■ ^ i 
 
 
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 $ 
 
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 PN 4291 
 .P73 
 
? 'R^ARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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«BT THE BEST I GET TUB BEST It 
 
 JUST 8 U C H A BOOK A 8 
 
 Practical Letter- Writer 
 
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 Webster's Practical Letter-Writer 
 
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 NEW YORK : 
 
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 Copyright, 1879, by Clinton T. De Witt. 
 
The <« Webster" Standard Series. 
 
 WEBSTER'S PRACTICAL LETTER-WRITER. 
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^ f I a rl. 
 
 These Dialogues now presented to the public are 
 really what they purport to be — ^^ Plain." That 
 is, they are upon subjects of almost hourly occur- 
 rence. They treat of the Hopes, Fears, Amuse- 
 ments and Sorrows of to-day : in our own country. 
 The language is such as w^e hear every moment 
 around us in the Shop, in the Kitchen, in the Play 
 Koom, the Parlor, and the Orchard. In short, they 
 are the Dialogues of Every Day Life. 
 
 By speaking them properly, the young declaimers 
 will learn to express themselves with readiness, 
 smartness and propriety. In a style equally remote 
 from bombast and vulgarity. 
 
OOIsTTEITTS 
 
 OF 
 
 xmM'% f bin giakgites. 
 
 Name. Author. Page. 
 
 Acquiescing Wife (The) Sterne 23 
 
 Awful Mystery (An) Frank S.Finn 31 
 
 Aunt Eunice's Experiments Mrs. Alice R. Ferrt, 130 
 
 Boy Who Wins (The) Asa D. Cox, A. M 85 
 
 Be Courteous Epes Sargent 183 
 
 California Uncle ( The) Dr. Louis Legrand ... 56 
 
 Children of a Hundred Years Ago Emily S. Oaeiet 135 
 
 Fortune-Teller (The) Anon 5 
 
 Good they Did (The) Frank S. Finn 45 
 
 Honest and Honorable Alice A. Coale 68 
 
 Investigating Committee (The). Prof. A. B. F 13 
 
 In Want of a Servant Clara Augusta 25 
 
 Imps of the Trunk Room (The) Mrs. Mark P 146 
 
 Lost Child (The) Harry H. Cushing.... 151 
 
 Miss Higginson's Will J. A. Bellows 39 
 
 Marrjang For Money H. E. McBride 51 
 
 Mysterious " G. G." Frank S. Finn 166 
 
 Modern Education Anon 188 
 
 Oil on the Brain S. A. McKeeyer 9 
 
 Old Apple Woman (The) H. Elliot McBride. .. 114 
 
 Porcupine Temper (The) Anon 174 
 
 Remember Benson Orange Lemon, Ph. D 126 
 
 Rose and a Thorn (A) Mrs Louise E. V. Boyd 139 
 
 Silver Dollar (The) H. E. McBride 108 
 
 Scandal on the Brain Blanche B. Beebe 119 
 
 Speculators (The) Epes Sargent 176 
 
 Too Good to Attend Common School Eliza Doolittle 20 
 
 True Manliness M. L. R 71 
 
 Tobacco Pledge (The) ..Elizabeth E Ralston 103 
 
 Two Friends (The) America Ackron 144 
 
 Tit for Tat Frank S Finn 160 
 
 Uncle Nathan's Indian A. H. Widney 95 
 
 Use of Study (The) Miss Rose Le Strange 99 
 
 AVorth Before Show Pauline Butler Ill 
 
 We'll Have to Mortgage the Farm.c ....Ernest G. Fahnestock 191 
 
f r^^atfB §lm gml0gua^. 
 
 A POETUITE-TELLEE. 
 
 "^CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mrs. Allen, a widow. Amelia Allen, 7ier daughter. 
 Robert Weldon, Amelia's laver. 
 
 Scene I. — A room. Mrs. Allen and Robert Weldon dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Mrs. Allen. No, Mr. Weldon, I cannot give my consent. I 
 believe you are a well-to-do young man, but I want Amelia to 
 marry a preacher. Or if she should fancy a lawyer, I would not 
 object. You know it would be very elevatin' to have a lawyer 
 in the family. But, I lean more toward a preacher. 
 
 Hobert. Then your answer is final, and you will not give 
 your consent? 
 
 Ifrs. A. Yes, my answer is final. I know you are a well-to- 
 do young man, but you are only a carpenter, and you haven't 
 much money. You will not be offended, of course, because I 
 speak plainly. 
 
 Bohert. No ; of course I will not be offended. If, however, 
 you had given her to me, I would have tried to be worthy of her. 
 
 Mrs. A. Yes, I know you would. You are a well-to-do young 
 man, and have no bad habits as I knows on, but you are a car- 
 penter, and I want Amelia to marry a preacher or a lawyer, so 
 that we, as a family, can become elevated. 
 
 Robert {rising). Well, I will bid you good-morning. 
 
 Mrs. A. I hope you wont be offended. I thought it my duty 
 to speak plainly, so that there would be no trouble hereafter. 
 
 Robert. No, I am not offended. It is all right. 
 
6 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Mrs. A. But don't be in a liurry. Sit down, and I will send 
 Amelia in so that you can have your last talk with her. 
 
 \^Exit Mrs. Allen. 
 
 Bobert. Well, it is all over. I had hoped to he able to call 
 Amelia my wife, but I am doomed to disappointment. 
 Enter Amelia. 
 
 Amelia. Robert, why do you wear such a woeful look ? | 
 
 Robert {taking her hand). You know the cause, I doubt not. \ 
 (leads her to a seat) Your mother has said that you cannot be 
 mine. She wants you to marry a minister or a lawyer. 
 
 Amelia {laughs). Ha ! ha ! I don't like ministers nor law- 
 yers ; and, Robert, I intend to marry you. 
 
 llobert. Without your mother's consent ? 
 
 Amelia. No. She will give her consent after awhile. 
 
 Robert. I'fear not. If she should, we will have a long time 
 to wait. 
 
 Amelia. And can't you wait five or six years ? 
 
 Robert. Yes ; but I'd rather not. I could wait almost any 
 length of time, if I knew that at last I could claim you. 
 
 Amelia. You may not have long to wait. I have a plan. 
 Shall I tell you of it ? 
 
 Robert. Yes, oh, yes. 
 
 Amelia. I will find some little job of carpenter work to be 
 done about the house. I will go for you — mother will not ob- 
 ject, I know— and then when you are here, I will come in dis- 
 guised as a fortune-teller, and predict a bright future for you; 
 Mother will consent then, I know 
 
 Robert. But wouldn't this be deception ? 
 
 Amelia. Why, Robert you can't want me very bad, when 
 you object to my plan, {carelessly) Well, I suppose I can marry 
 a preacher or a lawyer. 
 
 Robert. I agree to the plan. Don't say anything about the 
 preacher or lawyer. 
 
 Amelia. Robert, I love only you, and there can be no harm 
 in my masquerading. It is for a good purpose. 
 
 Robert. Certainly it is, and I hope it may succeed. I sup- 
 posed this would be our last interview, but I begin to hope again. 
 
 Amelia. Good-bye, I will come tor you soon. 
 
 Robert. Good-bye, and may you always be happy. 
 
PEESCOTT's PtiAIN DIALOOUES. 7 
 
 Scene II. — A room in Mrs. Allen's house. Mrs. Allen and 
 Robert discovered. Robert engaged in repairing a door. 
 
 Mrs. A. You liave nearly completed your work, haven't you, 
 Mr. Weldon ? 
 
 Robert. Yes ; J will liave it finished in a few minutes, I tliink. 
 
 Mrs. A. I thought it hardly necessary to have the door re- 
 paired now, but Amelia thought a stitch in time would save 
 nine, and I generally let Amelia have her own way about sicli 
 things. I don't know why Amelia is staying so long. I s'pose, 
 however, she is havin' a talk with some of her girl friends. 
 {looking out of icindow) I declare, there's an old woman comin' 
 up to the gate. Some beggar, I s'pose. There seems to be a 
 great many beggars runnin' around now. 
 
 Bohert. Yes, times are hard, and many people are out of em- 
 ployment . 
 
 Mrs. A. Well, I don't know as I ought to let that woman 
 come in, but then, 1 s'pose she's hungry and would .like to 
 have something to eat. {knock at door, opened ty Mrs. Allen) 
 Come in ! 
 
 Enter Amelia, disguised- as an old icoman. 
 
 Amelia. How do you do, mum ? I'm a fortune-teller. Will 
 you let me look at your hand ? I only charge twenty-five cents, 
 
 Mrs. A. Idon't believe in encouragin' fort une-tellin'. Idcn't 
 want you to tell mine. 
 
