spring of 1882, and generally known as the "Cincinnati plan," has done much also to awaken a widespread interest in the study of trees; and this annual celebration promises to be- come as general in the public schools and among the people as the observance of May Day in England. "Whatever you would have appear in the nation's life you must introduce in the public schools." Train the youth into a love for trees, instruct them in the elements of forestry, and the wisdom of this old German proverb will be realized. First Pupil. Scattered here and there over this beau- tiful land of ours are many prominent trees that have been consecrated by the presence of eminent personages, or by some con- spicuous event in the history of our coun- try. Second Pupil. Perhaps the best-known tree in American history is the "Charter Oak" in Hartford, Day.) Conn., which was prostrated by a Septem- ber gale in 1848, when it measured twenty- five feet in circumference. It was estimated to be six hundred years old, when the first emigrants looked upon it with wonder. Sir Edmund Andross was appointed the first governor-general of the colony of Con- necticut, and arrived at. Boston in Decem- ber, 1686. He immediately demanded the surrender of the charter of Connecticut, and it was refused. In October, 1687, he went to Hartford with a company of soldiers while the as- sembly was in session, and demanded an immediate surrender of their charter. Sir Edmund was received with apparent re- spect by the members, and in his presence the subject of his demand was calmly de- bated until evening. The charter was then brought forth and placed upon the table around which the members were sitting. Andross was about to seize it, when the lights were suddenly extinguished. A large concourse of people had assembled without, and the moment the lights dis- appeared they raised a loud huzza, and several entered the chamber. Captain Wadsworth, of Hartford, seized the charter, and, unobserved, carried it off and deposited it in the hollow trunk of a large cak tree fronting the house of Hon. Samuel Wyllys, then one of the magistrates of that colony. The candles were relighted, quiet MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 181 was restored, and Andross eagerly sought the coveted parchment. It was gone, and none could, or would, reveal its hiding- place. Ever after that tree was called the "Charter Oak." Third Pupil. The "Washington Elm" still stands at Cambridge, Mass. It is on Garden Street, a short distance from the colleges, and is a large, well-preserved tree. It was this elm that shaded Washington on that July 3d, 1775, when he took command of the American army at Cambridge, and began that long public life in which he exhibited such brilliant talents, and won for himself the deserved title of "Father of his Coun- try." We have been an independent nation for more than a century, but this tree still stands, and its massive trunk and wide- spreading branches form a fitting emblem of the prosperous nation that started out, as it were, from beneath its shade ; and in it are centered fond remembrances of our Revolutionary fathers. Fourth Pupil. In the middle of Eighteenth Street, Chi- cago, between Prairie Avenue and the lake, there stood until recently a large cotton- wood tree ; it was the last of a group which marked the spot where the Indian massacre of 1812 took place. Fort Dearborn stood at the mouth of the Chicago River, about one and one-half miles from the clump of trees. In August an army of Indians at- tacked the fort, and the garrison being weak, the commandant offered to surrender on condition that the force might withdraw without molestation. At nine o'clock on August 15th, the party, composed of about seventy-five persons, advanced from the fort along the Indian trail, which follows the lake shore. When the little band had reached the cotton-wood tree, a volley was showered by the Indians. All were killed except twenty-two, who surrendered and were spared. To-day an imposing monu- ment marks the spot, that takes the place of the tree that was blown down. Fifth Pupil. Who has not heard of the elm at Shak- amaxon, under the spreading branches of which William Penn made his famous treaty with the Indians, which was never sworn to, and which stands alone as the only treaty made by the whites with the Indians which was never broken? For more than a century and a quarter this tree stood, a grand monument of this most sin- cere treaty ever made, and then it was blown down, and a monument of marble now but poorly marks the spot where it stood. Sixth Pupil. "The Cary Tree," planted by the road- side in 1832 by Alice and Phoebe Cary, is a large and beautiful sycamore standing on the turnpike from College Hill to Mount Pleasant, Hamilton County, Ohio. As these two sisters were returning from school one day they found a small tree in the road, and carrying it to the opposite side they dug out the earth with sticks, and planted it. Seventh Pupil. It was the custom of our ancestors to plant trees in the early settlement of our country, and dedicate them to Liberty. Many of these "Liberty Trees," con- secrated by our forefathers, are still stand- ing. "Old Liberty Elm" in Boston was planted by a schoolmaster long before the Revolutionary War, and dedicated by him to the independence of the colonies. Around that tree, before the Revolution, the citizens of Boston and vicinity used to gather and listen to the advocates of our country's freedom. Around it, during the 188 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. war, they met to offer up thanks and sup- plications to Almighty God for the success of the patriot armies, and after the terrible struggle had ended, the people were accus- tomed to assemble there year after year, in the shadow of that old tree, to celebrate the liberty and independence of our country. It stood till within a few years, a living monument of the patriotism of the people of Boston, and when at last it fell, the bells in all the churches of the city were tolled, and a feeling of sadness spread over the entire State. Eighth Pupil. At the southern line of Fort Mercer, on the Delaware River, close by the bank, are the remains of the hickory tree which was used as a flagstaff during the battle which occurred there in autumn of 1777. There stood, until 1840, near Charleston, S. C, a magnificent magnolia tree, under which General Lincoln signed the capitulation of that city in 1789. Incredible as it may ap- pear, the owner of the land and of the house shaded by the tree, wherein he and his mother were born, subsequently felled it for firewood. At Rhinebeck may still be seen an interesting memento of the lamented General Montgomery. A day or two before he left home to join the army under Schuy- ler he was walking on the lawn in the rear of his brother-in-law's mansion with the owner, and as he came near the house Mont- gomery stuck a willow twig in the ground, and said, "Let that grow to remember me by." It did grow, and is now a willow with a trunk at least ten feet in circumference. On the banks of the Genesee River stood an oak believed to have been a thottsand years old, called "The Big Tree." Under it the Seneca nation of Indians held coun- cils; and it gave the title "Big Tree" to one of the eminent chiefs of that nation, at the period of our Revolution. It was twenty-six feet in circumference. It was swept away by a flood in the autumn of 1857. A pear tree that stood on the corner of Thirteenth Street and Third Avenue, in New York City, bore fruit until i860, when it perished. It was planted in his garden by Peter Stuyvesant, the last Dutch gover- nor of New Netherlands (now New York), in 1667. Ninth Pupil. Other trees of historic interest are the ash trees planted by General Washington at Mount Vernon. These trees form a beautiful row, which is the admiration of all who visit the home of the "Father of his Country." The weeping willow over the grave of Cotton Mather, in Copp's burying-ground, was taken from a tree that shaded the grave of Napoleon at St. Helena. Copp's bury- ing-ground is so near Bunker Hill battle- field that a number of gravestones can be seen to-day which were pierced through by bullets fired by British soldiers in that battle. Tenth Pupil. But besides historical trees there are many others that attract our attention from their great size. Among these are the won- derful trees of California. They are about five hundred in number, ninety-five being of enormous size. There is one fallen mon- ster, which must have stood four hundred and fifty feet in the air, and had a diameter of forty feet. Another engaged the efforts of five men for twenty-five days in cutting, and on the level surface of the stump thirty- two dancers find ample room. "Old Go- liath" shows the marks of a fire, that, ac- cording to surrounding trees untouched, must have raged a thousand years ago. The diameter of the largest is thirty-three feet ; the circumference of the largest, five feet above the ground, sixty-one feet. This MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 183 is tne only one more than sixty feet in cir- cumference. So much larger are those immense trees than those we ordinarily see, that a com- parison is about the only way in which we can correctly measure them. Shortly after they were discovered, the hollow trunk of one of them was forwarded to New \ ork, where it was converted into a grocery store. In one of these groups of trees a stage- road has been cut under the trunk through the roots, and immense coaches, drawn by six horses, pass directly under the old giant. Eleventh Pupil. I will tell you how George P. Morris came to write the poem, "Woodman, Spare That Tree." Mr. Morris, in a letter to a friend, dated New York, February i, 1837, gave in substance the following account : "Riding out of town a few days after, in company with a friend, an old gentle- man, he invited me to turn down a little romantic woodland pass, not far from Bloomingdale. " 'Your object ?' inquired I. 'Merely to look once more at an old tree planted by my grandfather long before I was born, under which I used to play when a boy, and where my sisters played with me. There I often listened to the good advice of my parents. Father, mother, sisters — all are gone ; nothing but the old tree remains.' And a paleness overspread his fine counte- nance and tears came to his eyes. After a moment's pause, he added: 'Don't think me foolish. I don't know how it is ; I never ride out but I turn down this lane to look at that old tree. I have a thousand recollections about it, and I always greet it as a familiar and well-remembered friend.' These words were scarcely uttered when the old gentleman cried out 'There it is !' Near the tree stood a man with his coat off, sharpening an axe. 'You're not going to cut that tree down, surely?' 'Yes, but I am though,' said the woodman. 'What for?' inquired the old gentleman, with choked emotion. 'What for? I like that ! Well, I will tell you. I want the tree for fire-wood.' 'What is the tree worth to you for firewood?' 'Why, when down, about ten dollars.' 'Suppose I should give you that sum,' said the old gentleman, 'would you let it stand?' 'Yes.' 'You are sure of that ?' 'Positive !' 'Then give me a bond to that effect.' We went into the little cottage in which my companion was born, but which is now occupied by the wood- man. I drew up the bond. It was signed and the money paid over. As we left, the young girl, the daughter of the woodman, assured us that while she lived the tree should not be cut. These circumstances made a strong impression on my mind, and furnished me with the materials for the song-." «t5* t5* &?* BACKBITERS BITTEN. A Dialogue for Four Girls. Characters. Miss Marvel, Miss Gad, Miss Slander, Miss Upham. MISS MARVEL. Who would have thought it, Miss Slander ? Miss Gad. You don't say so, Miss Slan- der! Miss Slander. Oh, but it is quite true. It must be. Besides, my brother William heard it at the barber-shop. 184 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Miss M. Well, now, I always had my suspicions; there was always a something — a what-do-you-call-it sort of a look about the Uphams that I never liked. Miss S. They say it is all over town — at least brother William says it must be. But, whether or no, that's the fact. John Upham's store was shut up this morning. Miss G. Well, well, it is no more than I always said it would come to. Miss S. They certainly always lived above their station. As my brother William often said to me, "Nancy," says he, "mark my words ; for all that them Uphams hold up their noses like conceited peacocks, as they are, pride will have a fall," says he, "pride will have a fall !" Miss M. And such goings-on, Miss Slan- der, to be sure — such goings-on! Parties, parties, parties, from Monday till Saturday — the best joint at the butcher's, the nicest loaf at the baker's, always bespoke for the Uphams. Well, they must be content now with poor people's fare ! Miss S. If they can get even that! for my brother William says they will be sold out and out, — down to the baby's go-cart. Dear me, dear me ! Miss G. Only think of it. How different it was this time last year, Miss Slander, — Miss Upham with her new velvet dress, the finest Genoa, Mr. Upham with his new phaeton, Master Upham with his new watch, and little Emma Upham with her new fancy hat ! Miss M. But everybody could see what was coming. It could not go on so forever. That's what I said. But Upham was always such a proud man. Miss S. Never would take anybody's advice but his own — there ! it was no later than Wednesday week, when my brother William civilly asked him, in the most neighborly way in the world, if he wanted a little conversation with a friend about his affairs, as they appeared to be going back- ward; and what do you think he said? "William," said he, "you and your sister Nancy go chattering about like a couple of human magpies, only the bird's instinct is better than your reason." That's just what he said, the vile brute ! Miss M. Brute, indeed, Miss Slander; you may well say that. Bird's instinct, for- sooth ! Miss G. Set him up to talk reason ! Had he reason enough to keep himself out of the constable's hands? Miss M. I should not be surprised, Miss Slander, if he were to take to drinking. Miss S. And, for that matter, my dear, Thompson told Green, who told Lilly, who told our Becky, who told William, that Upham was seen coming out of Tim Smith's saloon this very morning. Miss G. Drunk, of course. Miss S. Well, I don't know, exactly ; but I think it is much more likely that he was drunk than that he was sober. Miss M. Well, well, 'tis poor Miss Up- ham that I pity; I'm sure I sha'n't have a wink of sleep all this blessed night for thinking of her. Miss G. Poor girl ! I'm sure I feel for her. Not that she was ever much better than he. They do say — but I don't know of my own knowledge, and I'm the last person in the world to slander anybody behind their back — but they do say that, before they came here, there were reports, you know, insinuations, stories like, though I don't exactly know the rights of it, but they do say something about Miss Upham's being guilty of stealing a nice gold watch! But, I dare say, it is all nonsense; only, of course' there are some people, you know, that will talk. Miss M. There, now! who would have MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 185 thought it ? Did you ever ? But there was always something very sly about Miss Up- ham — I've seen it often. Miss G. What I hope is, that little Emma won't take after her aunt — poor thing ! Miss S. Oh, as for that, bless you, like aunt like niece — but I say nothing, not I. No, no ! nobody ever heard Nancy' Slander go beyond the line in that way. Mum is my word, — mum, mum ! What I say is, that people ought to keep people's tongues be- tween people's teeth ; that's all. Emma Up- ham ! — ha, ha, bless you ! Miss M. Hush, hush, if here is not Miss Upham herself. Enter Miss Upham. Miss G. My dear Miss Upham, I am very sorry, indeed. Miss M. I could almost shed tears for you, Miss Upham. Miss S. But, my dear Miss Upham, there is one consolation for you — you are not without a friend in the hour of mis- fortune, you know that. Miss U. I must beg you to explain your- selves, ladies. . Miss S. Well, Miss Upham, I do not think you have any reason nozv to put on those proud airs. Miss G. It is hardly worth while to keep a secret that is known all over the town. Miss S. You would do better to remem- ber that pride will have a fall, Miss Up- ham, pride will have a fall ! Miss U. Well, ladies, I must ask you once more to explain yourselves. Miss M. Well, Miss Upham, does not your brother's store look very different to- day from what it did yesterday? Miss S. And did not my brother Wil- liam find, this morning, the door of your brother's store locked? Miss G. And would not some people get some very queer answers if they were to ask you, Miss Upham, why your brother's store was shut up this morning? Miss U. Well, I believe it is a very com- mon thing for merchants to take an account of stock at certain seasons of the year ; at least, that is the reason why my brother's store was not open quite as early as usual, this morning. He is taking an account of stock. Miss M. Taking an account of stock ? Miss U. Yes, Miss Marvel. Miss G. And that is the reason why the door of your brother's store was shut this morning ? Miss U. Yes, Miss Gad. Miss S. And you are not to be sold out and out? Miss U. Not that I know of, Miss Slander. Miss M. I wish you a very good even- ing, Miss Upham. Miss U. Good evening, Miss Marvel. [Exit Miss M. Miss G. I hope no offense given, Miss Upham ? Miss U. Not in the least, Miss Gad. [Exit Miss G. Miss S. Give my love to your sweet niece, Emma, Miss Upham. Miss U. With great pleasure, Miss Slander. [Exit Miss S. There go Marvel, Gad, and Slander ; how full of spite and mischief they are ! May I take warning from them, and keep alto- gether from gossiping and misrepresenta- tion. 186 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. ON TIME— A FARCE. Copyright, 1900, by the Lyceum Publishing Company. ROBERT C. V. MEYERS. Characters. Jerry Earley, who fearing to be late, is just in time. Claude Latterly, who, intending to be early, is a little behind time. Mr. Ferment, who effervesces early and late, but comes to time. Katharine, his daughter, who de- termines that Earley must be in time. Mrs. Campbell, the housekeeper, who early makes a mistake, but rectifies it in time. Suggestions as to Costumes. — Earley, ragged coat, afterward frock coat, with fashionable dress. Latterly, ragged coat, clothing disar- ranged, hat smashed. Ferment, old-fashioned clothes, bald wig, spectacles. Katharine, white gown and ribbons. Mrs. Campbell, black silk dress, cap, spectacles. Scene — Parlor in Ferment's house; en- trances, right and left; Mrs. Campbell discovered as curtain rises. MISS CAMPBELL (with gripsack). Of all the impudence I ever saw ! Mr. Latterly sends his grip by a boy, so as not to lose time. I'd time him if I had anything to do with him. (Shakes grip, then throws it on floor.) Enter Ferment, left. Ferment. What's all this uproar, Mrs. Campbell? What is that (pointing to grip) ? Mrs. C. Mr. Latterly's grip, left by a boy, who fairly threw it at me and rushed off without a word, except to say that he must see a fight. Ferment. Latterly's grip, eh? Then Latterly is not far off. Good ! Would you mind taking the grip to his room? It has his wedding coat in it, I suppose. Mrs. C. I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Ferment. (Used by Permission.) Ferment. Now, Mrs. Campbell, I have no time for words. I am excited. Mrs. C. I've had charge of Katharine ever since her mother died, fifteen years ago Ferment. You wanted a word with me ? This sounds as though you wanted the whole dictionary ! Mrs. C. A' dictionary wouldn't hold all the words I should like to say. Ferment. Don't say 'em. Take one let- ter at a time. Mrs. C. I will. The letter K, Kathar- ine. So she is to be married this morning ! I am sorry to hear it. Ferment. Everybody has a right to be sorry. Mrs. C. But she hasn't a right to be sorry this way. Mr. Latterly is not her choice. Ferment. He is a choice young man — he is my choice. Mrs. C. A girl has a right to her own choice. Ferment. Meaning Mr. Jerry Earley? Mrs. C. She says he is a splendid young man. Ferment. Katharine shall marry the man I pick out for her. It is my theory that a girl should be guided by her father. Will you kindly take that grip to Mr. Latterly's room? Mrs. C. (kicking grip out.) Very well. [Exit, right. Ferment. Shall the daughter of Henry Ferment, author of that book, "The Degen- eracy of the Young," marry a man simply because he is her choice ? Never ! The young should be guided by the old, that's my theory. Why, I've never seen this man MODE EN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 18^ Earley. No, she marries Latterly as soon as he arrives. It was a stroke of genius to nab the minister and lock him in the study, so that the wedding should take place as soon as Latterly arrives — for I distrust Katharine, she might give me the slip. Enter Katharine, left. Katharine. Father ! Ferment. What is it, my daughter? Katharine. I have followed you to tell you I will not marry Mr. Latterly. Simply because he is the son of your old school friend cannot make me like him. Ferment. You've never seen him. Katharine. Neither have you. He writes you that he admires your book, and on the strength of that you determine that he is fit to be your son-in-law. Ferment. I am upholding the theory of that