 Amelia. Let me tell it, and I'll not charge you anything. 
 Shall I tell you of the past ? 
 
 Mrs. A. Well, I don't believe in it, but I reckon it will do 
 no harm. 
 
 Amelia {looking at palm of Mrs. Allen's Tiand). You are a 
 widow ; your husband has been dead ten years ; you have had 
 three children, two boys and one girl ; the boys are dead. You 
 have property worth twenty thousand dollars. 
 
 Mrs. A. Well, I declare ! {to Robert) She tells the past 
 correctly. I am surprised. I always thought fortune-tellin' 
 was a humbug, but now I begin to believe in it. 
 
 Amelia {to Robert). Will you have your fortune told, sir ? 
 
 Robert. Yes, if I have a quarter, {takes out^ packethook and 
 
8 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 hands money to Amelia) Now you may proceed. (Amelia takes 
 Ms hand) You don't see anything dreadful, I hope ? 
 
 Amelia. No ; on the contrary, everything is bright and beau- 
 tiful. You may consider yourself a happy man. 
 
 Robert. I'm glad to hear it ; but can you tell anything more 
 from the lines of this by no means clean hand ? 
 
 Amelia. You are a well-to-do young man. 
 
 Mrs. A. Just as I said. 
 
 Robert. Spare my blushes. 
 
 Amelia. You will rise in the world. You will become weal- 
 thy, and you will fill offices of importance and trust. 
 
 Mrs. A. Will he be President of the United States ? 
 
 Amelia. That is farther on than I can now see ; but there is 
 a bright future before him. This is all I have to say. 
 
 [Exit Amelia. 
 
 Mrs. A. I believe she tells the truth. It was all true she 
 told me. I never did believe in fortune-tellin', but I believe 
 in it now. Mr. Weldon, she said you were a well-to-do young 
 man. 
 
 Robert. Yes, she was very kind to speak so highly of me, but 
 then, you know, she received twenty-five cents, and perhaps 
 that caused her to form her good opinion. 
 
 Mrs. A. No, I think she was an honest fortune-teller. Robert, 
 I have been thinking that matter over about you and Amelia, 
 and I have concluded that I will not object to your getting 
 married. 
 
 Robert. A thousand thanks ! Oh, Mrs. Allen, you have made 
 me a happy man. 
 
 Mrs. A. My husband used to say that the sober seconl 
 thought was always best. Amelia dosen't want to marry a 
 preacher, so I give my consent now, and I hope you may be 
 happy. 
 
 Robert. I thank you, Mrs. Allen, and I shall endeavor to be 
 worthy of her. 
 
 Enter Amelia. 
 
 Mrs. A. Amelia, I have consented. 
 
 Robert {taking Amelia's hand). Yes, Amelia, she has con- 
 sented. 
 Amelia. Oh ! has she ? 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 9 
 
 Mrs. A. Yes, lie is a well-to-do young man, and I think you 
 couldn't do better. 
 
 Amelia {to audience). Then if our friends here before us are 
 satisfied 
 
 Rohert and Amelia {together). We will be happy. 
 
 OIL OU THE BEAIU. 
 
 S. A. M'KEEVER. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 Squire Hopeful, a retired alderman, in moderate circum- 
 stances, 
 Samuel Balmoral, a dry goods clerk, 
 Mb. Simox Fogy, Ms uncle, a garrulous church deacon. 
 Bob, small son of the squire. 
 Fked, his cousin. 
 
 Cakolixe, daughter of the squire, and lo^ced hy Samuel. 
 Miss Arabella, her madden aunt. 
 
 Enter Simox Fogy and his nephew. 
 
 Simon. If you do, you're a fool, that's all. 
 
 Sa.muel. Why, uncle, I see no harm in trying ; besides, how 
 can I hope to support Caroline properly, situated as I am. I 
 have now a chance to become, it may be, wealthy ; at least, 
 to greatly improve my present condition. I am assured by 
 those who are well informed, that this is an excellent com- 
 pany. 
 
 Simon. Excellent nonsense ! Xow mark what I tell you — 
 no good will ever arise from this oil speculation. I have been 
 opposed to it from the first, and I have had no reason to change 
 my opinion. It's nothing more or less than gambling. 
 
 Sam. Uncle, I shall beg leave to differ from you. You know 
 Shakespeare says, '' There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, 
 taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." 
 
10 peescott's pijAin dialogues. 
 
 Simon. I am pretty sure tlie bard did not allude to Oil 
 Creek. 
 
 Sam. Well, just as you please. I have decided to invest. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Simon. It seems as if every one had gone crazy ! From 
 morning until niglit I hear nothing but oil ! oil ! OIL ' on 
 the streets, in the cars, at home, abroad, in fact everywhere, 
 it is the only theme of conversation. I have become so sick 
 of the subject that I hate to hear the word oil mentioned. 
 
 Enter Squire with papers in his hand. 
 
 Simon. Good morning. Squire ; what have you there ? 
 
 Squire. Something of importance; I assure you. We are 
 about to organize an oil company, offering excellent induce- 
 ments to those who, like you and me, have but a small capital, 
 and wish to see it increased. I thought that you, being a par- 
 ticular friend of mine,''should be informed of the chance before 
 it became generally known. Just look at this prospectus ! 
 
 Simon {throwing the paper aside). Don't talk to me of oil 
 corapanies and the ruinous speculation which they cause ! I 
 am opposed to it, sir ; conscientiously and religiously opposed 
 to it. I wouldn't invest a dime in any of your boasted com- 
 panies ; they are swindles, sir, from beginning to end. 
 
 Squire {aside). What a queer old grampus he is. Well, 
 Simon ! if I cannot induce you to embrace the present opportu- 
 nity and make your fortune, I must bid you good morning. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Simon. I, Simon Fogy, deacon of a church, invest in oil ! that's 
 a pretty idea ! The good book says : ' ' Lay not up for your- 
 selves treasures on earth," and if I do, it shall be something 
 more secure than coal oil. Bah ! it makes me sick to think 
 of it. 
 
 Enter Caroline, singing. 
 
 "And every one is troubled with 
 Oil on the brain." 
 
 Simom. I repel the insinuation with scorn ; I, for one, re- 
 main uncontaminated by the prevailing reckless infatuation. 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 11 
 
 Caroline. Wliy, is it possible, Mr. Fogy ! that you have 
 failed to take the necessary steps to enrich yourself, at a time 
 when fortunes are made in a day, and millionaires are almost 
 as plentiful as beggars ! But, see, what a splendid piece of 
 music Mr. Balmoral has given me ! 
 
 Simon. A most miserable subject, at any rate. 
 
 Car. Do you really think so ? I don't ; if you will come and 
 hear me play it, perhaps you will think differently. Well I if 
 you wont I must go alone. \^Exit. 
 
 Simon. Now, one might think that women and girls would 
 be exempt from such foolishness ; but alas ! I'm afraid it's not 
 the case. Ah ! here comes the charming Miss Arabella. 
 
 Enter Miss Ababella. 
 
 Simon. Pleasant morning, ma'am. 
 
 Arabella. Very pleasant, indeed, Mr. Fogy. Have you soon 
 the Squire this morning ? 
 
 Simon. Yes, ma'am, and am sorry to hear from his own lips 
 that he has been foolish enough to put his money into oil stocks. 
 
 Ara. He always was a fool as far as money was concerned. 
 
 Simon. 'Wh.dX could have prompted him to take so rash a 
 step ? ^ 
 
 Ara. I really cannot tell. I suppose he believes it will 
 make a wealthy man of him ; but in my opinion, he will never 
 realize a single cent of the money he has been dunce enough 
 to invest. 
 
 Simon. I agree with you on that point. 
 
 Ara. Ton cannot imagine. Mr. Fogy, how changed he has 
 become. Xow, last night, for instance, instead of coming 
 home at the proper time, as a decent man should do, he staid 
 away until far after tea time, and when he did come, he brought 
 ^vith him a great crowd of men, and insisted on us getting 
 supper for them. After they had stuffed themselves full of 
 everything eatable in the house, they all marched into the 
 best room ; and there they sat and smoked their filthy tobacco, 
 and talked of oil and stocks, and flowing wells and certificates, 
 till my head reeled, and it required a pretty good dose of the 
 old legitimate castor oil to set me right again. 
 
12 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Simon. In my opinion the world has gone mad, and not con- 
 tent with performing its daily and annual revolution in the 
 customary manner, has conceived the idea of greasing its axis 
 and orbit, in order to move more expeditiously, and with less 
 effort. 
 
 Ara. Very true ! very true ! But who have we here ? 
 