book — the young should be guided by the old. Mr. Earley comes too late if, as you say, he writes you that he comes this morning to ask me for your hand. Every- body has a right to be happy, and so have I. My theory shall be upheld. [Exit, left. Katharine. I marry a man I do not know ! Never ! Oh, if Jerry only comes in time ! If he will only make haste ! Mrs. C. {entering) . Mr. Latterly's wed- ding coat has arrived. I've just kicked it into his room. Don't you dare to marry that man ! Katharine. But what shall I do if Mr. Earley does not arrive in time? Mrs. C. He's not fit to be called Earley if he is late. But I am sorry your father has never seen him. A man likes to marry his daughter to a man he knows. Katharine. He doesn't 'know Mr. Lat- terly, except through his father. Mrs. C. That's something, though your Aunt Anna writes that he is a mere fortune- hunter, and you say Mr. Earley is not that. Katharine. Indeed, no ! If father only knew him ! Mrs. C. Your father refuses to know any young man. Katharine. Consequently I had to meet Mr. Earley at Aunt Anna's when I visited there last winter. Mrs. C. I think your father is scandal- ous. But you needn't marry if you don't want to. Katharine. And the minister is locked up in the study, and Mr. Latterly's coat in his room. Oh, if Jerry would only come (going to tvindoiv) ! Mrs. C. I've taken care of you for fif- teen years, and you shall not be made mis- erable now. Mr. Latterly has never seen you. Suppose I waylay him and pretend I am you ? That ought to make him hesitate. Katharine. If he is what Aunt Anna says he is, he will hesitate at nothing. Mrs. C. But I am old enough to be his mother. Katharine. But father is rich enough to be his father-in-law. Oh, if Jerry would only come! Ferment (entering). Mrs. Campbell, will you please leave us ? Mrs. C. Very well (shaking fist back at him)! [Exit, right. Ferment. I won't have any more non- sense, Katharine. You've got to make Lat- terly a happy man — everybody has a right to be happy. Let us reason together? Katharine. Reason! You don't know what reason is. Booh! [Exit, right. Ferment. She said "Booh!" to me. This is degeneracy in the young with a ven- geance. A girl to say Booh to her father. I thought she couldn't say Booh to a goose. Now she shall marry Latterly. I am an up- right man (pitching over chair). Oh, oh! (Gets tip, rubbing his leg, as pounding is heard.) That's the minister. He don't get 18S MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. out till Latterly gets in. That's what he gets for coming here to tell me my book is all wrong. But I must go and pacify him. [Exit, right. Enter Ear ley, left; coat is ragged, collar and necktie hanging. Earley. I am in time. That's all I want, time, and the last tap I gave Latterly he didn't come to time. Now to find Kath- arine and run off with her. Katharine (entering, right, screaming) . Oh, Jerry! What is the matter? Earley. What do you see is the matter ? Katharine. Your condition. Such dis- arrangement ! Earley. The disarrangement arranged itself. I've had a difference of opinion with Mr. Latterly. Katharine. Mr. Latterly! What has he done to you? Earley. You'd better ask what I've done to him. Katharine. What have you done ? Earley. I've done him, after he tried to do me. Katharine (Hying to him). He has in- jured you? Earley. Wait till you see him. Katharine. Tell me about it, tell me! Earley. We came here in the same car. I recognized him by your Aunt Annie's de- scription of him. He didn't know me. At the station he was in such a hurry that he scourged me. I am not the man to be scourged. I pushed him. At that he struck me. I threw my grip to the platform. He threw his, and yelled to a boy to carry it here. But the boy took mine in mistake. Then Latterly grappled with me. I left him getting plastered up by the trainmen. That gives us a few minutes start of him. Now come, we'll get out of this, come ! Katharine. Oh, Jerry, the minister is here to marry me to Mr. Latterly. Earley. Then we have no time to lose. Come! Noise heard outside; Ferment calling, "Katharine! Katharine !" Katharine. There is papa. He must not find me here. He does not know you. Pretend you are somebody else. Tell him you are a book-agent. I will see you in a few minutes. [Exit, left, running. Earley. Pretend I am a book-agent ! Do I look like one? (Ferment, calling, "Kath- arine! Katharine J") No, I am not the man to pretend. I meet him as myself. Ferment (entering, right, calling; then seeing Earley). What, here! You are in time. My dear boy, I am delighted to see you (shaking Earley violently by the hand). Earley. Delighted to see me! Sir — sir —I Ferment. You are in time ; in fact, you are early. Earley. I certainly am Earley. Ferment. I feared you would be late. Earley. I — I do not understand. Ferment. I've captured a minister. He came to argue with me about my book. I simply locked him in my study. My theory shall be upheld. Earley. But listen to me, sir. I am here to see your daughter. Ferment. And she will see you. Earley. I do not understand. Ferment. My theory shall be upheld. Earley (angrily). I have no objection to your upholding anything, except an ob- jectionable aspirant to Katharine's hand — Ferment. Who shall be — ha, ha! held tip if he appears ? Earley. Oh, I've attended to that. Ferment. You ! What do you mean ? Earley. Sir, I must tell you the truth. Ferment. You'd better not tell me any- thing else. Earley (angrily). Give me a chance. Photo by Byron, N. Y. A STRUGGLE FOB, LIFE. o H tf Eh < w M Pi «l A o « eh & o 03 O < A MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 191 Ferment. My dear boy, I am anxious to make you happy and uphold my theory at the same time. Go on ! Earley. You see my condition ? Ferment. Now I notice you. I do think you are a trifle out of order. Earley. I met that rival of mine. He struck me. I left him with the trainmen — getting patched up. Ferment. What ! He dares to come here and brave me. (Calling.) Mrs. Campbell ! Mrs. Campbell! Mrs. C. (entering, right.) I am here, I am here ! Ferment. Show the gentleman his room. I will go after Katharine. My theory shall be upheld. [Exit, right. Mrs. C. ( grasping Earley' s arm. ) Aren't you ashamed to marry Katharine like this ! Earley. I don't care how I marry her, so I do marry her. Mrs. C. And she loving another man ! Earley (astounded) . Explain yourself. Mrs. C. She's dead in love with another man. Earley (grasping her arm). What do you mean ? Tell me instantly. Mrs. C. (freeing herself). She told me so ; she has always said so. She only takes you because you force her. Earley. Force her ? I give her up ! In love with another man! Good-by (going; then returning and shaking her). Woman, I must know all of this. Tell me ! Mrs. C. You know very well the minis- ter is here to marry you to Katharine, and she loving poor Mr. Earley. Earley (releasing her; his hand to his head). My brain reels! (Aside.) I see. The light is beginning to come. There is yet hope. (Aloud.) Show me to my room, I must rest. Mrs. C. Nothing will stop your mar- riage ? Earley. Nothing! My room — I am dizzy. Mrs. C. (pointing, left.) Unhappy man, there is your room. (Earley goes in, and she turns the key in lock.) Mr. Ferment locked up the minister, and I lock up the bridegroom. Let us see if he will be mar- ried before Mr. Earley gets here. Katharine (entering, right). Where is he, where is he ? Mrs. C. Mr. Latterly is in there with his wedding-coat. Katharine. Surely he has not come ? Mrs. C. Surely he has. Katharine. And where is Mr. Earley? Mrs. C. I haven't the slightest idea. Katharine (wringing hands). Oh, to treat me thus — to treat me thus ! Mrs. C. Never you mind, Eve locked Mr. Latterly in, and here's the key. Katharine. The key! Give it to me (taking it and going to zvindow and throw- ing it out). Now let father do his worst. But Jerry to treat me thus. [Exit right, weeping. Mrs. C. (dashing off her cap). She shall never marry Latterly. (Pounding heard at door.) You may pound, but you won't get out. (Ferment outside, calling, "Katha- rine! Katharine!") Now for it. (Claps on cap.) Ferment (entering, left). Where is Katharine? I am in a hurry. (Pounding heard. ) Who is that ? Mrs. C. That is Mr. Latterly. He is in that room. I have locked him in and the key is thrown away. He shall not marry Katha- rine. Ferment. Locked him in ! You vixen ! Go ! Leave me — leave the house ! Mrs. C. I will — with Katharine. [Exit, right. Ferment. Locked him in! (At door, left.) Break the lock! Burst open the 192 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. door! (Door Mes open; Earley enters in wedding-coat.) Now, my lad, I'll see who is master here. Come to the minister. Earley. I will. First, let me explain. Ferment. I will listen to no explana- tions. My theory shall be upheld. Katharine (entering, right, not observ- ing Earley). Father, I will never permit this outrage ! Ferment. My theory shall be upheld ! Earley (coming forward). Mr. Fer- ment, listen to me. Katharine (screaming with delight). Who is this ? Ferment. Your husband that is to be. Go ! To the minister, go ! Katharine. Father, there is a mistake. Ferment. Go, I tell you ! Take her, my boy ! Go ! Earley (with warning glance at Katha- rine). But, sir Ferment (angrily). You object? Earley (in mock obeisance). By no means ; but Ferment. Go ! That scoundrel may be here at any minute and make trouble. Not a word. To the minister, go (pushing them off, left) ! Now let the villain come! Mrs. C. (entering, right, excitedly, in bonnet and coat, with boxes). I am going. I am going first. I want to tell you my opinion of you. Ferment. I don't wish to hear it. Mrs. C. You are a bear. Ferment. Go! Mrs. C. You are a donkey. Ferment. Go ! Mrs. C. You are a wolf in sheep's cloth- ing. Ferment. I don't care if I am a whole zoological garden. Go ! My theory shall be upheld. Mrs. C. (dropping boxes and running to him). I'll uphold your theory (boxing his ears, he crying: You vixen, etc.) ! Enter, Latterly, left, in ragged coat, his face plastered. Ferment. (breaking away). How? What? Who are you? Mrs. C. (running to Latterly). Oh, you poor, dear creature ! You are too late. Ferment. You may be Earley (laugh- ing) — but too late. Latterly. Sir, I have been maltreated by a villain. Mrs. C. Oh, why didn't you kill him ! Latterly. Mr. Ferment, I am here ; and where is she? Mrs. C. (weeping). She is being mar- ried. Latterly. Married ? Ferment (rubbing his hands). Married! Latterly. But she is to be married to me. Ferment. As I said before, you may be Earley, but you are too late. Latterly. Sir, I will have damages. Ferment. It looks to me as though you have had damages enough. Latterly. You make a jest of me? I will claim damages for breach of promise. Ferment. Claim what you please ; you — you fortune-hunter. Latterly. You insult me. Because your sister calls me a fortune-hunter, you insist upon it? I will have damages. I know your means. I will claim damages or your daughter. I've never seen her, and damages will do as well. Mrs. C. Oh, sir, how can you ! Latterly. I've been imposed upon. But the money will do — I'll claim damages. I'll enter proceedings at once. I don't want the girl, but I will have the money, as sure as my name is Latterly. Ferment. Latterly? Mrs. C. Latterly (sinking into chair) ! MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 193 Latterly (to Ferment). You know very well that I am Claude Latterly; and. you have brought me here to make a fool of me. Ferment. And you'd rather have dam- ages than my daughter. Latterly. I don't want your daughter. You've made a fool of me. I want dam- ages. Ferment. Then my sister's opinion of you was correct ; you are a fortune-hunter ? Latterly. I want damages. Ferment. Then you shall have damages (running to him, scuffling him off,- left; noise, as of some one falling down stairs) . Mrs. C. (rising). I see it, I see it (clap- ping her hands) ! Katharine is being mar- ried to Mr. Earley. I see it, I see it ! Ferment (returning and rolling up his sleeves). I've settled him, I've settled him! Rather have the money, would he? He's running for the train as fast as his legs will carfy him. My theory shall be — oh, where is my theory? Mrs. C. (clapping him on the back). I see it, I see it ! Ferment. Mrs. Campbell, I don't know what you see, but I see that I have made a fool of myself. Mrs. C. No, you haven't; you've made a happy woman of your daughter. Ferment. But my dignity! They'll think I've been fooled. Mrs. C. Pretend — pretend you knew all the time — pretend you did it all to try Kath- arine's attachment for Mr. Earley. I'll help you out. Ferment. You will? You're an angel, if you are a widow. And you'll never tell ? Mrs. C. Never. Ferment. Never expose me? Mrs. C. Never. Hush ! Here they are. Enter, Katharine and -Earley, arm in arm.' Katharine (running to him). Father, I must confess. Earley. Mr. Ferment, you refused to hear my explanation. Ferment (bombastically) . My lad, my daughter, be happy. I know all. Katharine. Why, father! Ferment. I tell you I know all. Hasn't a father who writes about the degeneracy of the young the right to test the affection of his daughter for the man she professes to love? Earley. You knew all along who I was ? Mrs. C. Of course he did. Earley. But my grip came here instead of Mr. Latterly's. Ferment. I wish no explanations, I tell you. Katharine. Oh, father, and I thought you were determined to marry me to Mr. Latterly ! Ferment. A fortune-hunter. He'll not come to-day; I've a theory he will not. And now — I am giddy. (Sits in chair.) Mrs. C. (fanning him). Don't faint. Revive yourself. Ferment (jumping up). Revive myself ! I will, Mrs. Campbell ; you've been my daughter's companion for fifteen years, be her father's companion for the rest of his life. I'll revive myself — be my wife. Mrs. C. Oh, sir (resting her head on his shoidder) ! Katharine. Father, may you be happy. Earley. Bless you, my children. Ferment. And now let's all be happy together. It is one of my theories that — Mrs. C. That everybody is an idiot who does not find the way to happiness. Ferment. And I'll uphold that theory. It may be a little late, but it is — Katharine. Earley (pointing to Ear- ley). 194 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Earley. Not too late. In fact, it is "On Time." Earley. Katharine. Mrs. Campbell. Ferment. CURTAIN. t5* <£• *5* THE HARVEST QUEEN AND HER MAIDENS. SARAH M. WYMAN. Characters. The Queen, Marion, Julia, Lulu, Helen, Maria, Lilian, Bertha, Blanche, Nettie, Alice. The real names of the children can be sub- stituted if desired. Scene — A platform with raised seat for the Queen at right; the maidens gracefully grouped at left. "\ X THAT your gleanings, darling maid- Through the precious Summer time ? From the year's maturer ripenings, What your offering for my shrine ? In the golden-dotted meadows, In the fields of yellow grain, Through the orchard, crimson-fruited, By the streamlet's low refrain, — You have found great nature's treasures Sparkling with the gems they wear; Have you brought them, sweet- voiced maidens, That your Queen the gifts may bear ? Marion — This sheaf of wheat The loyal Marion lays Low at your feet; Emblem of pleasant days, Found in the sunny ways Where maidens meet. Julia — For thee these grapes, from clinging vine ; So clings my heart, dear Queen, to thine. Lulu — Melons, juicy and red, — Melons, yellow as gold, — Melons, from emerald bed, — Melons, I scarce can hold ! Oh, take them, my Queen, and the homage, too, Of your loving subject, the little Lu ! Helen — Delaware peaches, soft as the cheek is Of baby Grace; No nicer nor rarer, no sweeter nor fairer, In any place. Maria — Oh, the fields of growing corn, With tassels soft as silk ; And little tender baby ears, At first as white as milk. And then, the white is changed to gold, The husks grow tough and strong; September brings the harvesters, And wakes their merry song. Lilian — These little ferns within a deep alcove So deftly grew; I seized the pretty, feathery things, Soft as blue bird's tender wings, And brought to you. Oh, let the graceful, fragile forms Around the altar lie, And grace the heavier gifts it bears, The stiffer lines its contour wears, Until they die. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS, 195 Bertha — Some Autumn leaves for thee I've gathered From maples dashed with gold ; From sumacs, flaming by the way-side, And oaks centuries old. Blanche — These asters, with their fringe of blue, I picked, dear Queen, and brought to you. Nettie — And the gentian, "Whose sweet and quiet eye Looks through its fringes to the sky." Queen — Oh, thank you, maidens, for the gifts My heaped-up altar shows ; Such love the true heart ever feels, But other, never knows. Alice — Great Queen, myself I give to thee ; All that I am, or hope to be; — My love, my trust, my life, my all, Attentive to thy slightest call. Within an attic's low retreat, Where grateful sunbeams never meet, Weary and sick, lame, and in pain, I heard on the roof the Summer rain, And longed to lay my burdens by, And in the bliss of rest to lie, Till, rain-refreshed, the grain and flowers Should brighten in the sunny hours, And I could gather them for thee, And fruits from many a loaded tree. But no ! for me 'twas never meant ; Alas ! I groped in discontent, 'Till suddenly a silver light Around my couch, one stormy night, Seemed all the dreary room to fill ; A voice spake softly: "Peace, be still!" Subdued, I lay in wondering rest; New thoughts arose within my breast. Content, no more the fields to roam, I pledged to make for thee a home Within my heart ; to consecrate My life to thee, and humbly wait Thy will ; to walk when thou shouldst lead, And trust in every hour of need. Queen — Ah, sweet maiden, you have chosen Wisest, truest, fondest, best; Other gifts will crown my altar, Yours within my heart shall rest. Such living trust, — such devotion, Jesus, Lord, the Crucified, Asks of all His loving children, That in Him they may abide. Oh, my Alice ! in your sufferings, Christ's the light that shone around ; When yourself you freely offered 'Twas this Jesus that you found. Maidens, come, and give your service, All your lives can ever be, To the glorified Redeemer — Just these little gifts to me. CURTAIN. t2& te* 10* A WOMAN'S RIGHTS MEETING. Characters. Miss Belinda Inez Snicks, an old maid. Mrs. Betsy Swagglesnock, a widow. Miss Mary Ann Higgins, an old maid. Florabel Snipper, a young lady. Scene — A schoolroom, or an apartment in a house. MISS SNICKS (rising). Feller-citi- zens — that is to say, my country- women: This is an important and un- 196 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. conquerable occasion, — an occasion fully — that is to say — an epoch in the history of woman, — an epoch big and overflowin' with unexpoundable and paregorical events, whose oleaginous paradigms shall rise up in the dim future, which is fast recedin' into atmospherical and oblivious phantasma- goria of the past, to lead us on over the precipitous and inflexible profundity of the mountainous and ever-rising periods, which shall grow more and more inflammable and multitudinous until the rising whirlpools shall sweep the malestrom from Dan — that is, I mean Daniel — to that other place which is derived from the Latin word big sheep, and shall go on in a roarin', unaccountable, automatical, jimmy-twistical Florabel. Run for a dictionary ! Miss Higgins. Run for a doctor ! Miss Snicks. Order, until I have co- incided. Mrs. Swagglesnock. You mean until you have concluded. Miss Snicks (angrily). No, sir! I mean just what I say. Do you pretend to in- culcate the abject and unconquerable idea that I cannot give the proper words in their proper places, and expatiate and preponder- ate to a certainty on the inexplicable Mrs. Swagglesnock. Let's get to busi- ness. We didn't come here to waste time and say big words. Important work is be- fore us. Miss Snicks. I'm sure I was making the opening speech, and was digressing spontaneously, but was direfully and rue- fully interrupted. Mrs. Swagglesnock. The first thing in order is to elect a President. Miss Snicks. I do not like to put my- self forward, but I think this society, the great Frog Hollow Woman's Rights So- ciety, should have a President who could use sweeping and high-sounding words, and who would be an inflammable and never-receding light, and one that could ad- dress all the women's rights conventions and mass meetings, and be an honor to her- self, her friends, her society, and her female relations. I, therefore, think that I should be your President ; but pardon me in making the direful provocation. Florabel. I don't know what that means. Miss Higgins. I'm in favor of Miss Snicks for President ; she's the oldest. Miss Snicks (springing to her feet). It isn't so. Thirty-two summers alone have passed over my unwrinkled brow. I tell yoUj Mary Ann Higgins, you are the oldest, and you know it! Miss Higgins. It isn't so ! Miss Snicks. It is ! • Florabel. I think you are both pretty old chickens. Miss Higgins. And what are you ? An impertinent minx, and you ought to be at home ! Miss Snicks. You are a dilapidated decoction of diametrical docility. Florabel (aside). Goodness, I think she must have swallowed another dictionary this morning! Miss Snicks. You are the conglomera- tion and the expurgation of the quintessence of all the constitutional impudence in crea- tion. How do you like that, hey ? Florabel. I like that first-rate! But how about the President? Wouldn't I run well? Miss Snicks. Yes; you run well after the young men, that's all ! Florabel. And the young men run after me ; but they don't trouble you old gals very much. Miss Higgins. For my part, I hold my- self aloof from the male sect. I despise them, one and all. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 197 Florabel. The "male sect" must take it pretty hard. Miss Snicks. And for my part, I throw my head loftily aloof and pass the male sect with impetuosity and fiery indig- nification, never once condescending in my unlimited and unfirmamentable scorn to look upon those bituferated bipeds, who would dare to take away our rights and trample our liberties under their unhallowed feet. Florabel. Oh, dear! Mrs. Swagglesnock. There will be nothing done here to-day. I'm going home. [Exit Mrs. Swagglesnock. Miss Snicks (continuing). And thus it is. Trifling discouragements and small botherfications make small-minded people forget that there is an extraordinary — and — and — an anti-spasmodical work to be done. The world is one great parenthetical and antediluvian field, which the octoge- narian Miss Higgins (aside). The old fool. [Exit hastily. Miss Snicks (continuing). Worker and believer in woman's rights will have to unsallivate and throw the direful effects arising from the opprobriousness upon the status of the ignns fatas and the aristo- cratus Florabel. Of the crazy Snicks snatus. Finish the dictionary, old gal, and then come home. Good-by. If you choke on one of your big words write and let me know. \ [Exit. Miss Snicks. Impudent minx ! They are gone, and will not listen to golden words and magnificent splutterances. Well, I sup- pose we will have to postpone until the next adjournment. CURTAIN. t2& ti?* ;£* MOTHER EARTH AND THE MAY QUEEN. LIZZIE M. HADLEY. Characters. Mother Earth, Dame Nature, Mr. Weathercock, May, Queen of May. Sunbeams, eight very small children, with song. May Flower, Arum, Yarrow, Dande- lion, Anemone, Yellow Weed, six girls, with recitation. Crocus, Lady-slipper, Trillium, Daf- fodil, four girls, with extracts from the poets. Birds, a troupe of little folks, with song and march, in which the flowers join. May Pole Dancers, selected for the pur- pose. Scene — A lazvn, or ivoodland, with gaily- decked background; elevated positions for Mother Earth and Dame Nature; the various participants wearing a dress, sash, or -flower, to indicate the character represented. The introduc- tion of music at proper intervals will aid the children in performing their parts. MOTHER EARTH. I'm fairly worn out. No sooner do I get the snow and ice fairly settled for the winter and the flowers safely tucked into their beds, than up jumps the sun and hints that it is time for them to be stirring again, and that I had better clear away the snow drifts. Then of course everything goes wrong. The north wind comes blustering round undo- ing all my work ; the south wind, who ought to be at home helping me, goes scurrying off, no one knows where, and even the flow- 198 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. ers declare it isn't time to grow, and not one of them will stir. Oh, dear ! such wayward children! They will break my heart. (Wipes her eyes.) Dame Nature. Truly, mother, your life is a hard one. But come, cheer up, better days are coming I am sure. Mother Earth. I hope so, for I am getting quite discouraged. Just look at the old brown gown I am wearing, and there's the spring dressmaker pretends she can't find green enough to finish my new one, and here it is half-past April by the season's clock. I don't know what to do with such children ; they are getting beyond my con- trol and unless there is a change very soon we shall have no May Day. Dame Nature. Why don't you consult Mr. Weathercock ? He may be able to send the south wind to help you. Mother Earth. I will, and, as good luck will have it, here he comes now. (En- ter Mr. Weathercock.) Good morning to you, neighbor. Mr. Weathercock. Good morning. Mother Earth and fair Dame Nature. What mean these anxious faces? Surely the springtime should bring only happiness. Mother Earth. How can I be happy when I am so anxious ? Everything is late. Mr. Weathercock. We have had a tardy spring. Indeed my neck is quite stiff from trying to keep track of the winds. Mother Earth (anxiously). What are our prospects for May Day ? Can you help us? Mr. Weathercock (looking about him). I'm looking north, I'm looking south, I'm glancing east and west, Dear, kindly Mother Earth, for you I'll try to do my best. The warm south wind will soon be here, I see him on his way, So summon from their wintry beds The flowers to welcome May. Mother Earth. Thank you, Mr. Weathercock. Now, Dame Nature, if you will help me we will try to waken the lag- gard flowers. Mother Earth and Dame Nature. Come, little flowers, Springtime is coming, 'Tis time to arise, Flowers fair, flowers sweet, Open your eyes. (Enter Sunbeams, skipping and dancing.) Mother Earth. What curious folks are these? Whence come you, little ones? Sunbeams (singing — air: "Rosalie, the Prairie Flozver"). We are little sunbeams, Dancing here and there, And we've come to help you, Earth so fair. We will wake the flowers From their winter's sleep, Send them hither, May to keep. CHORUS. Yes, we are children Of the shining sun, See he has sent us One by one, Pretty yellow pencils Of golden light, We have come to waken night. Come, my pretty flow'rets, Open wide your eyes, Winter's over, now 'tis time To arise. Birdie in the tree-top Sings his sweetest strain, Bright springtime is here again. (Chorus.) MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 199 Now they all have heard us, From their little beds, See where one by one, they Lift their heads. Oh, my pretty flowers, Sleep no more I pray, Come here and help us keep May Day. (Chorus.) The first group of flowers, having been se- creted, before rise of curtain, behind screens, fancy parasols, or large Japa- nese fans, now peep out in turn from their hiding places, and all arise as last verse is sung. Flowers (in concert). Something's astir, Hear the birds chirp and chatter, What can it be? Dear me, what's the matter ? (They hide again.) Sunbeams (calling to them). Don't you know, flower lassies, For each year that passes, In spite of the work, there is o'er time for play, And every one has its own holiday. Cold winter is over, glad springtime is here, And that's what the chirping and chatter means, dear. Flowers (rising). Oh, thank you, kind sunbeams, For telling the reason, But what is the holiday, pray, for this season ? Sunbeams. The brightest and best in the annals, I'm told, Glad May Day, so famous in stories of old, So wake from your slumber, now winter is over, Come, lift up your heads, my bonny red clover, Come, Mayflowers sweet, and buttercups bold, Come, dandelions, lift up your faces of gold, All come here together, my blossoms so bright, Each one in your springtime colors bedight. Mother Earth. I thank you, fair Sun- beams. You have started the lazy flowers at last. (Flowers come forward.) Here they come now. Good morrow, my pretty ones! Flowers. Good morrow, gentle Mother Earth, To you we make our bow, We heard the sunbeams call us, And so we greet you now. Oh, yes, we flower people Have all come here to-day, And we'll show you how we mean To keep this springtime holiday. May Flower. See, I'm the little Mayflower, Beside the brooklet's brink, When springtime winds are blowing, I lift my buds of pink. Arum. Within the woods you'll find me, The Arum — if you search. I preach to all the flower folk Who care to go to church. Yarrow. I'm but a summer flower, And yet I'm here to-day To tell you how we flowers keep This happy first o' May. Dandelion. See ! I'm a Dandelion, So sturdy, strong and bold, The merry children laugh to see My starry face of gold. 200 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Anemone. Because with all the breezes, I nod my head, you see The children call me "wind-flower," But my name's Anemone. Yellow Weed (Buttercup). My name is little Buttercup; But you may somewhere read That the country folk in olden days Oft called me Yellow-weed. Dame Nature. Now that was well said, my fair little flowers. Come rest for awhile within these shady bowers, For see, just behind you with music and song, More gay flower-folk come trooping along. (They step aside.) Enter other flowers and May. Flowers. We heard the wood birds' carol, Upon the tasseled trees, And so we lifted up our heads, To catch the passing breeze ; And then we heard you calling, And so, we came this way, We bring your youngest daughter, — The merry month of May. Mother Earth. You are welcome, dear daughter, beloved alike by young and old. (May bows and steps back with flowers.) Dame Nature. Of a truth, she hath a goodly presence, and you may well be proud of your fair daughter. But why do you call her May? Mother Earth. Her name comes from the Latin Marius, meaning, to grow — tak- ing its name from Maia, one of the heathen deities. Dame Nature. Well named, indeed! She is a growing- month, and giveth new life and joy to all who greet her. Mother Earth. Aye, and many curi- ous rites of old did usher in her coming. E'en royalty itself did not disdain to seek the fields and woods and "fetch the haw- thorn blooms" to crown the month of May. The ancient Romans, too, held a springtime feast in honor of the goddess Flora. Poets have sung the praises of the merry month ; wouldst hear some of their words of praise ? Dame Nature. That would please me right well. Mother Earth. Come, fair flowers, can you tell us aught that the poets have said? Flowers. Yes, kind Mother Earth, Gladly we will now say Words that have been said or sung Of the month of May. Crocus. Now lilacs break out into buds ; Now spicy winds are blowing ; And 'tis heigho ! the daffodils Down in the garden growing. —M. F. Butts. Ladyslipper. May shall make the bud appear Like a jewel, crystal clear, Mid the leaves upon the limb Where the robin lilts his hymn. — Frank Dempster Sherman. Trillium. May with cowslip-braided locks Walks through the land in green attire ; And burns in meadow-grass the phlox His torch of fire. — Bayard Taylor. Daffodil. April and May one moment meet, — But farewell sighs their greetings smother ; And breezes tell, and birds repeat How May and April love each other. — Lucy Larcom. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 201 All the Flowers. Time presses, and we may not stay To tell you all the words That poets oft have sung and said, For see! here come the birds — Robins, bluebirds, swallows, Orioles, blithe and gay, These and many more have come To welcome in the May : Birds (singing — Tune: "Sing a Song of Sixpence"). Sing a song of birdies Flying here and there In the shady woodlands, Through the sunny air. Sing a song of birds' nests Underneath the eaves, Nestled in the tree tops 'Mong the starting leaves. Sing a song of birds' eggs Blue as summer's sky, . When their doors are open'd Out the birdlings fly. (Flowers join in the song.) Sing a song of springtime's Merry month of May. And of flowers gathered Here to keep May Day. Sing about the May-Queen, (They lead her forzvard.) Flower-crowned, you see, Gayest little lassie In the world is she. Oh, our sovereign lady, Bow we unto thee ; Birds and flowers together Vow thee fealty. May Queen. True and loyal, Oh, my subjects, You will ever be, I ween, So, gay birds and pretty flowers, Take the blessing of your Queen. Mother Earth. I, too, now would welcome The fair Queen o' May, It is well you are here, Though you reign but a day. Dame Nature. Thy voice is as sweet As the low, rippling waters. My greeting now to thee May's fairest of daughters. Mr. Weathercock. My respects to your majesty, Queen of the May, For your sake, the winds shall be quiet to-day. May Queen. Thanks for pleasant words of greeting One and all have given to me, I will try to be, my subjects, Worthy of your loyalty. But old Time goes hurrying onward, With him there is no delay, So, together let us frolic Through the shining hours to-day. Hand in hand, close-locked together, Let us all at once advance, While our voices ring out gayly, We will round the May-pcle dance. They dance around May-pole, singing: Tune — "Buy a Broom." The robin just whispered, "Oh, springtime is coming, The flowers' gay banners are all now un- furled, And down in the meadows, the bees are a- humming, For springtime, fair springtime's renew- ing the world." Chorus — We'll be gay ! we'll be gay ! See the bluebirds gayly winging, And the robins lightly swinging, Hear happy voices ringing, Singing, here is May. 202 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. HOBSON'S CHOICE. J. S. MURPHY. An uproarious farce in one act, illustrating the ludicrous and perplexing predicaments in which a similarity of names places a nervous and modest grocer, who is mistaken for a popular hero by the ladies in an Atlantic City cottage during the Spanish-American war. Characters. Richmond P. Hobbs (Mr. Hobbs' son), a Hoboken grocer. Mrs. Sapi>hira Hobbs, his wife, a small woman with a large temper. Richmond P. Hobson, the hero of the Merrimac. Dr. Marian Measles, a very new woman, but "mannish" in appearance. Mrs. Maria Quigg, proprietor of Quigg's cottage. Miss Adelaide von Chatterton, Miss Eugenia Montmorency, Miss Ger- trude Wigglesworth, Miss Mildred Fitz-Wilson, guests of the cottage and hero worshipers. Patience Magillicuddy, the lady of the kitchen. Koopay, a seashore cabman. Klubbs, an Atlantic City policeman. Scene — Dining-room in Quigg's cottage August, 1898. Entrances right and left, and right and left center at back. Patience discovered arranging table in center of stage. Enter Mrs. Quigg from right with letter in hand. RS. QUIGG. Patience, we'll soon have a man in the cottage now. Patience. Fortune be praised, mum. Shure, this Spanish war's an awful blow till us gur-r-ls. Mrs. Q. There's hardly a male guest on the island. Patience. Sorry a wan, mum. Aven Thorndyke's futman — ond a foine luckin' mon he wuz — has gone aff wid the marine corpse. Mrs. Q. (laughing). What is the ma- rine corpse, Patience? M coming here. Patience. Shure, it's the dead min the sailyors sphin yarn for. Mrs. Q. To make their shrouds, I sup- pose. Patience. Indade, I don't know, mum. But who is it's comin' here? Mrs. Q. (proudly). Mr. Hobson, the hero of the Merrimac. Patience. Av he's a Merry Mack he must be a gude-natured Irishman. Mrs. Q. He's coming here to regain his health, which was shattered in a Spanish prison. I forget the name, but it was Moro something. Patience. Oh, I know — Moryomensing. Enter Dr. Measles, right. Dr. Measles. I hear that Mr. Hobson is Mrs. Q. Dr. M. him. Mrs. Q. Ready and waiting. Dr. M. I should like to see whether his room is right. I feel it my duty as a medi- cal practitioner to help him regain his health. Mrs. Q. We all feel the same way, Doc- tor, I'm sure. Dr. M. I shall take it upon myself to see that Patience cooks his food hygienically. Patience (bristling up.) Indade, Dr. Mazles, Oi'll do me own cookin' mesilf. Dr. M. (decisively.) You will do it much better under the supervision of a physician. Patience. Oi wull luck after the soup all roight. Dr. M. Mrs. Quigg, I wish to inspect Mr. Hobson's room. I expect him by the next train. I hope everything is ready for MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 203 Mrs. Q. Come with me, Doctor. [Exit Mrs. Q. and Dr. M. Patience. Oi shuppose Mazles wull want me to do the cookin' in caster ile. Shure, the poor-ir mon's in hard luck. Be- gorry, av Mazles takes howld av fwhat the Spaniards has left av 'im she'll make 'im sorry he didn't sink with his ship. Enter Miss von Chatterton, Miss Mont- morency, Miss Wiggles-worth, and Miss Fitz-Wilson, by different doors, cautiously, and each oblivious of the others. They tip-toe to Patience, to whom they all speak at once in subdued tones. All Four. Is he here yet, Patience? (Patience looks at one after the other in surprise, and they also are surprised when they become aware of the presence of each other.) Each (to the others). Oh, I didn't see you! Patience. Ez who here? All Four. Our hero, Hobson, the brave. Patience. Not yit; but he'll be here purty soon. Onyhow, Oi don't think yous gur-r-ls will huv much show at him. All Four. Why not, Patience? Patience. Dr. Mazles is goin' t' take charge av him. All Four. Who says so, Patience ? Patience. She diz; and fwhat she sez goes — outside av the cookin' departmint. She's upsthairs now luckin' av his room's all roight. [Exit right center. Miss von Chatterton. Only one man in the place, and that horrid doctor wants to monopolize him. Miss Montmorency. I wish this awful war was over. Miss Wigglesworth. I wish I was back in Philadelphia. Miss Fitz- Wilson. I wonder if any men are left there. Miss von C. I feel that I know Mr. Hobson already. I've had his picture for two months. Miss M. I've written poetry about him. Miss W. That doesn't give you any claim on him. Miss M. Yes it does. Miss von C. No it doesn't. Miss M. More than buying his picture does. Miss W. Maybe it isn't his picture at all. Miss von C. It is his picture. Miss F. How do you know ? You never saw him. Miss von C. I cut it from a magazine ; his name's under it. Miss F. I have his signature in my auto- graph album. The Others. Oh-h ! How did you get it? Miss F. I got it with a pound of mixed tea and pasted it in the album. It looks real cute. Miss W. What is his full name ? Miss F. Richmond Pearson Hobson. Miss W. Is he the one that said : "On, Richmond, on"? Miss M. You mean, "Charge, Rich- mond, charge !" Miss W. No, indeed ; he's a hero. Miss M. Well, heroes have things charged. • Miss F. So do their wives. (Patience enters, listening. ) Miss von C. Do you know what it was made him a hero? Miss M. He kissed all the girls in Cuba. Miss W. He sank a Spanish mackerel fleet and said : "There's glory enough for all!" Miss F. He stopped the Cubans from making Havana cigars from Spanish onions. 204 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Patience. Bedad, yer all wrong. He joomped overboard and saved an Irish sailyorman named Merry Mack. Miss von C. There must be six Rich- monds in the field. Patience. Av they're not vaccinated Mazles wull catch thim all. All Four. Do you think so, Patience? Patience. Mazles is very catchin', ond av you gur-r-ls don't luck yer purtiest the dochter wull be Hobson's ch'ice. All Four. Oh, oh, oh, oh! (Each takes out a pocket mirror and looks at her- self critically.) Miss von C. My frizzes are out. I must fix them. [Exit. Miss Mont. My nose is red. That will never do. [Exit. Miss Wig. My head looks like a fright. [Exit. Miss Fitz. I must change my bow. [Exit. Patience. Av onny poo-ir mon ivir de- sarved a pinshin, it wull be Hobson fwhen he escapes from this place. He'll foind it takes a braver mon till face the gur-r-ls single-honded at Atlantic City thon it diz till run past the Spanish foorts in Santiago harbor. [Exit, shaking head dolefully, right. Enter Koopay, left, carrying two cabas. Koopay. Here you are, sir, right end uppermost, as the* man said when he trod on a tack in his stockin'-feet a-tryin' to hush the babby in the middle of the night. Enter Hobbs, with a fan in one hand and a folded sun-umbrella in the other. He looks around suspiciously, zvalks softly, acts timidly, and speaks in a mild, sub- dued voice. Hobbs. Are you sure this is Twigg's Cottage ? Koopay. Sure as Davy Crockett afore he went ahead. Hobbs. Thank you. How much do I owe you? Koopay. Twenty-five fer the ride and fifty cents fer amusin' ye with conversation 'long the road. Hobbs (looking in pocketbook). A dol- lar is the smallest I have. Koopay (taking it). I'll git it changed at the store. I'll buy a quarter's worth 00' cigars. See ? Hobbs. But I don't smoke. Koopay. No; but I do. S' long, boss. Any time ye want another ride lemme know. [Exit, left. Hobbs (looking around). Strange Sap- phira isn't here to meet me. I suppose she's having her afternoon nap. I don't hear a sound. This is just the kind of a place I need. (Lays hat and umbrella on table, and puts the cabas beside chair in zvhich he sits.) I'll have a nice, quiet time here, and I'll go back to town feeling like a new man. Strange there's no one here to meet me. Maybe Sapphira's never told 'em. That's it. She knows I'm nervous and don't want any fuss made over me; so I suppose I'll have to wait here until somebody comes, and then I can explain. I'll read the paper awhile. (He takes out a paper and reads.) Ah ! Well, well ! "Insanity on the increase among the fashionable women of America." Patience (entering, right; aside). Ah, there he is now ! But ain't he the quiet luckin' little mon for a hero? Shure, thim brave min's always quiet. The wans that makes the noise niver diz onnything else. Oi'm the fur-st wan t' see 'im, ond Oi'll be the fur-rst t' sphake till 'im. (Aloud.) Is this Mishter Hob-son? (Hobbs jumps up nervously, dropping paper and upsetting chair. ) Hobbs. Ye-yes. I — I — a — just arrived. Was I expected? Patience. Indade ye were. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 205 Hobbs. I suppose Mrs. Patience. Mrs. Quigg has ivirything prepared fur ye. Hobbs. I'm very glad to know it. Patience. Ivirybody wull be glad to welcome Mr. Hob-son, ond wull be proud to be sthayin' in under the same roof wid him. Hobbs. You are very kind, I'm sure. Patience. Oi'll go ond tell Mrs. Quigg yer come. Hobbs. Thank you. (He watches Pa- tience, who goes to right entrance, where she stops, takes out a small American flag and waves it at Hobbs i cheering in a sub- dued voice.) Patience. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Hobbs (greatly astonished). That young woman seems to be bubbling over with pa- triotism. It's astonishing how this war with Spain has aroused the American peo- ple. I'm glad to see it. (Sits.) It only needed this to unite our glorious country into one coherent homogeneous mass of consolidated patriotism, of which it be- hooves all foreign governments to take im- mediate and perpetual notice. Now, then, to resume this extraordinary article. (He reads.) Mrs. Q. (entering right, aside). Ah, there he is, sure enough ! How noble look- ing. Reminds me of poor, dear Quigg. I must speak to him. (Aloud.) I believe I have the honor of addressing Mr. Hob-son ? (Hobbs jumps up and bows.) Hobbs (aside) Hobbs' son! She, too, seems to be acquainted with father. (Aloud.) Yes, ma'am, I am Mr. Hobbs' son. (Aside.) The old man must have been here. (Aloud.) And you are Mrs. Twigg? Mrs. Q. (bowing). At your service, sir. Hobbs. Thank you. You're very kind. Mrs. Q. Pray, be seated, sir. I will re- move your luggage to your room. Hobbs. No ; let me do it. Mrs. Q. Oh, no ; I couldn't think of it. I consider it an honor, sir. Hobbs. Thank you. I should like Mrs. Q. Just make yourself at home, and I will have a nice, tempting luncheon set out for you. Hobbs. But, madam, if it is not incon- venient, I should like to see . Mrs. Q. No trouble at all. Everybody will be delighted to see you. Now, pray, make yourself easy while I give my orders. (Aside.) To think that such a hero should be so modest and unassuming. Just like the late Mr. Quigg. ( Takes Hobbs' two cabas, goes to right door, where she repeats Hag business, and exits.) Hobbs. The landlady also is filled to overflowing with patriotism. I like to see it. I wonder how Sapphira likes it. I shouldn't wonder if they made her patriotic, too. By jingo, I feel like saying "hurrah!" myself. I believe I'm beginning to im- prove already. Now, then, to finish this startling article. (Sits and reads.) Dr. M. (entering right; aside, admir- ingly). Ah! my beau ideal of a hero. But a man in the nervous condition sure to be brought on by confinement in a prison must not read. No, no. Conversation, and promenades, and proper diet are what he must have, and it is my duty as a patriotic American to see that he gets them. (Snatches paper.) Mr. Hobson, I believe? Hobbs (timidly). Yes, sir — ma'am — I mean — that is — yes. (Aside.) She knows the old man, too. Dr. M. I am Dr. Measles. You are very nervous. Hobbs. Yes, Doctor. I suppose you have been talking with Mrs. 206 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Dr. M. With no one. I saw it as soon as I focused my professional eyes on you. Hobbs (timidly). Do you think Dr. M. (imperiously) . I do not think, sir; I know that you must not read news- papers with their exciting, sensational articles. It is poison to one in your neurasthenic state. Let me feel your pulse. I knew it. Pulse feeble and fluctuating. Show me your tongue. (He puts out tongue a little.) Open your mouth wider. (He does so.) And put out your tongue as if you meant it to be out on dress-parade. (He obeys.) Um-m ! Coated. Hobbs. Coated ! Dr. M. (strongly). Yellow-coated! Hobbs. I'm surprised. Dr. M. You needn't be. It results from reading yellow journals. Hobbs. Doctor, what kind of coat should my tongue have when it's out on dress-parade ? Dr. M. (severely). I never allow my patients to treat the subject of health with levity. Remain perfectly quiet while I see about your food. [Exits, with more Hag business. Hobbs. The Doctor has it. It must be epidemic. Somebody has inoculated every- body else with rampant, flag-waving, hip- hip-hurraying patriotism. I wish Sapphira would come. If any more of these effer- vescent patriots hurrah at me I'm afraid I may get a nervous chill. I admire patriot- ism, especially American red, white and blue patriotism ; but when it becomes a dis- ease there is no telling where it may lead, particularly to a man whose pulse is feeble and fluctuating, and whose tongue has a yellow coat just like a Chinese prime min- ister. Enter Miss von C, left, with small flag; they eye each other steadfastly as she crosses to door, right, and goes through Hag exercise, cheers with suppressed ardor, and exits. Hobbs. Another of 'em; right good- looking, too. This is the most remarkable experience I've ever had. Miss F. enters right, with a Hag; crosses to left, watching Hobbs admiringly (as he watches her suspiciously, and fol- lows at a safe distance), repeating, "Huzzah! Huzzahl Huzzah!" and exits. Hobbs. I wonder if these people are crazy. That article said that insanity is greatly on the increase among the fashion- able women of America. I wonder if I've struck some kind of a sanitarium. I wish Sapphira were here. I'll try if I can find her. (Crosses to right, but halts on seeing Miss M. enter. She begins waving a flag round her head.) Another; she's as crazy as a March hare. So young and handsome, too. Poor thing! I must humor her. (He takes out a handkerchief, waves it every time she waves the Hag.) The people have gone crazy over the war. Probably they've lost their relatives — their brothers, or hus- bands, or lovers. (She advances, waving Hag, and he retreats, waving handkerchief.) Miss M. Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah! Hobbs. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! Miss M. makes a quick advance. Hobbs turns to run out left, but encounters Miss W ., who enters, bearing a Hag. Hobbs stops, and he and Miss IV. gaze at each other a moment in silence. Hobbs (aside). Two of 'em! This thing is becoming alarming. Miss W. (waving Hag). Huzzah! huz- zah ! huzzah ! Hobbs (responding feebly). Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah! (He retreats as Miss W. advances.) Miss M. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! Photo by Byron, N. Y. A TOKEN OF LOVE. R H w MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 209 Hobbs (turning to her). Huzzah! huz- zah ! huzzah ! Miss W. Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah! Hobbs (taking out another handker- chief). Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah! Miss M. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! Hobbs huzzahs alternately to the tzvo ladies, until Miss IV. advances to door right center and Miss M. to door left center, with Hobbs standing between them near the table. Both ladies wave and huzzah together, Hobbs waving both handker- chiefs at once. They jump towards him and finally disappear. Hobbs jumps back against the table which moves forward and he falls beneath it, then lies on his back waving and huzzahing zvildly. Hobbs (under table). Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! Every body ! huzzah for every- thing! I've got the disease myself! Huz- zah ! hip, hip, huzzah ! Enter Dr. Measles, carrying red, zvhite and blue napkin, followed by Mrs. Q. with pitcher of ice-water, knife, fork and spoon, and Patience with a table-cloth. They are astonished to see Hobbs and ex- press sympathy. Dr. M. My dear patient ! Patience. Pu-ir mon! Mrs. Q. What ever can be the matter? Dr. M. (lifting him to a chair.) Those papers have brought on an attack of vertigo. (She fans him with the red, zvhite and blue napkin, which starts him off again.) Hobbs (zvaving). Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah ! All round, for everybody, for everything ! ( Collapses, and rolls up eyes. ) Patience. He's kilt ! he's kilt ! arrah me, he's kilt! Dr. M. (authoritatively.) Leave it ah to me. The best thing in a case of this kind is an application of ice-cold water to the base of the cerebellum. Mrs. Q. Here it is, Doctor. (Mrs Q. pours water on the napkin as Dr. M. holds it, and applies it to the back of Hobbs' neck. He jumps to his feet and wriggles. ) Hobbs. Ouch! Take it off! My spine's on fire! Put it out and I'll huzzah for a week. Dr. M. (taking the napkin from his neck.) I knew that would bring him around. There's nothing like ice-cold water in such cases. Hobbs. Ice-cold water! I thought it was a red-hot poker you were running up and down my spine ! Dr. M. Now, sit down and remain quiet while we get your luncheon ready. After you get that I'll allow you to take a nap, and you will awake greatly improved. Mrs. Q. and Patience set the table and exit right. Dr. M. in the interval patting Hobbs' hands and rubbing his forehead. He presents a pitiful sight and speaks in a tone of anguish. Hobbs (aside). How will I ever get out of this place? Where can Sapphira be? I must ask! (Aloud.) Doctor. Dr. M. Shish (putting her finger to her lips and then placing her hand over Hobbs' mouth) ! You must not talk yet. Let me prepare you for your luncheon. (She tucks the napkin under his chin like a bib as Mrs. Q. enters, follozved by Miss von C, Miss M., Miss W. and Miss F. each carrying a dish. Patience brings up the rear zvith a huge tureen.) Dr. M. Now, Mrs. Quigg, what have you first? Mrs. Q. (taking tureen.) Some delicious snapper soup. Hobbs (brightening and smacking his lips). If there's anything I dote on it is snapper soup. Dr. M. Take it away ! It would poison a man of his nervous temperament. Hobbs (disappointed) . I'm not as nerv- 210 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. ous as I was, Doctor. I think that half a bowl The Others. Oh, yes ; just half a bowl. Dr. M. (peremptorily.) Not a spoonful under any circumstances! Send it out, Mrs. Quigg! Mrs. Q. Patience, take it back. (Pa- tience takes it and exits.) Dr. M. What has Miss von Chatterton ? Miss von C. A lovely stewed lobster. Hobbs (cheering up). Lobster! I like it any old way. Dr. M. My dear man, that would kill you with cramps in an hour. Take it away. ' Miss von C. (going out, aside.) It's my opinion that this isn't the only lobster in Atlantic City. [Exit. Dr. M. Miss Montmorency, we'll try yours. What is it? Miss M. Fried scrapple and Dutch apple-dumplings. It's just lovely. Hobbs (gleefully). Scrapple and dump- lings will make a new man of me. Dr. M. It would make a dead man of you. Do you wish to commit suicide? Fried scrapple will kill anything ten miles away from Philadelphia. Mrs. Q. The dumplings will neutralize the ill effects of the scrapple. Dr. M. Not apple dumplings, especially Dutch apple dumplings. Dried apple dump- lings or pepper-pot dumplings might have been allowable, but not these. They would kill a door-knob. (With a dramatic ges- ture.) Remove the scrapple and the Dutch apple dumplings ! Miss M. (going out with dish, aside.) It's my opinion that doctor doesn't know a Dutch apple dumpling from a Welch rarebit. [Exit. Dr. M. Now, Miss Wigglesworth ? (She lays her dish on table and Dr. M. sniffs at it suspiciously.) What in the world is it? Miss W. Macaroni croquettes and cheese sauce. I'm sure that will soothe his nerves. Hobbs ( bracing up ) . Ah ! Macaroni and cheese ! I could eat it alive. Dr. M. Impossible. Macaroni alone would give you that terrible Italian disease — sciatica — before sundown, and cheese sauce at this season would simply be placing an undertaker's mortgage on your liver. Mrs. Q. Why, Doctor, the Ladies' Mag- azine specially recommends macaroni and cheese for August luncheons. Dr. M. Madam, if you feed the poor man by the Ladies' Magazine you will give him the barber's itch. Remove it ! Miss W. (going out with dish, aside.) I don't believe she is a doctor at all. She's a graduate of one of those six weeks' barber colleges. Dr. M. Next! Miss W. (triumphantly.) There! I knew she was a female barber. Next, indeed! She'll be feeding the poor fellow on lather and bay rum next ! [Exit. Dr. M. What have you, Miss Fitz- Wil- son? Miss F. (hesitating.) I'm afraid it won't answer. (Puts dish on table.) It's only plain water-cress and nothing more. (Hobbs makes a wry face.) Dr. M. (enthusiastically.) The finest thing in the world for nervous dyspepsia. A water-cress diet will starve it out of the system in a year. Hobbs (feebly). Doctor, I don't like water-cress. Dr. M. You must like water-cress. Hobbs (firmly). But I don't like water anything; not even water-crackers, or salt- water taffy. I can't even look at water colors without gagging. Miss von C. hurries in with a dish. Dr. M. Ah ! What have we now ? MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 211 Miss von C. Carrot salad. Dr. M. Splendid! Splendid! Hobbs. I can't go carrots. Carrots are worse to me than a red-headed girl is to a mad bull. Dr. M. (zvho has red hair, severely.) Red hair has its mission in this world, sir ! Hobbs. But not in the cooking depart- ment, Doctor. Miss M. (entering, hurriedly, placing dish on table.) Fish balls! Miss W. (following her.) Gravy for the fish balls. Patience, (following with a large cov- ered dish.) Here's the sthuff ! Dr. M. What is it, Patience? (All come up as Patience removes cover.) Patience, (waving it triumphantly.) Biled ingyins. (All jump away but Dr. M. Hobbs nearly collapses.) Dr. M. Ah ! a dish for the Roman gods. This is, indeed, a savory feast. Hobbs (whining). Doctor, I positively cannot eat onions. Dr. M. The very thing to make you strong, lusty, robust. Hobbs. I don't want to be strong; I want to be quiet. Dr. M. Quiet ! What so quieting to the nervous system as a diet of water-cress, car- rots, fish-balls and onions? 'Twill make you as quiet as the night before Christmas. Patience. Fwhin all t'rough the house not a thing was sthirring, not aven a mouse. Hobbs. Doctor, I don't want to be quiet that way. If I did, prussic acid or Paris green would be just as effective and more convenient than your prescription. Dr. M. Ungrateful man! to speak thus after all our trouble. Eat, man, eat, and be glad you have fallen under our care. Hobbs (aside). If I don't get out of this lunatic asylum, Mrs. Hobbs will be a widow in twenty- four hours. Poor Sapphira! she doesn't look well in black, either. (Rising, aloud.) If you will excuse me, ladies, I will not eat anything at present. I will take a stroll along the beach. Dr. M. That will never do. You must not stir until you have partaken of this hygienic feast that we have prepared ex- pressly for you. Hobbs. But I ain't hungry. Dr. M. You will get hungry as you eat. Sit down (forcing him back and holding him). Ladies, feed him! (Each offers him a large spoonful or ladleful of something. Patience offers a huge onion on a fork. Hobbs protests. Dr. M. tries to pull his jaws apart, when a commotion is heard out- side. ) Mrs. H. (outside.) You're sure he's in here? Koopay (outside). That's where I left him, mum. Mrs. H. (otttside.) Come in with us, Officer; I may need your services. Enter Mrs. Hobbs, Koopay and Klubbs, left. Koopay. There he is. Mebbe he ain't in it with both feet with all them good-lookin' girls round him. Mrs. H. I'll girl 'em (pushing them away). How dare you hang around my husband in this shameless manner? All. Mr. Hobson her husband! Mrs. H. Yes, Mr. Hobbs' son is my husband. Hobbs. Save me, Sapphira ! save me ! They are feeding me to death! Mrs. H. (snatching the napkin from his neck.) Why do you allow them to do it, you booby? Stand up ! (She pulls him up and shakes him.) Can't you feed yourself? (To the others.) How dare you feed my husband ? Dr. M. We were treating him for the benefit of his health. 212 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Mrs. H. Health! What do you know about health? Dr. M. (frigidly.) I am a doctor, madam ! Mrs. H. Doctor ! You look more like a kidnapper. Dr. M. I am a graduate of two colleges, — old school and new school. Mrs. H. I don't care whether you're an old fool or a young fool, you shan't fool with my husband. Dr. M. Your husband, madam, has grossly deceived us. The Others (approvingly). Yes, yes, shamefully ! Mrs. H. How? Dr. M. By coming here and posing as a single man. Mrs. H. (shaking him.) Is this true, you wretch? Hobbs. They haven't given me a chance to pose yet. Mrs H. What are you doing here, any- how? Hobbs. Why, my dear, are you not stop- ping here? Mrs. H. You know very well that I am staying at Mrs. Twigg's cottage. Hobbs. They told me this was Mrs. Twigg's cottage. Mrs. H. (To Mrs. Q.) Did you, madam? Mrs. Q. (haughtily.) Certainly not. This is my cottage. Hobbs. Aren't you Mrs. Twigg? Mrs. Q. (loftily.) No, sir, I am Mrs. Quigg. Mrs. Twigg has the little cottage in the street back of this. Mrs. H. (severely.) Mr. Hobbs, this is one of your little tricks. All (in surprise). Hobbs! Mrs. H. Hobbs, yes, Hobbs, and I am Mrs. Hobbs. Dr. M. Isn't he Richmond P. Hobson, the hero of Santiago? Hobbs (aside). That's a sly one. Mrs. H. He is Richmond P. Hobbs, son of John Oliver Hobbs, of Hoboken, New Jersey, green grocer. Mrs. Q. What ! Dr. M. Green ! I might have known it. Miss von C. Gro-cer ! Go, sir ! Miss M. Hoboken ! Ye gods of Greece, weep for us ! Miss W. And I was wasting macaroni croquettes on it. Miss F. I shall never enjoy the seashore again. ( They retire up the stage. ) Patience. Ain't ye the mon that kisses all the gur-r-ls? Mrs. H. Let me catch him at it if he dares ! Patience (disdainfully). A Hoboken canned-pea merchant! Ond him wantin' snapper-soup for lunch, bad 'cess to 'im. Oi'll take these ingyuns away. The Hobo- ken sphalpeen shan't hov annything till ate here. Let 'em go till Twigg's where they fade thim on dried apples ond paynuts on the half-shell, so they do. [Exit. Hobbs (after talking in pantomime with Mrs. H.) Now, Sapphira, if you love me, get me out of this lunatic asylum. Mrs. H. Where are your things? Hobbs (pointing to right). In there. Mrs. H. (severely.) You stand here. Don't budge till I come back. Hobbs (nodding toward Mrs. Q. and others). Suppose these flag-waving luna- tics make a rush for me ? Mrs. H. (pointing to Hobb's bald head.) Who touches a hair of yon gray head dies like a dog ! Come on, Mr. Officer, and Mr. Cabman, help me find my husband's clothes, which these feeble-minded females have secreted somewhere. (She exits right fol- lowed by Klubbs and Koopay.) MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 213 Koopay (going, aside). I'll want an- other dollar and no change for this trip. Mrs. Q. Ladies, we had better follow that woman and watch her. There is no telling who she is or her purpose. Dr. M. She may not be his wife at all. The vixen ! to call me a kidnapper. Miss von C. As if any one would kid- nap that (pointing at Hobbs, zvho screens himself behind his opened umbrella). All (sneering at Hobbs as they go out). Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Hobbs (watching them off). If they imagine they can intimidate Mrs. Hobbs by going in a bunch like bananas they'll find they are mistaken. Sapphira is little, but, oh, my! she weighs a ton when she gets started. I wonder if there's anything on that table a starving man can eat. (He ex- amines contents of dishes.) I'll try a carrot for luck. (He gets one on a fork.) If I survive this I'll try a fish-ball. Enter Hobson, left, while Hobbs is eating. Hobson (zvatching Hobbs). David Paul Jones! what kind of a port have I sailed into? That lubber's helping himself out of the general mess. (Shouts.) Ship ahoy, messmates ! (Hobbs drops fork and carrot, jumps up and opens umbrella as a shield.) Where's the captain? Hobbs (scared). Wh — wh — what cap- tain ? Hobson. The captain of this craft. Hobbs. Do you m— m — mean the boss of the ranch? Hobson. I suppose that's how a land- lubber would put it. Hobbs (pointing). She's over there on dog watch. Hobson (looking around). I presume I'm in Mrs. Quigg's ? Hobbs. Twigg's ? Hobson. Yes, Quigg's. Hobbs. Twigg's or Quigg's ? Hobson (bawling). Quigg's, you lubber, Quigg's. Hobbs (looking over umbrella). How does it begin? Hobson. In the name of Davy Jones what difference does it make? Hobbs. If your nerves are good and strong and your stomach can digest cork- soled shoes, none ; but if not, you don't want to get mixed on your Twigg's or Quigg's. Hobson. Quigg's ; yes, that's it, Quigg's. Is this Quigg's? Hobbs. Will you be kind enough to spell it? Hobson (aside). I suppose I must humor this imbecile. (Aloud.) Q — u — Hobbs. That's sufficient. Hobson. It ends with a double g. Hobbs. They both end with double g's. If you want the one beginning with a Q, this is it. Hobson. Q! Confound it, you talk as if I were hunting for a Chinese laundry, I am cruising around for Mrs. Quigg's sea- side cottage. Hobbs (as Mrs. Q. enters). Here she comes now ! (Aside. ) He'll think he's struck a laundry when they start to feed him on that water-cress. Hobson (approaching and bowing). Is this Mrs. Quigg? Mrs. Q. Quigg, sir, or Twigg, sir ? Hobson (aside). I'd give a fig to know whether these people are twigging me with their Quigg, sir, or Twigg, sir. (Aloud.) Madam, I am looking for Mrs. Quigg's sea- side cottage. Is this it? Mrs. Q. There are two, sir — Mrs. Quigg's and Mrs. Twigg's. Hobson. I want only one. I can't board at two different houses at the same time, madam. I'm not twins. 