 Enter Fred and Bob, singing. 
 
 m 
 Bob. My dear Aunt Bell, did you never hear tell of the man 
 that drowned himself in a fifty barrel well ? 
 Fred. When he found out his stocks he couldn't sell. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Ara. Why, even the children seem to have caught the infec- 
 tion ! 
 
 Enter Caboline hastily. 
 
 Car. Have you heard the news ? 
 
 Ara. No ; what is it ? 
 
 Car. I don't know as I can tell you properly, but papa's com- 
 pany has, as he says, *' struck oil," and the yield is so great, 
 that the stock has risen — I don't know how much, and he is 
 going to sell his shares immediately. 
 
 Ara. I don't believe a word of it ! 
 
 Simon. Nor I, either. 
 
 Enter Samuel. 
 
 Sam. Now, my dear Caroline, congratulate me. The stock 
 which I bought, has, in this short time, risen so much per 
 share, that I have been induced to sell, and have realized again 
 far beyond my expectations. 
 
 Car, I am so glad ! 
 
 Enter Squire. 
 
 Squire. Hurrah ! Our fortunes are made, Arabella ! I knew 
 money was to be made out of this oil business. Why, how are 
 you, Sam ? I hear that you, too, have been successful ! 
 
 Sam. It is indeed true, and through the beneficial influence 
 of such success, I am enabled to ask you for the hand of your 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 13 
 
 daughter, -svitliout experiencing the disagreeable sensation of 
 being unable to support her. 
 
 Squire. I admire your candor, Sam — you shall have her 
 with all my heart, {joining their hands) May God bless you 
 both I [Exit all hut Miss Arabella and Simon. 
 
 Ara.. I believe there is some substance in this oil speculation 
 after all, Mr. Fogy. 
 
 Simon. It begins to look so, indeed ; and my dear Arabella,-^ 
 as we have j ust seen, success in love followed fast success in 
 the oil business, may I not hope, then, in case similar good 
 fortune should fall to my lot, that the lovely Miss Arabella will 
 accept the proftered heart and hand of Simon Fogy ? May I 
 not? do not say no. {affectedly.) 
 
 Ara. {with emotion). There is no refusing you, Simon ! {falls 
 into his arms) 
 
 Simon. It's oil right ; never venture never win. As far as 
 oil's concerned, I'm in, [Exit. 
 
 THE INVESTIGATING COMMITTEE. 
 
 PROP. A. B. F. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mrs. Vestry, the minister's wife. 
 Mrs. Blunt, the deacon's wife. 
 Mrs. Brief, the laicyefs wife. 
 Mrs Pill, the doctor's wife. 
 Mrs. Squask, a farmer's wife. 
 Mrs. Lug, a icidow lady, rather deaf. 
 
 Miss Prlm, an ancient maiden, once a school -mistress. \ 
 
 Miss Snap, a satirical young lady. \ 
 
 Miss Fairman, the candidate for the Tillage school. 
 {All present hut ^li^^ Fairman.) 
 Idrs. Vestry. Ladies, we are all assembled, and the young 
 lady who has applied for the village school is in the next room. 
 Shall I invite her in ? 
 uilrs. Llunt. Is she handsome? Lhave no idee of employing 
 
14 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 any beauty, to be running after the boys when slie should be 
 teaching the children. 
 
 Mrs. V. She makes no pretensions to any other beauty than 
 that of the mind, I believe. 
 
 Mrs. B. Let her come in, then. (Mrs. Vestky introduces 
 Miss Fairman to Mrs. Brief, who takes her ly the hand, and 
 says :) 
 
 Mrs. Brief. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Pill, the 
 lady of our physician — to Mrs. Blunt, the wife of our worthy 
 deacon. 
 
 Mrs. B. And as well entitled to be called lady as the best of 
 you, let me tell you ! Wife ! forsooth ! 
 
 Mrs. B. I plead not guilty, as we lawyers say, of any inten- 
 tional disrespect, {she then goes on introducing Miss Fairman) 
 This is Miss Prim, who may be called a fellow-laborer with you 
 in the field of education. 
 
 Miss Prim. No longer so, I desire to be thankful ! I left the 
 profession before everybody entered it. 
 
 Miss Snap. You left it when your pupils left you, I have 
 been told ; but it was so long ago, I do not remember the cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 Miss P. {to Miss Snap). A few more years would be of infi- 
 nite service to some folks. 
 
 Mrs. B. Miss Fairman, this is Miss Snap, whom you will find 
 a ready assistant in cutting such twigs as you may not be able 
 to bend. {sJie lets go Miss Fairman, whose hand Mrs. Vestry 
 taJces.) 
 
 Mrs. V. Let me introduce you. Miss, to Mrs. Squash, the 
 v/ife of one of our richest parishioners ; and Mrs. Lug, who is 
 rather hard of hearing, but whom you will find zealously inter- 
 ested in the cause of education. 
 
 Mrs. B. You had better take cheers, ladies, and ^et down 
 while the examination goes on. {all sit) Young woman, come 
 here. I warn you that you will have a severe examination ; 
 for we ladies have complained so much of former schoolma'ms, 
 that the men have made us a committee to examine applicants, 
 and suit ourselves ; and we are going to do the thing thoroughly. 
 Pray, what's your name, young woman ? 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 15 
 
 Miss Fairman. Susan Fairman, madam. 
 
 Mrs. B, How old are you ? 
 
 Miss P. I object to tliat question, as an improper one. I 
 would not tell my age to any one. 
 
 Miss S. The young lady may not liave tlie same objection. 
 
 Miss F. I shall be eighteen in a few days. 
 
 Mrs. Lug {Jiolding her hand up to her ear as a deaf person 
 does). Did you say you were eighty years old. Miss ? 
 
 Miss F. iSTo, madam ; only eighteen. 
 
 Mrs. Squash. Why, you have hardly left off tires ! Pray, 
 can you make sl pimJdn pie ? 
 
 3Iiss S. If she can't, I dare say she can make one of squash. 
 
 Mrs. S. I should like to have my questions answered by the 
 gal herself. 
 
 Miss F. Madam, I never made a pie of the kind you name. 
 
 Mrs. 8. A pretty farmer's wife you'd make ! 
 
 Miss F. Madam, I applied for a school, not for a husband. 
 
 Mrs. L. {holding her hand to her ear). What ! does she 
 want a husband ? Why, there's Jonathan Squash, jest old 
 enough for her. 
 
 Mrs. V. Ladies, let us not wander from the purpose of our 
 meeting. Miss Fairman, will you be good enough to inform 
 the committee where you were educated, and the extent of your 
 studies ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Ay, ay ; where were you eddicated f what do you 
 know ? Come, I'll question you, myself. In what State were 
 you born into the world ? 
 
 Miss F. In Massachusetts, madam. 
 
 Mrs. B. Massafiddlestick ! 
 
 Miss 8. Mrs. Blunt expected you would say you were born in 
 a state of sin and misery. She is a sound divine, but no 
 geographer. 
 
 Mrs. Y. Please inform us, Miss Fairman, of such particulars 
 as we may need to aid us in our judgment. 
 
 Miss F. I have had a good school education, ladies, but pre- 
 tend to nothing more than is necessary to qualify me to teach 
 the common branches in a common village school, v/iiich is all 
 I understand vours to be. 
 
16 PKESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGrES. 
 
 ' p. That will never do for Smartville ; we must have 
 something more than common. In raj day, no teacher with 
 such pretensions would have dared to apply for a school. Have 
 you studied algebra ? 
 
 Miss F. Never. I did not know it was taught in a common 
 village school. 
 
 Miss P. It is not ; but it is the basis of a good education. 
 No lady should be ignorant of algebra. 
 
 Mrs. L. What ! don't the gal know there is such a thing as 
 a zebra f (holding her hand up to her ear.) 
 
 Miss 8. This knovv^ledge would be of more use to her than 
 algebra. Pray, Miss Prim, did you ever study algebra your- 
 felf? 
 
 Miss P. Yes ; I spent two weeks upon the delightful science, 
 and almost made myself mistress of it. 
 
 Mrs. P. Did you ever make any use of it afterward ? 
 
 Miss P. I came to examine, but not to be catechized, madam. 
 
 Miss 8. When a stocking was minus a foot, did your algebra 
 ever make it plus f 
 
 Mrs. L. What ! does the gal Uush f Well, I like to see young 
 folks blush. 
 
 Mrs. P. Pray, Miss Fairman, have you ever learned Latin ? 
 
 Miss. F. No, madam ; my father did not think it so impor- 
 tant for females as their own language ; and he never encour- 
 aged the study of it by his daughters. 
 
 Mrs. P. He was a dolt. Why, Latin, Miss, is the basis of 
 every learned profession ; and my husband, Dr. Pill, says he 
 could not prescribe without it. 
 
 Mrs. 8. The more is the pity ; they only use Latin to hide 
 i the pHson names of their nasty drugs. My husband once took 
 [ it into his head that every good farmer must know Latin, 
 that he might know the Varned names of vegetables ; and so 
 every single tree was called an arlor after that ; and every 
 squash, an iguana-faldforma-peripatetica, or some such non- 
 sense For my part, I hope to hear a squash called a squash 
 as long as I bear the name. 
 
 Mrs, Y. Ladies, let us not forget the object of our meeting. 
 Miss Fairman, may I ask at what school you were educated ? 
 
PKESCOTT's plain DTAIiOGUES. 17 
 
 Mis6 F. At tlie Female Monitorial School, madam, in Bos- 
 ton. 
 
 Mrs. L. What school is that? A tory school? that will 
 never do, Miss ; we are all wigs here. 
 
 Mrs. S. I really believe the gal is a Jackson man in dis- 
 guise. 
 
 Miss F. Ladies, you mistake the nature as well as the name 
 of the school. It is called monitorial, because the elder pupils, 
 who assist the teacher, are called monitors. 
 
 Miss P. Ay, this is one of the new f angled notions that have 
 made instruction so vulgar an employment that I cannot en- 
 dure it. When children take up the ferule, it is time for us 
 {draicing herself up) to lay it down. 
 
 Mrs. B. You don't intend to introduce any such notions here, 
 Miss ? 
 
 Miss F. I hoped, that a judicious use of monitors would not 
 be objected to. 
 
 Mrs. 8. What ! do you mean to set other children to teach 
 my darters f 
 
 Miss F. 1 should like to employ the more advanced pupils, 
 whosoever's children they may be, in instructing those who 
 know less than themselves. 
 
 Mrs. B. Then Mrs. Cowyard's brats may be set to teach our 
 children, Mrs. Vestry ! 
 
 Mrs. V. I have no objection to that, if her children know 
 more than ours. My husband says we should always be will- 
 ing to receive instruction from any source, however humble. 
 
 Miss P. I daresay Mr. Vestry would even allow that children 
 are competent to teach children. Preposterous idea ! 
 
 Mrs. Y. I know he v/ould allow it, for I have often heard him 
 say that men are only children of a larger growth ; and there was 
 no more dlfi:erence between his attainments and those of his 
 parishioners than there is between some children and others. 
 He considers himself as a monitor among his brethren. 
 
 Mrs. B. If he is only a monitor, pray who is our teacher ? 
 or have not we any ? 
 
 Mrs. V. He is accustomed to call the Saviour the great 
 Teacher. But I think we had better ascertain how the young 
 
18 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 lady has been instructed, and wliat slie lias learned, before we 
 condemn lier system utterly. 
 
 Ilrs. P. I should like to ask her one question. Pray, Miss, 
 if one of your pupils should cut her finger badly, what would 
 you do ? 
 
 Miss 8. {aside to Miss Fairman). Tell her you should send 
 for her husband, Dr. Pill, and you will make her your friend 
 forever. 
 
 Miss F. I should probably send her home, madam. 
 
 Mrs. B. Come, come, let me put her a serious question. 
 Young woman, how many comman-de-ments are there ? 
 
 3Iiss F. Ten were given by Moses, madam. 
 
 Mrs. L. How many did she say ? 
 
 Miss 8. Ten. 
 
 Mrs. L, Aj, ay ; that's right ; the gal's right for once. 
 
 Mrs, B. Now tell me how much of the primmer you know by 
 heart. What comes next arter '* The cat doth play, and after 
 slay?" 
 
 Miss 8. {aside to Miss Fairman). Tell her, " Whales in the 
 3a, great fish they be. " 
 
 Miss F. I must confess my ignorance, madam. 
 
 Mrs. B. Young woman, I don't know what my husband. 
 Deacon Blunt, would say, to find you so ignorant of the first 
 principles of religion. 
 
 M'SS F. Madam, I would respectfully remark, that I have 
 been taught to draw the principles of my religion from the 
 Bible, and not from the primmer. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, that is one of Mr. Yestry's notions, but every- 
 body learned the primmer when I was a gal. I could say it 
 backwards as well SLsforruds. 
 
 Miss P. Will the young lady be good enough to inform the 
 committee whether she has studied botany ? 
 
 Miss F. I have, m^adam. 
 
 Miss P. Did you study the philosophical part of the science, 
 which treats of the loves and tlio language of plants ? 
 
 Miss F. No, madam, I have only studied their structure and 
 uses. 
 
 3Es8 P. I supposed you had neglected the only ethereal part 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 19 
 
 of the science. This comes of your new-fangled system, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Miss F. Xo indeed, madam. Nonsense can be taught by the 
 monitorial plan as well as by any other. The subjects taught 
 depend upon the teacher, and not upon the system. 
 
 Mrs. B. I have seen enough of the gal. She will never do 
 for me. She don't even know her primmer, {she dashes out.) 
 
 Miss kS. " The eagle's flight is out of sight." 
 
 Mrs. B. Mr. Brief will never suffer his children to be 
 taught by Mrs. Cowyard's brats. \^Exit. 
 
 Miss S. *'Out, out, brief candle !^' 
 
 Mrs. P. I cannot swallow her ignorance of Latin. [Exit. 
 
 Miss S. Because she could not swallow your pills, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 Mrs. S. I can never vote for a Miss so young that she cannot 
 make a punldii pie. {aside) I thought at first she might do for 
 my son Jonathan. [Exit. 
 
 Miss S. So, because she can't cook d, punldii, she is not al- 
 lowed to become a Squash I 
 
 Miss P. I must withhold my approbation from one who has 
 no soul for the loves and language of flowers, and who has 
 never studied algebra. 
 
 Miss S. And tvhose charms being 2^lus, would render yours 
 a negative quantity. 
 
 3fiss P. My children — I mean my neighbors*, for I desire to 
 be thanf nl that I have none of the troublesome things — shall 
 never go to a monitorial school with my consent. Monitorial 
 indeed ! [Exit, 
 
 Mrs. L. Who did she say was dead ? 
 
 Miss S. Your tories, I suppose. 
 
 Mrs. L. Well, I am sorry for them ; I had rather they had 
 repented ; but they sha'n't get foothold in our village while I 
 am on the com.mittee. Good-bye. [Exit. 
 
 Miss S. A good riddance to them all ! Xow, Miss Fairman, 
 let me congratulate you upon escaping from such patrons. 
 
 Mrs. Y. Give me your hand, my dear. You have borne the 
 trial modestly and patiently. My husband has been applied 
 to for a preceptres.s of an academy, and I am sure^ that, after 
 
20 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 lie has heard the result of this meeting, he will confer the sit- 
 uation upon my young friend. Come, let us find him. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 TOO GOOD TO ATTEND COMMON SCHOOL. 
 
 ELIZA DOOLITTLB. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Tom Smith, a specimen of '' Young America.'' 
 William Steady, 
 Charles Candid, 
 
 ' [ schoolmates. 
 3, ) 
 
 Tom. Halloo, Bill ! which way so fast ? 
 
 William. That is not my name, sir. My name is William. 
 
 Tom. It seems to me that you are mighty particular. Well, 
 William, then — Master William, if that suits you any better — 
 which way are you walking so fast this morning ? 
 
 Will. Why, to school, to be sure, and I have but little time 
 now to talk with you, for I fear I shall be late. 
 
 Tom. Pshaw ! what's the use in always being so punctual, 
 I'd like to know ? They don't pay you for it, do they ? 
 
 Will. I do not receive money from any one, if that is what 
 you mean ; but I do get well paid for being in season, by gain- 
 ing the approbation of my teachers, and also by not losing any 
 of my recitations. 
 
 Tom. Perhaps you can, but /cannot see that a fellow gains 
 so much by worrying himself about being in school always 
 just to the minute. Why, one loses a good deal of fun in tho 
 street by that. Sometimes, just as the bell rings for school, the 
 fire hell rings also, and then I like to run and see where the 
 fire is, and how the machines work. You know, too, it might 
 be our house, and then how bad I should feel not to be there. 
 I think a boy might be excused for being a little late, at such a 
 time. 
 
 Will. I don't know about that, but I do know that running 
 after engines is bad business for boys. They are apt to get 
 into bad company, and hear bad language, and learn bad man- 
 
PBESCOTt's PL.iIN DIALOGUES. 21 
 
 ners in such places. Then, too, they are apt to get in the way 
 and get hurt. 
 
 Tom. Oh ! that's all nonsense. The bad tallc and bad man- 
 ners don't hurt me ; and as to getting in the way, I have helped 
 to put out a good many fires. I can help draw a machine, and 
 work it, too. Why, some of us boys " stole a march" on the 
 engine company the other night, got out the machine, and 
 w^orked it all by ourselves. 
 