214 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. Mrs. Q. (haughtily.) I am Mrs. Quigg, sir. Who are you, pray? Hobson. I am Lieutenant Hobson. Hobbs (aside). Gad! he's my double. Mrs. Q. (screaming.) Police! Police! Police! (All come rushing on, including Klubbs and Koopay. Mrs. Hobbs rushes on carrying Hobbs' s cabas.) Klubbs. Wot's de row ? Mrs. Q. (pointing to Hobson.) Arrest that man ! He is in this conspiracy to rob my house ! Hobson (to Klubbs). Stand back, sir! I am not a burglar ! I am an officer of the United States Navy — Lieutenant Richmond P. Hobson. Mrs. Q. (pointing to Hobbs.) Pshaw! that's what he said. Hobson (fiercely). You're an impostor ! Hobbs (using umbrella as a shield). First I was a hero, then I was a wretch; now I am an impostor. In a few minutes more I suppose I'll be a lobster. Pray, go on. I'm enjoying this trip very much. I'm glad I didn't go to the mountains. If I had I suppose I would have been a genuine bald eagle by this time. Miss von C. (looking at a picture.) I do believe he is Lieutenant Hobson. He's just like his picture. (She kisses it and shows it to the other girls.) Hobson. Of course I'm Lieutenant Hobson. My trunks are at the depot. If you will send for them you will see my name on all of them. Mrs. Q. Koopay, go for the gentleman's trunks. Koopay (getting checks). I'll have 'em here in a jiffy. (Aside.) This is a two dollar job and no change. [Exit. Miss W. There is one infallible test by which we may know whether or not this is the genuine Santiago hero. All. What's that? Miss W. If he is he'll kiss all of us girls. All. Yes ! yes ! yes ! yes ! Hobson. Well, ladies, it's on rather short acquaintance ; but if you can stand it I'll try and weather the gale. Patience (going to Hobson' s side). Shure, we can sthand it. Hobson (looking at her dubiously). Um-m ! courage, my boy, courage. You think you can ? Patience (puckering her mouth). Oi know Oi can. Dr. M. (going to Hobson.) All of us girls can. Hobson (looking at Dr. M. on one side and Patience on the other, dejectedly). Was it for this I was spared at Santiago? Hobbs. You must kiss 'em all; Hobson, old boy, no firing of blank shots, you know, in this engagement. Hobson. All ! Is there no other choice in the matter? Hobbs. Well, ah — there's one other choice. Hobson (eagerly). Name it! name it! Hobbs. You must kiss 'em all or buy dinners for all. Hobson (counting). Eight kisses or ten dinners. Klubbs. Ahem ! Hobson. Eleven dinners, thank you. Hobbs. That's about the size of it at $2.50 per. Hobson (hesitating). Um-m! Hobbs. Well, what's Hobson 's choice? Hobson (looking first at Patience's puck- ered mouth and then at Dr. M.'s). Bring- on the dinners! (Dinner gong sounds, and Koopay dumps in Hobson's trunks as cur- tain falls.) CURTAIN. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 215 WHEN SCHOOL DAYS ARE ENDED. Characters. Louise Earnest ; Kate Spangle; Madge Flyaway; Lizzie Helpful; Susan Easy; Miss Leslie, a teacher; Little Girl. Scene, a schoolroom. Present, Louise and Kate. LOUISE. I say, Kate! what are you going to do when you leave school? Kate. What am I going to do? Why, what's put that into your head? Louise. It seems to me the most natural question in the world. Here we are in the last half-quarter of a four years' course. A few more weeks, and we shall be scattered, — I was going to add, as my grandmother would have done, "one to his farm, and an- other to his merchandise." I wish I could say it! . Kate. Ha, ha, ha ! That sounds well ! You wish we were going to be farmers and merchants ? Louise. No, I don't mean that, literally ; but I wish the spirit of it were true. Madge (entering). What's that you wish were true? Kate. Good, Madge! I'm glad you're here. Come and sit down, and hear what our future class-poet is singing about. Louise. None of your nonsense, Kate ! I'm in dead earnest; I mean every word I say; I can't say half I feel on the subject! Madge. What's up now? More fun? I am in for that ! Was just wishing I could hear of some good news to drive dull care away. Kate. Anything but fun. We are go- ing to have a sermon. We have already had the text. Louise. I'll tell you, Madge: I have been turning it over in my mind lately, how we girls are going to employ our time when we get through school. You know I have four brothers — Madge. Yes, I know that. Kate. Of course! Madge always finds out, somehow or other, how many brothers any of us girls have. But go on with your story, Louise. I'll try to hold my tongue for five seconds. Louise. How many seconds? Kate puts her finger on her lips, and holds up five fingers, trying to look prim and sober. Louise. As I was saying, I have four brothers, who are all studying; and when we are at home together at vacation, I hear them discussing with the utmost eagerness what each shall do in life. Now, I have been with my brothers so much all my life, shar- ing their sports, in-doors and out, that I feel quite out in the cold when they get to talking about their future. I must say I wasn't much flattered the other day when I heard Will say, "What a bother it is, try- ing to find the right thing to do! Now, girls don't have such a time. All they have to think of when they leave school is, what shall be the color of their next dress." Kate. I hope you don't object to a girl's giving attention to her dress. [Looking over her shoulder with satisfaction at her own showy, well-fitting basque.] Louise. O no ! of course not. But dress is not everything. Kate. Dress is a good deal, let me tell you that ! I'll wager I could make a better impression on your brothers, or any other young gentlemen, if I had on a stylish dress. Madge. That's so. Louise. I wouldn't give a fig for any man who judged a girl by her dress alone ! Madge. Nor I. One of the j oiliest times 216 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. I ever had in my life — when we were at the beach, you know — was one day when I had gone with Hal and Herbert on a fish- ing-scrape; had on a short dress, jacket to match, big rubber boots, and a great sun- hat that looked like a Chinese umbrella. You, Kate, wouldn't dare to go in such a rig. Louise. I don't see anything particu- larly jolly in that. Kate. Ah ! she don't tell the whole story. Some of Hal's college friends came along — where's my fan? — only half a dozen, I be- lieve; three out of the six were — where's "my smelling-bottle? — mortally wounded by Cupid's darts. Madge. How absurd you are, Kate! Kate. It is the solemn truth ! [Looking very wise.] One will never be seen on this mundane sphere again. The other two are still lingering along, but these (Madge gets up and tries to stuff her handkerchief in Kate's mouth) will soon be (struggling with Madge) no more. Their epitaph will be — "Died of — a big pair of rubber boots !" [The girls all laugh.] Louise. O Kate, you always remind me of a champagne bottle — full of sparkle and effervescence. But, seriously, there is something quite captivating in seeing a girl brave the elements in pursuit of health and fun. Suppose Madge had worn a long trail down over the rocks and into the fishing- wherry; don't you believe those same fel- lows would have laughed at her? My brothers would. Madge. I don't care that (snapping her fingers) whether a man laughs at me or not! When I'm in for a good time, don't bring me any of your trails and flounces ! I hate long dresses, unless I am off for a horseback ride; and even then I wish I could cut off about so much (measuring half a yard with her hands). Susan enters. Louise. We are wandering from our subject somewhat. Here c*mes Susan Easy; let's ask her opinion. Susan, what are you going to do when you leave school ?, Susan. Do? I'm sure I don't know — never asked myself. I suppose I shall do as other girls do: stay at home, when I am not away visiting; read, and write to my friends; practice a little; go to the opera. Won't it be jolly to have no more compositions to write ? Kate. I don't dread compositions very much. Susan. You don't. They are the bug- bear of my life. Madge. Louise, you have made me a little curious. I want to know what you are going to do. Louise. That is just what I don't know. Wish from the bottom of my. heart, I did. Kate. How absurd you are, Louise. You know I am crazy to have you go to Washington with me and spend the winter. Louise. Yes, you would be very proud of me and my gay outfit of three or four dresses, wouldn't you, Kate? — you with your splendid wardrobe, fresh from Paris. Say, Kate, be honest, and tell me if you should look forward now with quite so much zest to a winter in Washington, if you were to have no elegant dresses to display? Let me see; how many dozen have you ordered from Paris? Kate (a little touched). I won't tell you, because you have hurt me. Just as if I should stop to ask how many yards of silk or cashmere you had in your trunk, if I could only have your own dear self? Louise. Good ! good ! I am glad I have brought you to the point at last. You have acknowledged now that dress is not every- thing. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 21? Madge. Yes, she has owned up hand- somely. Susan (to Louise). You are one of the queerest girls I ever knew. Guess / shouldn't have to be asked twice to spend the winter in Washington! Louise. I should enjoy going there, — hope I shall some time; but I have a ques- tion or two to settle first. I can't enjoy myself anywhere till I know what I ought to do, when we leave these dear rooms. Kate, you don't suspect it, but I am quite as much exercised about you as about my- self. Now, you have splendid talents. [Kate bows mockingly.] Your father has spent a small fortune on your education. It is a wicked shame for you to be so in- different as to what you ought to do with your acquirements. You'll never rest con- tent to simply dress and flirt; you know you won't. Susan. Perhaps she'll get married. Louise. That's all true. I hope she will some time. But in the meanwhile what is she to do, to think of ? I don't know why girls should sit down and wait for mar- riage any more than their brothers. Any sensible man would think better of a girl if she exercised her faculties in some way helpful to society, than if she let them die out for want of use. Madge. So I say. Here comes Lizzie Helpful. She never talks much with us girls. I don't like to ask her about herself. Lizzie enters. Louise. I had just as lief. I will be thankful to any one to show me the truth. Lizzie, we are talking about what we shall do when we leave school. What are you going to do? Are you anxious to have school close? Lizzie. Were I to consult my inclina- tions, I might stay here and study always ; but I have others beside myself to think of. Perhaps you do not know that I have lost my father. My mother's income is small. I have several brothers and sisters younger than myself. Of course I must support my- self and help support them. I am in hopes to help one of my brothers through college. Susan. O dear ! what a life of drudgery. Don't you hate to teach? Lizzie. Not at all. At least I do not since I hope to accomplish so much by it. I should be very glad if I could be sure of a paying school as soon as I leave here. My little sisters might come to me to be taught, and this would relieve mother of a great deal of anxiety on their account. They are bright, wide-awake girls, and mother could never afford to spend as much for their education as she has for mine. Louise (extending her hand to Lizzie.) . You are a lucky girl. I envy you. I wish every one of us could be as worthy of a diploma as you are. Miss Leslie (enters, smiling). Girls, I hope you will forgive me ; but being in the next room, and the door being open, I could not avoid hearing your conversation ; and I assure you the most of it has given me pleasure. You were speaking of Lizzie Helpful just now, and I wanted to call your attention to one fact that you may not have noticed. As Lizzie has had an object in- studying, an aim in life, she has never been so perplexed by the difficulties in her four years' course as some of you have. Com- positions, for instance, were at first quite distasteful to her, as was algebra; but she said to herself, I must become acquainted with these studies, or I cannot teach them to others. Hence she readily overcame her dislike to them. I hope you will never forget your talk of to-day, girls. Think it over, and get some good out of it. I could have no greater happiness than to be sure my pupils 218 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. will all make the highest use of what they have learned here. I hope to hear some day that Kate is an authoress, — writing books that will do good in the world. Kate (eagerly). Do you think I ever could ? Miss L. Madge will, I trust, teach gym- nastics, and give lessons in hygiene. Susan will, I am sure, be a good little housekeeper for her mother, and keep her father's ac- counts. You are very quick at figures (to Susan). Louise (rising). And I? Miss L. (putting her hand on Louise's head and thinking a moment). For you, dear child, I cannot seem to mark out a course. But you are thoroughly in earnest as to what is your duty. Heaven gives to those who seek. There will be a way of usefulness opened to you, I have no doubt. A little girl enters, bringing a note to Miss L., who takes it and reads it to herself. Miss L. (smiling). This is a note that will interest you, girls. [Reads.] "Dear Miss Leslie: We are making preparations to leave for Europe, with our little daughters. I am exceedingly anxious to find a young lady to accompany us who shall be at once companionable to my wife, and competent to educate my little girls. She must be earnest and practical, desirous not only to be good, but to do good. If you know of any such young lady among your pupils who would like the situation, please answer by return mail, and oblige, "Yours truly, "Henry B. Claflin." Kate. Mr. Claflin! I know him well. He has one of the most delightful families I ever met. I shouldn't object to traveling to Europe with them myself. Madge. I don't know who would. Susan. I am dying to go to Europe. Miss L. Louise, you have not had to wait very long for a chance to make your- self useful. I feel that this opportunity belongs to you, if you will take it. Louise. I should like to go, above all things. I will write to my parents at once. [Bell rings.] Kate. There is the bell for recitation. Madge. Yes, we must hurry, or we shall all be late. [Exeunt. tS* *£/* *2r* FOX AND GEESE. Characters. Mother Goose, Two Young Geese, Fox. Background — Brown muslin curtain. Costume — Full white muslin cloaks with hoods. Yellow stockings. Mother Goose in the chair. Could be dressed as in the engraving. Mother Goose. COME, children dear, and listen to me, I'm feeble and old, as you can see, And soon away from this world of woe, Your poor, old mother must go, go, go! [Shakes her head.] Now, when I am gone, you must not fret, Nor my good advice must you e'er forget. Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, [Enter Fox unseen.] Remember that when you pass him by. [Shakes her fingers.] And, children dear, whatever you do, Never listen to him when he speaks to you ! And stay you at home when the hour is late, Or sad, sad indeed will be your fate. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 219 Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, Remember that when I die, die, die ! [Young geese kneel beside her.] First Young Goose. Oh, mother dear, we will e'er be true, When the fox is near we will think of you. Second Young Goose. And though we may believe he is nice, We'll be sure to remember your good ad- vice; And chance we to meet him, whenever the day, We'll turn our faces the other way. Both Young Geese (in chorus). And when night comes we will never roam, But think of the sly fox, and stay at home. [Rise hand in hand and repeat.] Mother Goose. Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, Remember that when I die, die, die ! [Exit. Scene II. First Young Goose. Come, take a walk, come, sister dear, See ! overhead the moon shines clear ; And, if our way the fox should pass, We'll hide us down in some thick grass ; And, when he's gone, we'll hasten home — Don't be a coward, sister, come ! Second Young Goose. Oh, sister dear, I should love to go ; But he, the old fox, is sly, you know. First Young Goose. What if he is ! we are not afraid ; We'll show him that we geese are made Of something more than feathers. Come ! We'll go not very far from home. They zvalk back and forth, hand in hand — meet Fox face to face. Fox in brown fur cloak and hood. Fox. Good evening, oh, good evening ! How d'ye do? Two charming little maids like you Should never walk alone. ,1 see, my dears, you're really quite afraid of me. I'm not a handsome fellow, that I own, And if you bid me, I'll go my way alone. But come, my dears, I know you will — Come walk with me to yonder moonlit hill ; I'll show you where the vine's rich clusters grow; And you shall feast upon them — will you go? [Aside.] I ask these silly geese on grapes to sup, But when I get them safe, Ell eat them up ! [Geese walk off, hand in hand, with Fox.] Scene III. A pen made with chairs, Young Geese kneeling within. Young Geese (in chorus). Oh, please let us out, kind sir, please do. And whatever you ask we will do for you. [Repeat.] Fox (with contempt.) What! let you out, now that I've got you in; Why, my liille dears, that would be a sin? If you had been to your mother true, You'd have shunned the trap I laid for you. But now you are here, please don't blame me, It's all your own fault, as you can see. Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly. Did you think of that when I passed you by? And you listened to me when I spoke to you, Is that what your mother advised you to do? Oh, no! my dears, you may cackle and squeal, But you're here to make me a luscious meal. Good sense is but folly when it comes too late! 220 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. And a goose must expect but a goose's fate! So, to-night you may sup on regret and tears, To-morrow (smacks his lips) — good night, pleasant dreams, my pretty dears ! [Aside.] I might have said more, but what's the use, Of talking good sense to a silly young goose ; Young geese will be silly, and the fox is sly, Remember that, kind friends, good-bye! good-bye ! Alarm This department includes selections that afford the reader opportunities for the full and varied display of dramatic and oratorical powers. %0& f2r* *£& BEN HUR'S CHARIOT RACE. THE trumpet sounded short and sharp. The starters, one for each chariot, leaped down, ready to give assistance if any of the fours proved unmanageable. Again the trumpet blew, and simultane- ously the gate-keepers threw the stalls open. Forth from each stall, like missiles in a volley from so many great guns, rushed the six contesting fours — the Cor- inthian's, Messala's, the Athenian's, the Byzantine's, the Sidonian's, and Ben- Hur's — and the vast assemblage rose and, leaping upon the benches, filled the circus with yells and screams. The competitors were under view from nearly every part of the circus, yet the race was not begun ; they had first to make suc- cessfully the chalked line, stretched for the purpose of equalizing the start. If it were • dashed upon, discomfiture of man and horses might occur; on the other hand, to approach it timidly was to incur the hazard of being thrown behind in the beginning of the race — a certain loss of the great advan- tage of being next the wall on the inner line of the course. Each driver looked first for the rope, then for the coveted inner line. With all six aiming at the same point and speeding furiously, a collision seemed inevitable. Quick the eye, steady the hand, unerring the judgment required. The fours neared the rope together. Ben-Hur was on the extreme left of the six. At Messala, who was more than an antagonist to him, he gave one searching look, and saw the soul of the man, cunning, cruel, desperate, in a tension of watchfulness and fierce resolve. In that brief instant all his former rela- tions with Messala came before him. First, happy childhood, when, loving and beloved, they played together. Then, manhood that brought a change in Messala, and the Roman's inborn contempt of Jews asserted itself and broke the friendship. Then the bitter day, when, by the accidental falling of a loose tile, the Roman procurator was nearly killed, and he, Ben-Hur, was accused of willfully throwing the missile. One word from Messala would have saved the family from ruin, but the word was not spoken. Nay, more, it was Messala that urged on the Roman authorities and pre- vented even a fair trial of the case. It was Messala's influence that had banished him to the galleys for life, that had consigned his mother and sister to an uncertain fate, whose very uncertainty was more torture than their certain death would have been. It was Messala that had stolen his property and with it had bought the silence of the authorities on the cruel deeds; and was it not money that belonged to the House of Hur that Messala was betting with in this very race? Was it human nature to resist an opportunity for vengeance like this? 221 222 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. No. At whatever cost he would humble his enemy. He saw that Messala's rush would, if there was no collision, and the rope fell, give him the wall. Therefore, he yielded it for the time. Just then the trumpeter blew a signal. The judges dropped the rope. And not an instant too soon, for the hoof of one of Messala's horses struck it as it fell. The Roman shook out his long lash, loosed the reins, leaned forward, and with a triumphant shout took the wall. "Jove with us ! Jove with us !" yelled the Roman faction, in a frenzy of delight. "Jove with us !" screamed a young noble- man. "He wins! Jove with us!" answered his associates. Messala having passed, the Corinthian was the only contestant on the Athenian's right, and to his side he tried to turn his four; but the wheel of the Byzantine, who was next on the left, struck the tail-piece of his chariot, knocking his feet from under him. There was a crash, a scream of rage and fear, and the unfortunate Athenian fell under the hoofs of his own steeds. San- ballat, a friend of Ben-Hur, turned to a group of Roman noblemen. "A hundred sestertii on the Jew!" he cried. "Taken!" answered one of the group. "Another hundred on the Jew!" shouted Sanballat. Nobody appeared to hear him. The situation below was too absorbing, and they were too busy shouting, "Messala! Messala! Jove with