 Will. I grant you are rather smart — Swift by name, and siDift 
 by nature ; but you will not convince me that the influence of 
 such places and company is not already working in your mind 
 for ill. I can see it in your tallv now. This running about the 
 street, when you should be at school, every good and wise per- 
 son will tell you is bad business. But come, you had better 
 go to school now. I must go. {starts.) 
 
 Tom. Oh ! hold on a bit — don't be in such a hurry. There 
 is time enough yet. I am a good runner, and if I start when 
 I hear the clock begin to strike, I can get to my school in 
 time. 
 
 Will. You see I am not so swift as you are. i cannot stay 
 any longer. There comes my friend Charles Candid — he has a 
 vacation to-day. I must leave you to finish this argument with 
 him. [Exit William. 
 
 Enter Charles. 
 
 Charles. Good-morning, Tom. 
 
 Tom. Good-morning, Charlie. 
 
 Char. I noticed you and William were having an earnest 
 talk. What was the subject ? 
 
 Tom. Oh, his hobby — school and punctuality, 
 
 vhar. I hope you did not disagree with him on that. 
 
 Tom. Yes, I did. I go for the largest liberty, yet I am an ad- 
 vocate for attending school when it suits my convenience. He 
 thinks I am a little reprobate, just because I like to be free, 
 and run with the fire engine sometimes, instead of being at 
 school just to the minute every day. I expect he takes his 
 seat just at nine o'clock, and looks as demure as a little priest, 
 and thinks he is very good. 
 
22 peescott's plain pialogues. 
 
 Char. Well, sir, do you expect to get to school this morninr; ? 
 If you do, I will not detain you. 
 
 To^n. Oil, I'm in no liurry I I am going down to tlie depot, 
 before I go to scliool, to see tlie trains come in. Don't we boys 
 liave good times jumping on tlie cars, riding a little, and then 
 jumping o^ again ? 
 
 Uiar. As to that I cannot say. I never tried it. I expect 
 you will get your head or limbs broken yet. 
 
 Tom. Pshaw ! I am not afraid of that. I can jump like a 
 streak of lightning. But I see by your eye you are not pleased 
 with my talk. You look like a very clever chap. Where do 
 you go to school ? 
 
 Char, To the Union school. 
 
 Tom. Why, that's a free school, i^ it not ? 
 
 Char. Yes ; what of that ? 
 
 Tom. Mother says she would not let me go to a free school 
 *' for all the icorld.'' 
 
 Char. Why? 
 
 Tom. There are bad boys who go there. She is too careful 
 of my morals for that. 
 
 Char. Well, icell ! I think she must have an eye to them, 
 indeed, from the fruits which I see. I guess you need not be 
 afraid of any you would be liable to meet there. There is, 
 noio and then, by the way, a bad boy who chances to get into a 
 private school. 
 
 Tom. So father says ; and he groans not a little about being 
 taxed so much for these free schools, and once and a while, 
 when he gets out of patience about taxes, he says. ^'Hang it I 
 I have a good mind to send Tom to a free school, and gain 
 something myself." But mother says, "■ Why, Tom go to a 
 free scliool f never ! 'twould ruin the precious darling forever, '' 
 So father yields — puts a new quid into his mouth and v/alks off 
 to the store. 
 
 Char, (laughing). Well, Tom, you are a pretty smooth 
 talker, but to be a little more serious, I want to go back again 
 to our starting point. 
 
 Tom. I must say I am tired of this — but let us have your 
 creed and end it. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 23 
 
 Char. Well, I fully believe that a tardy boy is in great dan- 
 ger of becoming a truant, and in the end likely to grow up a 
 loafer, with a fair chance of promotion at any early age, from 
 the street school to the penitentiary high school, and from 
 that, perhaps, to one of the state colleges, vulgarly called 
 *' State's Prison." It will make little difference vrhether he 
 start in 2^ free or select school. 
 
 Tom {excited). You impudent fellow ! I have a great mind 
 to thrash you. 
 
 Char, {putting his hand on Tom's shoulder). Hold on — keep 
 quiet. This may seem severe, but I speak as a friend. You 
 may yet thank me for it. Promise me you will think seriously 
 of this, and mend your ways, before it too late. 
 
 Tom {hesitatingly). Vrell, I do not know what to say — per- 
 haps I wall, but — here comes the ten o'clock train— I'm oft — 
 good-bye. 
 
 Char, {alone). Poor boy ! I fear he is on the sure road to 
 ruin. 
 
 THE AOQUIESOIUG WIPE. 
 
 Mr. Shandy. We should begin to think, Mrs. Shandy, of 
 putting our boy into breeches. v 
 
 Mrs. Shandy. We should so. 
 
 Mr. S. We defer it, my dear, shamefully. 
 
 Mrs. S. I think we do, Mr. Shandy. 
 
 Mr. S. Not but that the child looks extremely well in his 
 vests and tunics. 
 
 Mrs. S. He does look very well in them. 
 
 Mr. S. And, for that reason, it would seem almost a sin to 
 take him out of them. 
 
 Mrs. S. It would so. 
 
 Mr. S. But then, Mrs. Shandy, he is growing a very tall lad. 
 
 Mrs. S. He is very tall of his age, indeed, Mr. Shandy. 
 
 Mr. S. I cannot imagine, for the life of me, who the deuce 
 he takes after. 
 
 Mrs. S. I cannot even conjecture. 
 
24 pkescott's plain i>ialogt:es. 
 
 Mr. S. I certainly am very sliort, Mrs. Shandy. 
 
 Mrs. S. You are very short, Mr. Shandy ; very. 
 
 Mr. 8, {after a brief pause). When he gets his breeches on, 
 he will look like a very beast in them, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. 8. He will be very awkward in them at first. 
 
 Mr. 8. And 'twill be lucky, if that's the worst on't. 
 
 Mrs. 8. It will be very lucky. 
 
 Mr. 8. {after another pause). I suppose he'll be exactly like 
 other people's children. 
 
 Mrs. 8. Exactly, Mr. Shandy. 
 
 Mr. 8. And I should be sorry for that. His breeches should 
 be made of leather. Mrs. Shandy. 
 
 Mrs. 8. They will last him the longer so. 
 
 Mr. 8. But he can have no linings in 'em. 
 
 Mrs. 8. He cannot, Mr. Shandy. 
 
 Mr. 8. 'Twere better than to have them of fustian. 
 
 Mrs. 8. Nothing can be better. 
 
 Mr. 8. Except dimity, Mrs. Shandy. 
 
 Mrs. 8. That's best of all, Mr. Shandy. 
 
 Mr. 8. One must not, however, give him his death. 
 
 Mrs. 8. By no means. 
 
 Mr. 8. {after quite a pause). I am, however, resolved on one 
 thing, and that is that he shall have no pockets in his breeches. 
 
 Mrs. 8. There's no occasion for any, Mr. Shandy. 
 
 Mr. 8. I mean in his coat and waistcoat. 
 
 Mrs. 8. I mean so, too. 
 
 Mr. 8. Though if he gets a gig or a top — poor souls, it is a 
 crown and a scepter to children, you know — he should have 
 where to secure it. 
 
 Mrs. 8. Order it as you please, Mr. Shandy. 
 
 Mr. 8. {earnestly). But don't you think it right, my dear 
 Mrs. Shandy ? 
 
 Mrs. 8. Perfectly, Mr. Shandy. If it will only please you it 
 will, of course, be right. 
 
 Mr. 8. {angrily). There's for you ! ''Please me!" You 
 never will distinguish, Mrs. Shandy, nor shall I ever teach you 
 to do it, betwixt a point of pleasure and a point of convenience. 
 Never, never ; no, never 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 25 
 
 IN ¥ANT or A SEEVANT. 
 
 CLARA AUGUSTA. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mr. Marshall and Wife. Snowdrop Washington. 
 Margaret OTlanagan. Mrs. Bunker. 
 
 Katrina Van Follestein. Freddie. 
 
 Scene l.—TIiehreakfast-ToomofMR.andMR^.MA.-R^B.XLL, Mr. 
 Marshall smoking a cigar and enjoying the morning paper 
 with his heels on the mantel. 
 
 Mrs. Marshall {in a complaining tone). Oh, dear, Charles, 
 liow sick and tired I am of housework ! I do envy people 
 who are able to keep help. Here I am tied up to the little 
 hot kitchen from morning till night — stewing, and baking, 
 and frying, and scrubbing, and washing floors, till I am 
 ready to sink ! One thing right over and over again. I wonder 
 why Hood, when he wrote the '' Song of the Shirt," had not 
 kept on and written the Song of the Basement Story. 
 
 Mr. M. {removing his cigar). Is it so very bad, Lily ? Why, 
 I always thought it must be nice work to cook — and washing 
 dishes is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is 
 to pour a little hot water on 'em and give 'em a flirt over with 
 a towel. 
 
 Mrs. M. That's all you men know about it : it is the hardest 
 work in the world ? I always hated it. I remember, when I 
 was a little girl, I always used to be taken with the headache 
 when mother wanted me to wash the dishes. And then she'd 
 dose me with rhubarb. Ugh ! how bitter it was ; but not half 
 so bitter as washing dishes in boiling water in a hot kitchen in 
 the middle of August ! 
 
 Mr. 31. {meditatively taking his feet from the mantel). I made 
 a lucky sale this morning, and saved a cool three hundred. I 
 had intended giving you a new silk, but I'll do better — I'll hire 
 you a girl. How will that suit ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh, what a darling ? I would kiss you if you 
 hadn't been smoking, and my collar weren't quite so fresh. I 
 
26 PKESCOTt's PliAIN DIAIiOGIJES. 
 
 am afraid I shall muss it. But you are a good soul, Charlie ; 
 and I shall be so happy. Do you really mean it ? 
 
 Mr, M. To he sure. 
 
 Mrs. M. Wont Mrs. Fitzjones die of envy ? She puts her 
 washing out, and she's always flinging that in my face. I guess 
 the boot will be on the other foot now ! I wonder \vhat she'll 
 say when she runs in of a morning to see what I'm cooking, 
 and finds me in the parlor hem-stitching a handkerchief, and 
 my maid attending to things in the kitchen ? But where is a 
 girl to be had ? Will you go to the intelligence office ? 
 
 Mr. M. No ; I don't approve of intelligence offices. I will 
 advertise. Bring me a pen and ink, Lily. 
 
 Mrs. M. {bringing the articles). You wont say that to me any 
 more, Charles. It will be, " Biddy, my good girl, bring me the 
 writing implements." Wont it be nice? Just like a novel. 
 They always have servants, you know. 
 
 Mr. M. What, the novels ? 
 
 Mrs. M. No ; the people in them. Are you writing the ad- 
 vertisement ? Bp sure and say that no one need apply except 
 experienced persons. I want no green hands about my kitchen. 
 
 Mr. M. {reads from, the paper what he has been writing), 
 ** Wanted, by a quiet family, a girl to do general housework. 
 None but those having had experience need apply. Call at No. 
 
 116 B street, between the hours of ten and two." How 
 
 will that answer ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Admirably ! Charles, you ought to have been an 
 editor. You express your ideas so clearly ! 
 
 Mr. M. Thank you, my dear, thank you. I believe I Jiave 
 some talent for expressing my meaning. But I am going down 
 town now, and will have this advertisement inserted in the 
 Herald, and by to-morrow you can hold yourself in readiness to 
 receive applicants. By-bye. {goes out.) 
 
 Mrs. M. {alone). If it isn't the most charming thing ! Wont 
 the Fitzjoneses and Mrs. Smith be raving? Mrs. Smith has got 
 a bound girl, and Mrs. Fitzjones puts out her washing ; but I 
 am to have a regular servant ! I shall get a chance to practice 
 my music some now. Dear me — how red my hands are 1 
 {looks at them) I must get some cold cream for them ; one's 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 27 
 
 hands sliow so on tlie wliite keys of a piano. I'll go and open 
 tliat piano now, and dust it. It must be dreadfully out of tune. 
 But I'll have it tuned as soon as ever I get that girl fairly initi- 
 ated into my way of doing work, {goes out.) 
 
 Scene II. — Mrs. Mabshall awaiting the coming of" appU- 
 cants." A furious ring at tlie front door lell. 
 
 Mrs, M. {peeping tJirougli the Uinds). Dear me ! I wonder 
 who's coming ! A person applying for the situation of servant 
 would not be likely to come to the front door. I can just see 
 the edge of a blue-silk flounce, and a streamer of red ribbon on 
 the bonnet. I'll go and see who it is. {opens the door^ and a 
 stout Irish girl, gaudily dressed, with an eye-glass, and a water- 
 fall of enormous dimensions, pushes ly her, and entering the 
 'parlor, seats herself in the rocking-chair.) 
 
 Mrs. M. To what am I indebted for this visit ? 
 
 Irisli Girl. It looks well for the like of yees to ask ! It's the 
 leddy what's wanting a young leddy to help in the wurrk that 
 I'm after seeing. 
 
 Mrs. M. {with dignity). I am that person, if you please. 
 What may I call your name ? 
 
 Irish Girl. Me name's Margaret O'Flanagan, though some 
 people has the impudence to call me Peggy ; but if ever the 
 likes of it happens agin I'll make the daylight shine into 'em 
 where it never dramed of shining before. What may your 
 name be, mum ? 
 
 Mrs. M. My name is Marshall. I am in want of a servant. 
 
 Margaret. Sarvint, is it ? Never a bit of a sarvint will I be 
 for anybody ! The blud of my f orefathy would cry out against 
 it. But I might have ixpected it from the appearance of yees. 
 Shure, and I'd no other thought but ye was the chambermaid. 
 Marshall, is it? Holy St. Patrick ! why that was the name of 
 the man that was hung in County Cork for the murthering of 
 Dennis McMurphy, and he had a nose exactly like the one f ore- 
 ninst your face, {a second ring at the door. Mes. Marshall 
 ushers In a stolid faced German girl, and an over-dressed colored 
 lady. They take seats on the sofa.) 
 
28 pbescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 German Girl. Ish dis tlie place mit tlie tlie woman wliat 
 wants a girl in her housework that was put into de paper day 
 pefore to-morrow ? 
 
 Mrs. M, Yes, I am the woman. What is your name ? 
 
 German Girl, Katrina Yan Fo]lenstein. I can do leetle of 
 most everything. I can bake all myself, and bile, and fry ; and 
 makes sourkrout — oh, sphlendid ! And I sphanks the children 
 as well as their own mudders. 
 
 Marg, If ye'll condescend to lave that dirty Dutchman, young 
 leddy, I'll be afther asking ye a few questions ; and then if ye 
 don't shute me I can be laving. Me time is precious. Is them 
 the best cheers in yer house ? 
 
 Mrs. M, They are. 
 
 Marg. Holy Vargin ! Why, mum, I've been used to having 
 better cheers than them in me own room, and a sofy in me 
 kitchen to lay me bones on when they're took aching. Have 
 ye got a wine cellar ? 
 
 Mrs. M. (indignantly). No ! We are temperance people. 
 
 Marg. Oh, botheration ! Then ye'll niver do for me, at all 
 at all ? It's wine I must have every day to keep me stummach 
 in tune, and if Barney O'Grath comes in of an evening I should 
 die of mortification if I didn't have a drop of something to 
 trate him on. And about the peanny. It's taking lessons I 
 am, meself, and if it's out of kilter, why, it must be fixed at 
 once. I never could think of playing on a instrument that was 
 ontuned. It might spile me voice. 
 
 Mrs. M. I want no servants in my house who are taking 
 music lessons. I hire a girl to do my work — not to dictate to 
 me, and sit in the parlor. 
 
 Marg. Ye don't hire me. No mum ! Not by a long walk. 
 It's not Margaret O'Flanigan that'll be hosted round by an old 
 sharp-nosed crayter like yeself, wid a mole on yer left cheek, 
 and yer waterfall made out of other folks' hair ! The saints 
 be blessed, me own is an illegant one — and never a dead head 
 was robbed for to make it ! 'Twas the tail of me cousin 
 Jimmy's red horse — rest his soul ! 
 
 Mrs. M. {pointing to the door). You can leave the house, Miss 
 O' Flanagan. You wont suit me. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 29 
 
 Marg. And you wont shute me. I wouldn't work work with 
 ye for a thousand dollars a week ! It's not low vulgar people 
 that Margaret O'Flanagan associates with. Good-bye to ye ! I 
 pity the girl ye gets. May the saints presarve her — and not a 
 drop of wine in the house ! (Margaket goes out.) 
 . Mrs, M. Well, Katrina, are you ready to answer a few ques- 
 tions ? 
 i Katrina, Yah ; I is. 
 
 Mrs. M. Are you acquainted with general housework ? 
 
 Kat, Nix ; I never have seen that shinneral. I know Shin- 
 neral Shackson, and Shinneral Grant, but not that one to speak 
 of! 
 
 Mrs. M. I intended to ask if you are used to doing work in 
 the kitchen. 
 
 Kat, Yaw, I sees. Dat ish my thrade. 
 
 Mrs. M. Can you cook ? 
 
 Ko^t. Most people, what bees shenteel, keeps a cook. 
 