us!" While the spectators were shivering at the Athenian's mishap, and the Sidonian, Byzantine, and Corinthian were striving to avoid involvement in the ruin, Ben-Hur drew head to the right, and, with all the speed of his Arabs, darted across the trails of his opponents, and took the course neck and neck with Messala, though on the out- side. And now, racing together, side by side, a narrow interval between them, the two neared the second goal. Making the turn here was considered the most telling test of a charioteer. A hush fell over the circus. Then, it would seem, Messala ob- served Ben-Hur and recognized him, and at once the audacity of the man flamed out. "Down, Eros! up, Mars!" he shouted, whirling his lash. "Down, Eros! up, Mars!" he repeated, and gave the Arab steeds of Ben-Hur a cut, the like of which they had never known. The blow was seen in every quarter. The silence deepened and the boldest held his breath. The affrighted four sprang for- ward as with one impulse, and forward leaped the car. The car trembled with a dizzy lurch, but Ben-Hur kept his place and gave the horses free rein, and called to them in a soothing voice, trying to guide them round the dangerous turn, and before the fever of the people began to abate he had back the mastery. Not that only; on approaching the first goal he was again side by side with Messala, bearing with him the sympathy and admiration of every one not a Roman. Even Messala, with all his boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further. On whirled the cars. Three rounds were concluded; still Messala held the inside position; still Ben-Hur moved with him side by side; still the other competitors followed as before. The contest began to have the appearance of a double race, Mes- sala and Ben-Hur in the first, the Corin- thian, Sidonian, and Byzantine in the sec- ond. In the fifth round the Sidonian sue-- ceeded in getting a place outside Ben-Hur, but lost it directly. The sixth round was entered upon without change of relative position. Gradually the speed had been quickened; men and beasts seemed to know DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 223 alike that the final crisis was near. The in- terest, which from the beginning had centred chiefly in the struggle between the Roman and the Jew, with an intense gen- eral sympathy for the latter, was fast chang- ing to anxiety on his account. On all the benches the spectators bent forward, mo- tionless. "A hundred sestertii on the Jew!" cried Sanballat to the Romans. There was no reply. "A talent, or five talents, or ten; choose ye!" "I will take thy sestertii," answered a Roman youth. "Do not so'," interposed a friend. "Why?" "Messala has reached his utmost speed. See him lean over his chariot-rim, the reins loose as flying ribbons, then look at the Jew!" "By Hercules!" replied the youth, "I see, I see! If the gods help him not, he will be run away with by the Israelite. No; not yet! Look! Jove with us! Jove with us!" If it were true that Messala had gained his utmost speed, he was slowly but cer- tainly beginning to forge ahead. His horses were running with their heads low down; from the balcony their bodies appeared actually to skim the earth; their nostrils showed blood-red in expansion; their eyes seemed straining in their sockets. The good steeds were doing their best! How long could they keep the pace? It was but the commencement of the sixth round. On they dashed! As they neared the second goal, Ben-Hur turned in behind the Ro- man's car. The joy of the Messala faction reached its bound. They screamed, and howled, and tossed their colors, and San- ballat filled his tables with their wagers. Ben-Hur was hardly holding a place at the tail of his enemy's car. Along the home-stretch — sixth round — Messala leadjng, next him, pressing close, Ben-Hur. Thus to the first goal, and around it, Messala, fearful of losing his place, hugged the stony wall with perilous clasp; a foot to the left and he had been dashed to pieces; yet when the turn was finished, no man, looking at the wheel-tracks of the two cars, could have said, "Here went Mes- sala, there the Jew." They left but one trace behind them. And now all the people drew a long breath, for the beginning of the end was at hand. First, the Sidonian gave the scourge to his four, and they dashed desperately forward, promising for an instant to go to the front. The effort ended in promise. Next, the Byzantine and the Corinthian each made the trial with like result, after which they were practically out of the race. Thereupon, all the factions except the Ro- mans joined hope in Ben-Hur, and openly indulged their feeling. "Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!" they shouted. "Speed thee, Jew!" "Take the wall now!" "On! loose the Arabs! Give them rein and scourge !" "Let him not have the turn on thee again. Now or never!" Either he did not hear, or could not do better, for half-way round the course and he was still following; at the second goal, even still no change. And now, to make the turn, Messala be- gan to draw in his left-hand steeds. His spirit was high ; the Roman genius was still present. On the pillars, only six hundred feet away, were fame, fortune, promotion, and a triumph ineffably sweetened by hate, all in store for him! That moment Ben- Hur leaned forward over his Arabs and gave them the reins. Out flew the many- folded lash in his hand; over the backs of 224 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. the startled steeds it writhed and hissed, and hissed and writhed again and again, and, though it fell not, there were both sting and menace in its quick report. In- stantly, not one, but the four as one, an- swered with a leap that landed them along- side the Roman's car. Messala, on the perilous edge of the goal, heard but dared not look to see what the awakening por- tended. The thousands on the benches un- derstood it all. They saw the four close outside Messala's outer wheel, Ben-Hur's inner wheel behind the other's cart. Then, with a cunning touch of the reins, Ben-Hur caught Messala's fragile wheel with the iron-shod point of his axle and crushed it. There was a crash loud enough to send a thrill through the circus, and out over the course a spray of shining white and yellow flinders flew. Down on its right side top- pled the bed of the Roman's chariot. There was a rebound, as of the axle hit- ting the hard earth! another and another; then the car went to pieces, and Messala, entangled in the reins, pitched forward headlong, and Lay still, crushed, and bleed- ing, and crippled for life. Above the noises of the race arose one voice, that of Ben- Hur: "On, Altair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! dost thou linger now? Good horse-oho, Aldebaran! I hear them singing in the tents. I hear the children singing, and the women singing of the stars, of Altair, Antares, Rigel, Aldebaran, victory — and the song will never end. Well done! On, Antares! The tribe is waiting for us, and the master is waiting! 'tis done! 'tis done! Ha! ha! We have overthrown the proud! The hand that smote us is in the dust! Ours the glory! Ha! ha! — steady! The work is done — soho! Rest!" And Ben-Hur turned the goal of victory and revenge, and the race was won ! — Gen. Lew Wallace. St St FIRE IN THE WOODS; or THE OLD SETTLER'S STORY. (From "Songs of the Great Dominion.") WHEN first I settled in the woods, There were no neighbors nigh, And scarce a living thing, save wolves, And Molly, dear, and I. We had our troubles, ne'er a doubt, In those wild woods alone; But then sir, I was bound to have A homestead of my own. This was my field of battle, and The forest was my foe, And here I fought with ne'er a thought, Save "lay the giants low." I toiled in hope — got in a crop, And Molly watched the cattle; To keep those "breachy" steers away, She had a weary battle.' The devil's dears were those two steers, — Ah, they were born fence-breakers! And sneaked all day, and watched their prey, Like any salt-sea wreckers. And gradually, as day by day, My crop grew golden yellow, My heart and hope grew with that crop, — I was a happy fellow. That crop would set me on my feet, And I'd have done with care; I built away, the livelong day, Such "castles in the air!" I'd beaten poverty at last, And, like a little boy When he has got his first new coat, I fairly leapt for joy. H B 1-1 o w ft w > w ■W a o w m H O & H o 1-5 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 227 I blush to think upon it yet That I was such a fool; But young folks must learn wisdom, sir, In old misfortune's school. One fatal night, I thought the wind Gave some unwonted sighs, Down through the swamp I heard a tramp Which took me by surprise. Is this an earthquake drawing near? The forest moans and shivers; And then I thought that I could hear The rushing of great rivers ; And while I looked and listened there, A herd of deer swept by, As from a close pursuing foe They madly seemed to fly. But still those sounds, in long, deep bounds, Like warning heralds came, And then I saw, with fear and awe, The heavens were all aflame. I knew the woods must be on fire, I trembled for my crop; As I stood there, in mute despair, It seem'd the death of hope. On, on it came, a sea of flame, In long deep rolls of thunder, And drawing near, it seem'd to tear The heavens and earth asunder! How those waves snored, and raged, and roared, And reared in wild commotion ! On, on they came, like steeds of flame Upon a burning ocean. How they did snort, in fiendish sport, As at the great elms dashing; And how they tore 'mong hemlocks hoar, And through the pines went crashing; While serpents wound the trunks around, Their eyes like demons gleaming, And wrapped like thongs around the prongs, And to the crests went screaming! Ah ! how they swept, and madly leapt From shrinking spire to spire, 'Mid hissing hail, and in their trail A waving lake of fire! Anon some whirlwind, all aflame, Growled in the ocean under; Then up would reel a fiery wheel And belch forth smoke and thunder! And it was all that we could do To save ourselves by flight, As from its track we madly flew, — Oh! 'twas an awful night! When all was past, I stood aghast, My crop and shanty gone, And blackened trunks 'mid smouldering chunks Like specters looking on! A host of skeletons they seemed, Amid the twilight dim, All standing there in their despair, With faces gaunt and grim; And I stood like a specter too, A ruined man was I, And nothing left, — what could I do But sit me down and cry? A heavy heart indeed was mine, For I was ruined wholly, And I gave way that awful day To moping melancholy; I lost my all, in field and stall, And nevermore would thrive, All save those steers, — the devil's dears Had saved themselves alive. Nor would I have a farm to-day Had it not been for Molly, She cheered me up, and charmed away My moping melancholy; She schemed and planned to keep the land, And cultivate it too; And how I moiled, and strained, and toiled, And fought the battle through! 228 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Yes, Molly played her part full well; She's plucky, every inch, sir! It seemed to me the "deil himsel' " Could not make Molly flinch, sir; We wrought and fought, until our star Got into the ascendant; At troubles past we smile at last, And now we're independent! — Alexander M'Lachlan. MACBETH TO THE DAGGER. IS this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee — I have thee not; and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of my mind? a false creation Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing! — It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one-half world, Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep: now witchcraft cele- brates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder, Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch — thus with his stealthy pace, Toward his design moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear The very stones prate of my whereabout ; And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. While I threat, he lives — I go and it is done ; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. — Shakespeare. t2* tffi &5* SEVEN AGES OF MAN. ALL the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being, seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like a snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier, DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 229 Full of strange oaths and bearded like a bard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in a quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances : And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side ; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk sliank, and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last seen of all, That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. — Shakespeare. t&& ^* ^* HOW RUBY PLAYED. Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes description of WELL, sir, he had the blamedest, big- gest, catty-cornedest pianner you ever laid eyes on; somethin' like a dis- tracted billiard-table on three legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't been, he'd a tore the entire inside clean out and scattered 'em to the four winds of heaven. Played well? You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. When he first sit down, he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', and wisht he hadn't come. He tweedle- leedled a little on the treble, and twoodle- oodled some on the bass — just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in the way. And I says to a man settin' next to me, says I, "What sort of fool playin' is that?" And he says, "Heish!" But presently his hands commenced chasin' one another up and down the keys like a parcel of rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and re- minded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' the wheel of a candy cage. "Now," I says to my neighbor, "he's showin' off. He thinks he's a doin' of it, to hear Rubinstein, and gives the following his playing. but he ain't got no idee, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play me a tune of some kind or other, I'd— But my neighbor says, "Heish," very impatiently. I was just about to get up and go home, bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird wakin' up away off in the woods, and call sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up and see that Ruby was begin- ning to take some interest in his business, and I sit down again. It was the peep of day. The light came faint from the east, the breezes blowed gentle and fresh; some more birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a little more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was broad day; the sun fairly blazed, the birds sung like they'd split their little throats; all the leaves was movin', and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. 230 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Seemed to me like there was a good break- fast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'. And I says to my neighbor, "That's music, that is." But he glared at me like he'd like to cut my throat. Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up, and a kind of gray mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain begun to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground; some flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams, runnin' between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see the music, specially when the bushes on the banks moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine, nor the birds sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold. The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook and led it on, and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was, certain. I could see that boy just as plain as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards where some few ghosts lifted their hands and went over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees, splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but could never get a-nigh 'em, who played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could have cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with the guitars did. Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could a got up then and there and preached a better ser- mon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for, not a blame thing, and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't under- stand it. I hung my head and pulled out my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud to keep me from cryin'. My eyes is weak, anyway. I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-snivelin', and it's nobody's business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But some several glared at me, mad as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped out and he rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready to look any man in the face, and afraid of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball all a-goin' on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of brick; he gave 'em no rest day or night; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin'; and, not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumped, sprang onto my seat, and jest hollered: "Go it, Rube!" Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house riz on me and shouted, "Put him out! Put him out!" "Put your great-grandmother's grizzly- gray-greenish cat into the middle of next month!" I says. "Tech me, if you dare! I paid my money, and you just come a-nigh me!" DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 231 With that some several policemen run up, and I had to simmer down. But I could 'a' fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or die. He had changed his tune again. He hop-light ladies and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-board. He played soft and low and solemn. I heard the church- bells over the hills. The candles of heaven was lit, one by one I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end, and all the angels went to prayers. * * * Then the music changed to water; full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and be- gan to drop — drip, drop — drip, drop, clear and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. It was sweeter than that. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetened with white sugar mixt with powdered sil- ver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you the audience cheered. Rubin he kinder bowed like he wanted to say, "Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't in- terrup' me." He stopt a moment or two to ketch breath. Then he got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeves, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and sir, he just went for that old planner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks, until she fairly yelled. He knockt her down, and he stampt on her shameful. She bellowed, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and then he wouldn't let her up. He ran a quarter-stretch down the low grounds of the base, till he got clean in the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, through the hol- lows and caves of perdition, and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got way out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He for'ard two'd, he crost over first gentle- man, he chassade right and left, back to your places, he all hands'd aroun' ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, double-twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty eleven thousand doublebow knots. By jinks! it was a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his cannon — siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve- pounders yonder — big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, mines, and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rokt — heavens and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninepences, glory, tenpenny nails, Samp- son in a 'simmon tree, Tump Tompson in a tumbler-cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle — raddle-addle- addle-addle — riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle — reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-r-r-lang ! Bang!!!! lang! per-lang! p-r-r-r-r-r! Bang!!! With that bang! he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his el- bows, and his nose, striking every single, 232 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. solitary key on the pianner at the same time. The thing busted, and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thou- sand five hundred and forty-two hemi- demi-semi-quivers, and I know'd no mo'. When I come to, I were under ground about twenty foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, a-treatin' a Yankee that I never laid eyes on before, and never expect to again. Day was br'akin' by the time I got to the St. Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know my name. The man asked me the number of my room, and I told him, "Hot music on the half-shell for two!" t2& t£* *2& OTHELLO'S APOLOGY. M OST potent, grave and reverend seigniors : My very noble, and approved good master; That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her: The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech, And little blessed with the set phrase of peace: For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine months wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to. feats of broils and battle; And therefore, little shall I grace my cause, In speaking of myself. Yet, by your patience, I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver, Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic — For such proceedings I am charged withal — I won his daughter with. Her father loved me; oft invited me; Still questioned me the story of my life, From year to year: the battles, sieges, for- tunes, That I had past. I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances; Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And with it all my travel's history. All these to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come'again, and with a greedy ear, Devour up my discourse. Which I observ- ing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate; Whereof my parcels, «he had something heard, But not distinctively. DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 233 I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke, That by my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs. She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful; She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend who loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ; She loved me for the dangers I had passed; And I loved her, that she did pity them. This is the only witchcraft which I've used. — Shakespeare. - t&pi t2& t&* CASSIUS AGAINST CAESAR. HONOR is the subject of my story, I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life ; but for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as myself. I was born as free as Caesar; so were you; We have both fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. For, once upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber, chafing with its shores, Caesar says to me — "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me, into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?" — upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow; so, indeed he did. The torrent roared, and we did buffet it; With lusty sinews, throwing it aside, And stemming it, with hearts of contro- versy. But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried — "Help me, Cassius, or I sink." I, as ^Eneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar; and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod to him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake; His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world, Did lose its luster; I did hear him groan, Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, "Alas!" it cried, "give me some drink, Titinius." Ye gods! it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, 234 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Like a Colossus, and we petty men, Walk under his huge legs, and peep about, To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men, at some time, are masters of their fates : The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. Brutus and Caesar! What should be in that Caesar? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together: yours is as fair a name; Sound them: it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them: it is as heavy; conjure with 'em: Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. Now, in the name of all the gods at once, ' Upon what meats doth this our Caesar feed, That he hath grown so great? Age, thou art ashamed; Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods. When went there by an age, since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, That her wide walls encompassed but one man? Oh! you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked The infernal devil, to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king. — Shakespeare. tpto i£n (p* PETERS' REPORT OF WEBSTER'S SPEECH. OLD Seth Peters once heard Daniel Webster deliver an oration at an agricultural fair way back in the forties. This oration made such an impression upon Seth that he has talked about it ever since. And every time he talks about it, he see new beauties in that speech. The oration that the God-like Daniel delivered grows more and more wonderful to him ; and so every time he describes it, he tells a new story more extravagant and grotesque than the last. I once heard him describe this speech, in a country store. This is the way he did it: "Want to hear 'bout Dan'l Webster's gret lectur' I heerd at the county fair, do ye? Don't blame ye. There ain't no man alive to-day who can throw language an' sling words like Dan'l could. There ain't no man now, I say, nor never wuz, nor never will be till eternity dies of ol' age. "Wall, the only time I ever heerd Dan'l wuz at our county fair w'en I wuz a young- ster. Lemme see, thet wuz goin' on fifty year ago nex' tater diggin'; but I got elerkunce 'nough thet day to las' me all the rest er my life. I hain't never heerd a speech since then. Dan'l sp'ilt me for any other kiner speech, lectur', sermon, pr'ar- meetin' an' everythin' else. Every speech I have ever heerd sense, falls ez flat on my ear ez a hunk er putty on a pine slab. They all soun' jes' ez if you hit a feather bed with a snow shovel. There ain't no ring, no roar, no rumble, no rush, no ring-tailed thunder to 'em, the way ther wuz to Dan'l's stuff. Dan'l, I tell you, wuz a six-foot-an'-half seraph with pants on; an' w'en he opened DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 235 his mouth the music er the spheres stopped playin', fer nobody wanted to listen to sich fool, fol-de-rol music, w'en Dan'l opened up his flood-gates an' jest drowned the worl' with elerkunce. "I remember jes' ez if it wuz yes'day, w'en Dan'l riz up there on the ol' plank plat- form, bordered with punkins, at the ol' county fair. He riz an' riz, an' every time he riz, he let out another j'int, jes as you do in the new-fangled fishin' poles. Sez I to myself, 'He'll never git thro' risin' ;' but bimeby, after he had shot up inter the heavens a long ways, he suddenly stopped and stood there like Bunker Hill Monimunt in a garding er cabbages. "Dan'l warn't in no hurry 'bout be- ginnin'. He jest stood still, it seems to me, 'bout half a nour, an' looked aroun' with them awful eyes of his'n. They seemed like two mighty souls lookin' out of the winder at a worl' thet wuz afraid of 'em. I jes' hung down my head an' wouldn't look at 'em. I knew they could look right inter me, an' through me, an' see what a miser- able little cuss I wuz. So Dan'l jes' stood an' looked at his audience until he froze 'em into their tracks. The Durham bull stopped blartin', an' jest' stood and gawped at Dan'l. The prize hog stopped eatin' his corn, an' there warn't a rooster crowed— they all knowed if they did they'd drop dead. Dan'l stood still so long I got awful nervous fer him. I wuz 'fraid he'd forgotten his speech. But bimeby, he opened his mouth an' words begun to rumble out like low thunder frum underneath the groun'. They come kinder slow at first, but every one on 'em wuz sent like a cannon ball, an' struck every man, woman an' child there right over the heart. Then they come faster, an' then we all knowed thet the universe wuz a big music box, an' Dan'l wuz turnin' the crank. The hull dictionary wuz a big gin filled with apple sass, honey, an' stewed quinces, an' Dan'l jest stood there jabbin' both hands into it way up to the elbow, and scatterin' the sweetness over the worl'. I jest threw out my arms an' legs like a frog in a mill- pond, an' swum through the ocean of sweet sass an' honey thet wuz sloshin' all about me. I div down to the bottom, an' brought up hundred thousand dollar pearls in my mouth, an' splashed about like a crazy luna- tic in a sea of glory. W'en Dan'l smiled it seemed ez if the sun hed been whitewashed with a mixture of melted gold, silver, jasper, saffire, emerald, chrysolite an' stuff, sich ez St. John seen on the foundations of the new Jerusalem; it seemed ez if the sun had been whitewashed with these things, an' then smiled on the earth, jest like a lovesick feller onto his best gal. W'en Dan'l frowned the sun grew ez black ez a black ink spot on a black cat hidin' in a coal bin on a dark night. Hope lef the worl' an' went on an everlastin' vacation; the bottom tumbled outer natur', an' I jest opened my mouth an' bawled like a baby. An' I jest kep' on bawlin' until Dan'l smiled agin, we'n I wuz so happy an' light thet I could hev walked on the air without bustin' through the crust, clear from here way up to the north star. "Wall, bimeby Dan'l got excited. He threw out his right han' an' pulled the mornin' star from the bosom of the sky ; he threw out his left han' an' snatched the trailin' robes from the sunset an' flapped them over the cattle shed. He threw up his head an' the sun dodged; he stamped his foot an' the earth trembled; and the prize hog give a gasp an' dropped dead. Dan'l's eyes now looked like two suns in two uni- verses ; and if he only shet them once, we knew that darkness would cover the face of the deep, an' the world would roam about in the dark parsture of the universe 236 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. like a stray cow, an' git lost. Oh, them eyes ! them eyes ! they'll shine into my soul after the sun goes out, an' after the stars have dropped like loose buttons from the jacket of the sky. "But still Dan'l kep' on. Thet son of thunder stood there surrounded by punkins, and I verily believe the angels bent over the railin's of heaven an' listened to him ; an' I only wonder thet they didn't lose their bal- ance an' come a-fallin' down an' sprawl out like celestial lummuxes before his feet. They might hev for all I know. We shouldn't hev noticed 'em. We wouldn't hev paid any attention to an earthquake or an Odd Fell'rs purcession. If Gabrul had blown his trumpet right then an' there, an' tooted until he wuz red in the face, we wouldn't hev heerd it any more than we could hev heerd a watch tick in a biler fac- tory. Gabrul himself would hev dropped his horn an' stood an' listened to Dan'l. We couldn't see nothin' but Dan'l, we couldn't hear nothin' but Dan'l, an', — well, there warn't nothin' but Dan'l. He filled up the jwhole bushel basket of the universe an' then spilled over onto the floor. "Wen Dan'l stopped, I wanted to die ; an' I almost wish I hed, for I hain't heerd a de- cent speech sense his day, an' I never ex- pect to agin until I hear Dan'l spoutin' from the platforms of paradise." g5* c5* !?• A RACE FOR LIFE. A GUN is heard at the dead of night — "Lifeboat ready!" And every man, to the signal true, Fights for place in the eager crew; ' "Now, lads! steady." First a glance at the shuddering foam, Now a look at the loving home, Then together, with bated breath, They launch their boat in the gulf of death. Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer and say: "Up with her, lads, and lift her! All together." They see the ship in a sudden flash, Sinking ever, And grip their oars with a deeper breath ; Now it's come to a fight with death, Now or never! Fifty strokes, and they're at her side, If they live in the boiling tide, If they last through the awful strife. Ah, my lads, it's a race for life! Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer and say: "Up with her, lads, and lift her! All together!" And loving hearts are on the shore, Hoping, fearing; Till over the sea there comes a cheer, Then the click of the oars you hear, Homeward steering — Ne'er a thought of the danger past, Now the lads are on land at last; What's a storm to a gallant crew Who race for life, and who win it, too? Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer and say: "Up with her, lads, and lift her! All together!" DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 237 WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. YOU'RE surprised that I ever should say so? Just wait till the reason I've given, Why I say I shan't care for the music, Unless there is whistling in heaven. Then you'll think it no very great wonder, Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, Its music will not be complete. It was late in the autumn of '40, We had come from our far Eastern home Just in season to build us a cabin, Ere the cold of the winter should come ; And we lived all the while in our wagon While husband was clearing the place Where the house was to stand; and the clearing And building it took many days. So that our heads were scarce sheltered In under its roof, when our store Of provisions was almost exhausted, And husband must journey for more ; And the nearest place where he could get them Was yet such a distance away, That it forced him from home to be absent At least a whole night and a day. You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, And the nearest was more than a mile ; And we hadn't found time yet to know them, For we had been busy the while. And the man who had helped at the raising Just staid till the job was well done ; And as soon as the money was paid him, Had shouldered his axe, and had gone. Well, husband just kissed me and started, I could scarcely suppress a deep groan At the thought of remaining with baby So long in the house all alone •; For, my dear, I was childish and timid, And braver ones might well have feared, For the wild wolf was often heard howling, And savages sometimes appeared. But I smothered my grief and my terror Till husband was off on his ride, And then in my arms I took Josey, And all the day long sat and cried, As I thought of the long, dreary hours When the darkness of night should fall, And I was so utterly helpless, With no one in reach of my call. And when the night came with its terrors, To hide ev'ry ray of light, I hung up a quilt by the window, And almost dead with affright, I kneeled by the side of the cradle, Scarce daring to draw a full breath, Lest the baby should wake, and its crying Should bring us a horrible death. There I knelt until late in the evening, And scarcely an inch had I stirred, When suddenly, far in the distance, A sound as of whistling I heard ! I started up dreadfully frightened, For fear 'twas an Indian's call ; And then very soon I remembered The red man ne'er whistles at all. And when I was sure 'twas a white man, I thought were he coming for ill, He'd surely approach with more caution — Would come without warning, and still. Then the sounds coming nearer and nearer, " Took the form of a tune light and gay, And I knew I needn't fear evil, From one who could whistle that way. Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, Then came a peculiar dull thump, As if some one was heavily striking An axe in the top of a stump ; 238 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. And then in another brief moment, There came a light tap on the door, When quickly I undid the fast'ning, And in stepped a boy, and before There was either a question or answer, Or either had time to speak, I just threw my glad arms around him, And gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then I started back, scared at my boldness, But he only smiled at my fright, As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Elick, Come to tarry with you through the night. "We saw your husband go eastward, And made up our minds where he'd gone, And I said to the rest of our people, 'That woman is there all alone. And I venture she's awfully lonesome. And though she may have no great fear I think she would feel a bit safer If only a boy were but near.' "So, taking my axe on my shoulder, For fear that a savage might stray Across my path and need scalping, I started right down this way ; And coming in sight of the cabin, And thinking to save you alarm, I whistled a tune, just to show you I didn't intend any harm. "And so here I am at your service ; But if you don't want me to stay, Why, all you need do is to say so, And should'ring my axe, I'll away." I dropped in a chair and near fainted, Just at the thought of his leaving me then, And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle As he said, "I guess I'll remain." And then I just sat there and told him How terribly frightened I'd been, How his face was to me the most welcome, Of any I ever had seen ; And then I lay down with the baby, And slept all the blessed night through, For I felt I was safe from all danger Near so brave a young fellow and true. So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, Since such a good reason I've given, Why I say I shan't care for the music, Unless there is whistling in heaven ? Yes, often I've said so in earnest, And now what I've said I repeat, That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, Its music will not be complete. c5* <5* *?• THE ENGINE DRIVER'S STORY. WE were driving the down express — Will at the steam, I at the coal — Over the valleys and villages ! Over the marshes and coppices ! Over the river, deep and broad! Through the mountain, under the road ! Flying along, tearing along ! Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, Fifty tons she was, whole and sole ! I had been promoted to the express ; I warrant you I was proud and gay, It was the evening that ended May, And the sky was a glory of tenderness. We were thundering down to a midland town; It makes no matter about the name — For we never stopped there, or anywhere For a dozen of miles on either side : DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 239 So it's all the same — Just there you slide, With your steam shut off, and your brakes in hand, Down the steepest and longest grade in the land At a pace that I promise you is grand. We were just there with the express, When I caught sight of a muslin dress On the bank ahead ; and as we passed — You have no notion of how fast — A girl shrank back from our baleful blast. We were going a mile and a quarter a minute With vans and carriages down the incline, But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it,' I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mine As the train went by, like a shot from a mortar, A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke ; And I mused for a minute, and then awoke,. And she was behind us — a mile and a quarter. And the years went on, and the express Leaped in her black resistlessness, Evening by evening, England through. Will — God rest him! — was found, a mash Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash He made with a Christmas train at Crewe. It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, Or I shouldn't now be here alive ; But thereafter the five-o'clock out express Evening by evening I used to drive. And I often saw her, — that lady I mean, That I spoke of before. She often stood A-top o' that bank : it was pretty high — Say twenty feet, and backed by a wood. She would pick the daises out of the green To fling down at us as we went by. We had got to be friends, that girl and I, Though I was a rugged, stalwart chap, And she a lady ! I'd lift my cap, Evening by evening, when I'd spy That she was there, in the summer air, Watching the sun sink out of the sky. Oh, I didn't see her every night : Bless you ! no ; just now and then, And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. Then, one evening, I saw her again, Alone, as ever, but deadly pale, And down on the line, on the very rail, While a light, as of hell, from our wild wheels broke, Tearing down the slope with their devilish clamors, And deafening din, as of giant's hammers That smote in a whirlwind of dust and smoke All the instant or so that we sped to meet her. Never, oh, never, had she seemed sweeter! I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke Down that awful incline, and signaled the guard To put on his brakes at once, and hard — Though we couldn't have stopped. We tattered the rail Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir, Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch Her arms to us ; — and the desperate wretch I pitied, comprehending her. So the brakes let off, and the steam full again, Sprang down on the lady the terrible train — She never flinched. We beat her down, And ran on through the lighted length of the town Before we could stop to see what was done. Oh, I've run over more than one ! Dozens of 'em, to be sure, but none 240 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. That I pitied as I pitied her — If I could have stopped, with all the spur Of the train's weight on, and cannily — But it wouldn't do with a lad like me And she a lady — or had been — sir? Who was she? Best say no more of her ! The world is hard ; but I'm her friend, Stanch, sir, — down to the world's end. It is a curl of her sunny hair Set in this locket that I wear. I picked it off the big wheel there. Time's up, Jack. Stand clear, sir. Yes; We're going out with the express. — W. Wilkins. &5* ti5* «5* HENRY V. AT ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow over- whelm it, As fearfully as doth a galled rock Overhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nos- tril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height. Now on, you noblest English, HARFLEUR. Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof; Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn to even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of ar- gument : Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war! And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs are made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not: For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble luster in your eye; I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start: the game's a-foot; Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge, Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. George. — Shakespeare. ^"V. Treasure Trove- World Favorites This department includes those immortal writings that won favor throughout the world and are as popular to-day as when they were first written many years ago. They belong to "Auld Lang Syne," and are old acquaint- ances that shall never be forgot. ttJ* ^W (£• PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S FAVORITE POEM. OH, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall die. The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection that proved, The husband that mother and infant that blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint that enjoyed the communion of Heaven, The sinner that dared to remain unfor- given, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quickly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed, That wither away to let others succeed; So the multitude come, even those we be- hold, To repeat every tale that hath often been told. For we are the same that our fathers have been; 241 212 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, — We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fath- ers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. They loved, but their story we cannot un- fold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slum- bers may come; They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. They died, — ay, they died; and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on their pil- grimage road. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear and the song and the dirge Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? t5* t5* t5* THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, > The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad de- votion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. "Sad is my fate," said the broken-hearted stranger, — "The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green, sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! o o W ft < © Hi o n h) S W B TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 245 "Erin, my country! though sad and for- saken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to de- plore ! "Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast- fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot re- call. "Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bard sings aloud with devotion, — Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!" — Thomas Campbell t5* <5* THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp and black and long; His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low, And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise. He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes, 2-16 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing — Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted — something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. & Jt * JOHN ANDERSON JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first sequent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow; John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. — Robert Burns. &5* «£• tS* "ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER." BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time! in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Backward, flow backward, O swift tide of years ! I am weary of toil, I am weary of tears ; Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away, Weary of sowing for others to reap; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother! my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between; Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again; Come from the silence so long and so deep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone. No other worship abides and endures Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 247 From the sorrowing soul and the world- weary brain; Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep ; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it fall over my forehead to-night, Shielding my eyes from the flickering light; For oh! with its sunny-edged shadows once more, Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep — Reck me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother! the years have been long Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song; Sing them again, — to my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream ; Clasp to your arms in a loving embrace, With your soft, light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! — Mrs. Elisabeth Akers. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. H OW dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond; and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treas- ure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- flowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 248 TEE A RUBE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupi- ter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. — Samuel Wood-worth. *£& *£& 1C& FORTY YEARS AGO. I'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the school-house play-ground, that sheltered you and me ; But none were left to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon the green, some forty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom; bare- footed boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place, some forty years ago. The old school-house is altered now; the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the ones our pen- knives once defaced; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro; It's music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago. The boys were playing some old game, be- neath that same old tree; I have forgot the name just now, — you've played the same with me, On that same spot; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so; The loser had a task to do, — there, forty years ago. The river's running just as still; the wil- lows en its side Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, — just forty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed, since forty years ago. Near by that spring, upon old elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's put beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same. Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some forty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes; THE ABU RE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 249 I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties. I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strew Upon the graves of those we loved, some forty years ago. Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea; But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ; And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they'll lay us where we played, just forty years ago. *£ri t&fc t&& THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm- chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize; I've bedewed it with tears, and embraced it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; . Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell? — a mother sat there ; And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray; And I almost worshiped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible, to bless her child. Years rolled on; but the last one sped — My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled; I learned how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow. Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died; And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. ^w (5* ^* "ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP." ROCKED in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For thou, O Lord, hast power to save. I know thou wilt not slight my call, For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall! And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep, And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep. And such the trust that still is mine, Tho' stormy winds sweep o'er the brine, Or tho' the tempests fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death, In ocean cave still safe with Thee, The germ of immortality! 250 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. ROGER AND I. W E are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog ; — come here, you scamp Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye! Over the table, — look out for the lamp, — The rogue is growing a little old: Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank — and starved to- gether. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This out-door business is bad for strings,) Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings ! ****** Why not reform? That's easily said; But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform ; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think? At your age, sir, home, fortune and friends, A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink, — The same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic fea- tures, — You needn't laugh sir; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures: I was one of your handsome men! If you have seen her, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog! She's married since, — a parson's wife: 'Twas better for her that we should part- Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent On the dusty road, a carriage stopped; But little she dreamed, as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped! You've set me to talking, sir; I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change ! What do you care for a beggar's story? Is it amusing? you find it strange? I had a mother so proud of me! 'Twas well she died before — Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain ; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart? TEE AS V HE TROVE— WOULD FAVORITES. 251 He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, No doubt, remembering things that were, — A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur. I'm better now; that glass was warming, — You rascal ; limber your lazy feet ! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street. Not a very gay life to lead, you think? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals of drink ; — The sooner the better for Roger and me! BILL AND JOE. COME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by; The shining days when life was new, And all was bright with morning dew, — The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe. Your name may flaunt a titled trail Proud as a cockrel's rainbow tail ; And mine as brief appendix wear As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare: To-day, O friend, remember still That I am Joe, and you are Bill. You've won the great world's envied prize And grand you look in people's eyes. With H. O. N. and LL. D., In big brave letters, fair to see, — Your fist, old fellow, off they go! — How are you, Bill; How are you, Joe? You've won the judge's ermined robe, You've taught your name to half the globe; You've sung mankind a deathless strain; You've made the dead past live again; The world may call you what it will, But you and I are Joe and Bill. The chaffing young folks stare, and say, "See those old buffers, bent and gray, — They talk like fellows in their teens! Mad, poor old boys! That's what means," — And shake their heads ; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe! How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go, — How vain it seems, this empty show! Till all at once his pulses thrill — Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!" And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears, In some sweet lull of harp and song For earth-born spirits none too long, it 252 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. Just whispering of the world below Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? No matter: while our home is here, No sounding name is half so dear; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say? Read on the hearts that love us still, Hie Jacet Joe. Hie Jacet Bill. — Oliver W. Holmes. OVER THE RIVER. OVER the river, over the river — The river silent and deep — When the boats are moored on the shadow shore And the waves are rocked to sleep; When the mists so pale, like a bridal veil, Lie down on the limpid tide, I hear sweet sounds in the still night-time From the flowing river's side; And the boat recedes from the earthly strand. Out o'er the liquid lea — Over the river, the deep dark river, My darlings have gone from me. Over the river, over the river, Once in summer time The boatman's call we faintly heard, Like a vesper's distant chime ; And a being fair, with soft, dark hair Paused by the river's side, For the snowy boat with the golden oars That lay on the sleeping tide And the boatman's eyes gazed into hers, With their misty dreamlike hue — Over the river, the silent river She passed the shadows through. Over the river, over the river A few short moons ago Went a pale young bride with fair, slight form, And a brow as pure as snow; And music low, with a silvery flow, Swept down from the starry skies, As the shadows slept in her curling hair, And darkened her twilight eyes, Still the boat swept on to the spirit shore With a motion light and free — Over the river, the cold, dark river, My sister has gone from me. Over the river, over the river, When the echoes are asleep, I hear the dip of the golden oars, In the waters cold and deep; And the boatman's call, when the shad- ows fall, Floats out on the evening air, And the light winds kiss his marble brow, And play with his wavy hair; And I hear the notes of an angel's harp, As they sweep o'er the liquid lea — Over the river, the peaceful river, They're calling — calling for me. $5* t£& *&* BEAUTIFUL ANNABEL LEE. IT was many and many years ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived, whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me! I was a child, and she was a child, TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 253 In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee — With a love that the winged seraph of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea A wind blew out of a cloud chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me, Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bring- ing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : And so all night-time, I lie by the side Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. ^* (5* t5* THE HURRICANE. LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails, Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmos- phere, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. ' They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray — A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. He is come! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! we bid thee hail! How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, 254 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space. Darker — still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder- cloud ! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow. What roar is that? — 'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds! — ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. And I, cut off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane. Triumph The masterpieces of American eloquence and statesmanship are included in this department. The selections are particularly adapted to the anniversaries of our Great American Statesmen and to all patriotic holidays as well. McKINLEY'S EULOGY OF LINCOLN. IT is not difficult to place a correct esti- mate upon the character of Lincoln. He was the greatest man of his time, es- pecially approved of God for the work He gave him to do. "History abundantly proves his superior- ity as a leader, and establishes his constant reliance upon a higher power for guidance and support. "The tendency of this age is to exagger- ation, but of Lincoln certainly none have spoken more highly than those who knew him best. "The greatest names in American history are Washington and Lincoln. One is for- ever associated with the independence of the states and formation of the Federal Union, the other with the universal free- dom and preservation of that Union. "Washington enforced the Declaration of Independence as against England, Lincoln proclaimed its fulfillment, not only to a downtrodden race in America, but to all people, for all those who may seek the pro- tection of our flag. "These illustrious men achieved grander results for mankind within a single century — from 1775 to 1865 — than any other men ever accomplished in all the years since first the flight of time began. "Washington engaged in no ordinary revolution. With him it was not who should rule, but what should rule. He drew his sword, not for a change of rulers upon an established throne, but to establish a new government, which should acknowledge no throne but the tribune of the people. "Lincoln accepted war to save the Union, the safeguard of our liberties, and re-es- tablished it on 'indestructible foundations' as forever 'one and indivisible.' "To quote his own grand words: " 'Now, we are all contending that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish upon the earth.' "Each lived to accomplish his appointed task. Each received the unbounded grati- tude of the people of his time, and each is held in great and ever-increasing reverence by posterity. "The fame of each will never die. It will grow with the ages, because it is based upon imperishable service to humanity — not to the people of a single generation or country, but to the whole human family, wherever scattered, forever. "The present generation knows Wash- ington only from history, and by that alone can judge him. "Lincoln we know by history also; but thousands are still living who participated in the great events in which he was leader and master. "Many of his contemporaries survive him ; some are here yet in almost every locality. So Lincoln is not far removed from us. "History has proclaimed them the two 25s 256 GREAT ORATIONS. greatest and best Americans. That verdict lias not changed, and will not change, nor can we conceive how the historians of this or any age will ever determine what is so clearly a matter of pure personal opinion as to which of these noble men is entitled to greatest honor and homage from the people of America. "Says the gifted Henry Watterson, in a most beautiful, truthful and eloquent trib- ute to the great emancipator: " 'Born as lowly as the Son of God, reared in penury and squalor, with no gleam of light nor fair surroundings, it was reserved for this strange being, late in life, without name or fame, or seeming prep- aration, to be snatched from obscurity, raised to supreme command at a supreme moment, and intrusted with the destiny of a nation. " 'Where did Shakspere get his genius ? Where did Mozart get his music? Whose hand smote the lyre of the Scottish plow- man and staid the life of the German priest? " 'God alone, and as surely as these were raised by God, inspired of God was Abra- ham Lincoln ; and a thousand years hence no story, no tragedy, no epic poem will be filled with greater wonder than that which tells of his life and death. " 'If Lincoln was not inspired of God, then there is no such thing on earth as spe- cial providence or the interposition of di- vine power in the affairs of men.' "My fellow citizens, a noble manhood, nobly consecrated to man, never dies. "The martyr to liberty, the emancipator of a race, the savior of the only free gov- ernment among men, may be buried from human sight, but his deeds will live in human gratitude forever." ^* e5* t5* LINCOLN'S ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG. FOUR score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this conti- nent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great bat- tlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedi- cate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hal- low this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have conse- crated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining be- fore us ; that from the same honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead should not have died in vain ; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. — Abraham Lincoln. .-GREAT ORATIONS. 257 FROM BLAINE'S ORATION ON GARFIELD. (Delivered in the city of Washington, Monday, February 27th, 1882.) ' ON the morning of Saturday, July second, the President was a con- tented and happy man — not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly hap- py. On his way to the railroad station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious en- joyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and keen antici- pation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his administra- tion was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular favor and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties con- fronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed ; that trouble lay behind him and not before him ; that he was soon to meet his wife whom he loved, now recov- ering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved him ; that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the most cheerful associations of his young manhood and to exchange greet- ings with those whose deepening interest had followed < < i-l w H H < O 50 bo ci H H H i-l • * O) I in r-. g s «S M