 Mrs. M. I do not. I shall expect you to cook. Can you 
 wash ? 
 
 Kat. Beeples that ish in de upper-crust puts their washing 
 out. 
 
 Mrs, M. Can you make beds, and sweep ! 
 
 Kat. The dust of the fodders sthuif s up my head, what has 
 got one leetle giutar into it. Most beeples keeps a chamber- 
 maid. Now, I wants to ask you some tings. You gits up in 
 morning, and gits breakfast, of course ? It makes mine head 
 ache to git up early. And you'll dust all the furnitures, and 
 schrub the kittles, and your goot man will wash the floors, and 
 pump the water, and make the fires, and 
 
 Mrs. M, yVe shall do no such thing. What an insolent 
 wretch 1 You can go at once. I've no further use for you. 
 You wont suit. 
 
 Kat, (retreating). Mine krout ! what a particular vomans. 
 
 Colored Lady. Wall, missis, specks here's jest de chile for 
 ye. What wages does you gib ? and what is yer pollyticks ? 
 
 Mrs. M. What is your name — and what wages do you expect ? 
 
 Colored Lady. My name is Snowdrop Washington, and I 
 specks five dollars a week if I do my own washing, but if it is 
 
30 PRESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGI7:6:S. 
 
 put out to de waslierwoman's wid de rest of de tings, den I 
 takes off a quarter. And it's best to have a fair understanding 
 now, in de beginning. I'm very particular about my after- 
 noons. Tuesdays I studies my cataplasin and can't be 'sturbed ; 
 Wednesdays I goes to see old Aunt Sally Gumbo, what's got de 
 spine of de back ; Thursdays I allers takes a dose of lobeely for 
 me stummuch, and has to lay abed ; and Fridays I ginerally 
 walks out wid Mr. Sambo Snow, a fren of mine — and in none 
 of deni cases can I be 'sturbed. And I shall spect you to find 
 gloves for me to do de work in ; don't like to sile my hands. 
 
 Mi'S. M. I want to hire a girl to work— every day — and every 
 hour in the day. 
 
 Snowdrop. The laws-a-massy ! what a missis ! Why, in dat 
 case dis chile haint no better off dan wite trash ! Ketch Snow- 
 drop Washington setting in dat pew ! Not dis niggea* ! I wish 
 you a berry lubly morning ! [goes out, and a woman clad in 
 widoio's iceeds, and a little hoy, enter.) 
 
 Woman {in a brisk tone). Are you the person that wants to 
 hire help ? Dear me, don't I smell onions ! I detest onions ! 
 Only vulgar people eat 'em ! Have your children had the 
 measles ? Because I never could think of taking Freddie where 
 he might be exposed to that dreadful disease. Freddie, my 
 love, put down that vase. If you should break it, you might 
 cut yourself with the pieces. Have you a dog about the house, 
 marm ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, we have. 
 
 Woman in Black. Good gracious ! he must be killed then ! 
 I shouldn't see a bit of comfort if Freddie was where there was 
 a dog. The last words my dear lamented husband said to me 
 were these : "Mrs. Bunker, take care of Freddie." Bunker's 
 my name, marm. Have you a cow ? 
 
 Mrs. M. We have not. 
 
 Mrs. Bunker. How unfortunate ! Well, I suppose you can 
 buy one. Freddie depends so much on his new milk ; and so 
 do I. How many children have you ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Three. 
 
 Mrs. B. Good gracious ! what a host ! I hope none of them 
 have bad tempers, or use profane language. I wouldn't have 
 
prescott's plain dialoques. 31 
 
 Freddie associate with them for the world if they did. He's a 
 perfect cherub in teraper. My darling, don't pull the cat's tail ! 
 she may scratch you. 
 
 Mrs. If. You need not remain any longer, Mrs. Bunker. I do 
 not wdsh to employ a maid with a child. 
 
 Mrs. B. Good heavens ! {indignantly) Whoever saw such a 
 hard-hearted wretch ! Object to my darling Freddie ! Did I 
 ever expect to live to see the day when the offspring of my 
 beloved Jeremiah would be treated in this way ? I'll not stay 
 another moment in the house with such an unfeeling monster ! 
 Come, Freddie, {goes out. Mes. Marshall closes the d^oor and 
 locks it.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Gracious I if this is the way of having a servant, lam 
 satisfied. I'll do my own work till the end of the chapter ! 
 There's another ring ; but I* won't answer it — not I. I'll make 
 believe I'm not at home. Ring away, if it's any satisfaction to 
 you ! It do£sn't hurt me. 
 
 AU AWrUL MTSTEEY. 
 
 FRANK S. FINN. 
 
 FOR TWO :m:ales az^d two females. 
 
 ScEXE. — A plain apartment, Mr. and Mrs. Goodenough 
 discovered, dressed in street costume. Betsey Maria adjust- 
 ing Mrs. Goodexough's shawl. 
 
 Mr$. Goodenoiigh. Xow, Betsey Maria, you are sure you'll 
 not be afraid to remain here while we are absent ? 
 
 Bet^y. I'm not at all timersome. missus. 
 
 Mr, Goodenoiigh. What is there to harm the girl ? 
 
 Mrs. G. Xothing that I am aware of, but in these times no 
 m.ortal beings are safe. We hear of so many tramps entering 
 people's houses — of so many unknown and promiscuous individ- 
 uals dealing in wholesale murders — of so many unprincipled, 
 
32 psescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 misguided men abducting female loveliness and innocence that 
 my blood curdles at the very thought until I am often inclined 
 to feel grateful that I am no longer lonely nor innocent. 
 
 Mr. G. Why intimidate the girl ? Your words are enough to 
 terrify any one. 
 
 Betsey. Oh, you needn't feel one bit of fear for me. I ain't 
 intimerdated one speck. There isn't one bit of scare in my 
 whole body. If mauraders break in here to steal the thousands 
 of dollars hid in the house they shall walk over my dead body 
 first. If you come back and see me weltering in cold blood, 
 put an epithet on my tombstone : *' Betsey Maria Scraggs died 
 in doing of her duty, and she always earned her wages." 
 
 Mrs. G. How romantic ! It shall be done ! 
 
 Mr. G. Considering there are no thousands hidden away, I 
 don't think Betsey Maria's courage will be tested in that 
 manner. 
 
 Betsey. If any man comes here with hostile intent or out of 
 tent, to carry me off, I should resist him to the last. 
 
 Mrs. G. But, supposing you couldn't ? 
 
 Betsey. Then I suppose he'd have to run away with me. 
 Wouldn't that be fun ? I'd have my profile in all the illustri- 
 ous papers, and I'd be a sheroine. But, I guess I'm one of the 
 posies that are born to blush unseen. If the young men of 
 good moral character, who infest this village, who might have 
 had my hand and heart for the mere asking, and don't pop the 
 momentous question, there doesn't seem to be much prospect of 
 any one bu'sting open the doors to carry me away by force. 
 Some folks are born to be unappreciated, and I am one of those 
 some folks. Here's the pity ! 
 
 Mr. G. Never despair, Betsey Maria ; your chance will come 
 one of these days — maybe sooner than you think. 
 
 Betsey. I hope so, sir, and the sooner the better. 
 
 Mrs. G. George, dear, if we remain talking we shall be late 
 for the meeting. Are you ready for the walk ? 
 
 Mr^ G. Yes, dear. Keep an eye on the house, Betsey Maria. 
 
 Betsey. I'll keep two eyes on it, sir. It shall not leave the 
 premises ; if it does, it takes me with it. 
 
 \Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Goodenough. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 33 
 
 Betsey. Now ain't they a nice couple! Going to meeting 
 like two souls with, but one merry thought ; two hearts that 
 beat the Dutch. I'm often inclined to wish I lived a double 
 life, for I'm tired of being single. I want a change. It would 
 be so pleasant to have some fond devoted husband say to me 
 fond words, and to boil potatoes for him. I always think it 
 hard work to boil potatoes for others, but to boil potatoes for a 
 beloved spouse would be happiness indeed. I could also say 
 to him, ''Edgardo, dear, are you ready for our walk?" and he 
 could reply, ''Yes, Betsey Maria, darling." Alas! alas ! So 
 much happiness is not to be given me. (a knock at the door) 
 Surely that was a knock I heard. I'm all a- tremble. Vslij ? 
 Can it mean me? Who knows? Listen, {another knock) I 
 don't know whether fate walks right in or stops to knock at 
 the door. I'll go see. Betsey Maria is ready for anything. 
 {opens door. Enter Pat, icith a large box on Ids shoulder. He 
 puts box on floon' and then whispers to Betsey.) 
 
 Pat. It's for Mr. Goodenough. Keep mum about it. It^s a 
 saycret, and you're not even to tell your young man I brought 
 it here. 
 
 Betsey. I haven't got any ^ung man. 
 
 Pat. Here's the pity ! 
 
 Betsey. Now, isn't it ? It's a burning shame. I suppose it's 
 because I'm as homely as a scarecrow and look like a Hindoo 
 that I haven't the faintest shadow of the sign of a young man, 
 
 Pat. Homely ? Faith, you look as swate as the flowers in 
 May. You're as pretty as a twenty dollar chromo, and a man 
 would sooner lose his dinner than miss the brightness of those 
 grand eyes that 
 
 Betsey. Don't say any more, please. It's quite over- coming, 
 and I'm not used to it. I suppose it's a case of love at first sight, 
 that we read about in the story papers. 
 
 Pat. Faith an' it looks very much like that same. 
 
 Betsey {aside). He's a very nice-looking young man, and he 
 does expressify himself sweetly and show such good taste ! 
 Can this be fate ? I will accept it as such, {direct) It must be 
 awftil nice for some girls to have a young fellow to talk to 
 them in that wav. 
 
34 prescott's pijAin dialogues. 
 
 Pat. I'd talk hat way all day to you, if it wasn't for oue 
 thing. 
 
 Betsey. And what's to hinder ? 
 
 Pat. I'm a married man. 
 
 Betsey {aside). Good-bye, fate ! Down again topples one of 
 my air castles, {direct) About this box ! What's in it ? 
 
 Pat. Can you kape a saycret ? 
 I Betsey. Yes, indeed. 
 
 Pat. Faith, so can I. I was told not to tell, and faith I'll 
 not tell, for I don't know meself loliat is in it. 
 
 Betsey. And I must be secret about it ? 
 
 Pat. As the grave. Here is a note you're to give your 
 master, and maybe he'll tell you the full particulars. 
 
 Betsey. I'm not at all curious to know. If you was to try 
 to tell me I'd stop up my ears. If I want to know I could ask 
 Mr. Goodenough, but I don't want to know. Other folks' busi- 
 ness is no concern of mine whatsomever, and I don't never 
 wish to pry into no person's business. You've no idea what- 
 ever what's in that box ? 
 
 Pat. Faith, my jewel, I never had an idea. 
 
 Betsey. And you can't even guess ? 
 
 Pat. I guess it's something that's to be kept private or I'd 
 have been told. 
 
 Betsey. I was only about to remark that, if you did know 
 and wanted to unburden your conscience, you might tell me, 
 for I'd never tell. I don't want to know, but I'd be willing to 
 listen if it v/ould relieve your mind. 
 
 Pat. Faith, I belave I'll kape my conscience and not trouble 
 you with the information I know nothing about myself. 
 Good-avening to ye. \_Exit Pat. 
 
 Betsey. You needn't be in such a hurry. 
 
 Re-enter Pat. 
 
 Pat. Don't let your curiosity get ahead of you, me darlint. 
 Don't try to open the box, for there may be an infernal machine 
 inside of it. I don't know as there is. I don't know anything 
 at all at all. But, have a care and don't open the box. 
 
 [Exit Pat. 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 35 
 
 Betsey. Well, lie needn't have been so uppisli about it. 
 But I suppose it's my fate to be snubbed, and I ought to be 
 used to it by this time. I wont open that box because I can't. 
 I'd like to know what's in this note. V»"hy, it isn't sealed, 
 so it's my duty to read it. It may be matter of life and death. 
 {opens the note tcliich Pat ga^cG her, and reads : " Dear Sir, I 
 now send you, securely packed in a box, the murdered Mr. 
 Ackerman, and I think you will acknowledge that I have done 
 the work well. Your wife's suggestion as to where the cuts 
 should be is admirable. I hope you will find your work a pro- 
 fitable one." 
 
 Am I in my sober seventeen senses ? Am I under a murder- 
 er's roof ? Does the body of a poor murdered innocent man lie 
 in that box not far from me, cut up like sassage meat ? Xo 
 wonder the missus said she was not innocent ! It was she who 
 gave orders where the cuts were to be ! Can they have gone 
 back on human nature and become cannibals ? Oh, dear, I'm 
 all of a tremble ! It's getting late at night and I feel lonely. 
 Supposing the dead hian in that ere box should get up and ask 
 me to put him together again ? I want to holler right out, but 
 I can't. My tongue seems frozen to the roof of my mouth ; 
 but I will defend myself to the last drop of my blood. Oh, 
 how I wish I had my life insured ! {seizes an umbrella, opens it 
 and retiring to the other side, sits and holds it before her.) 
 
 Enter Mr. and Mrs. Goodexough. 
 
 Mr. G. Well, Betsey Maria, we have returned. The meet- 
 ing was adjourned, for dear Mr. Homelove was too ill to 
 
 Betsey {looking oxer her umbrella). Back, you hypercritical 
 wretches ! Don't ccme any nigher unto me. I have found 
 you out ! Your dread secret is knov\m unto me. Your mask 
 has been stripped oif, and you remain like white sepulchres, 
 full of dead men'fg bones. Yes, sir, bones ! Yes, ma'am, 
 bones ! 
 
 Mrs. G. What is the matter with you, Betsey Maria ? Are 
 you going crazy ? 
 
 Betsey. I don't know ichere I am going, but I would advise 
 
36 PRESCOTT's plain DIAIiOOUES. 
 
 you to go west and, under tlie ever- waving cypress and trailing 
 palm-trees of Nevada, bnry your guilty deeds. As for your 
 home, let it be among the wolves of the forest, or the buzzards 
 of the plains. 
 
 Mrs. Q. Why, I believe the girl is demented. 
 
 Betsey, Hide your guilty face, madam. 'Twas you who 
 spoke about the cuts. Do not bar my way to the door. Let 
 me pass. I am innocent. I was not born to perish on the 
 scaffold. Pay me my wages and I will lock the awful secret 
 in my heart of hearts, and throw away the key. Ill pray for 
 you ; I'll forgive you, and when all the world accuses you, and 
 your guilt stands forth glaring in the light of day, I'll never 
 say one mortal word. So now ! 
 
 Mr. G. I verily believe the girl is going to have a fit. 
 
 Betsey. No, I am not. You'd like me to, so you could have 
 the cutting up of another victim, you wholesale murderers and 
 assassins ! 
 
 Mrs. G. Murderers ! What do you mean ? 
 
 Mr. G. Assassins I Explain yourself ! 
 
 Betsey. Don't your own evil conscience tell you what I mean ? 
 
 Mr. G. No, it doesn't, you idiot ! 
 
 Betsey. I little expected to find you so hardened in crime. 
 Cast your eyes over this room and you will see a box. Within 
 that box you will discover all that remains of the murdered 
 Mr. Ackerman, with the cuts as suggested by you, madam. 
 
 Mr. G. (laugliing). Ha, ha, ha ! the secret's out, then ? 
 
 Betsey. Yes. I have diskivered ye. 
 
 Mr. G. Would you like to have me open the box and show 
 you the hody of the murdered Mr. Ackerman ? 
 
 Betsey. No, no, no ! Not for worlds. You'd like to drag 
 me in as an accomplish. I've no wish to gaze on the features 
 of one in the bud and blossom of his youth cut down in the 
 very flower of his manhood by the assassin's dagger. 
 
 Mrs. G. If you do not undeceive the girl, she will be raving 
 about murder to the passers-by. 
 
 Mr. G. The murdered Mr. Ackerman proves to be the name 
 of a book I have been writing, and in that box are bound 
 copies of the book. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 37 
 
 Betsey. What ! {springs up, and closing it, throws umhrella 
 aside. ) 
 
 Mr. G. If yoTi doubt my word, I'll open tlie box and you shall 
 see for yourself. 
 
 Betsey. A book. That's too thin ! What about the cuts 
 mentioned in the letter ? 
 
 Mrs. G. The cuts mean the pictures — the wood-cut en- 
 gravings. 
 
 Betsey. Well, I don't see why that man, who brought the 
 box, should have been so very mysterious about it. I do 
 guess I'm a born fool. 
 
 Mr. G. That was the printer's man. He is an odd specimen 
 of humanity. He is never so happy as when playing off a 
 joke on some one. 
 
 Betsey. I thought he lacked brains when he praised my 
 beauty, but now I see it's me that lacked 'em. 
 
 Mr. G. But, how does it happen that you are so well ac- 
 quainted with the contents of the box ? 
 
 Betsey. I — I — read this note. (Jiands Mr. G. the note) You 
 see it was unsealed and that Irishman was so provokingly 
 mysterious about the box that my Vv^oman's curiosity got the 
 better of my senses — there, that's another proof I'm a fool — 
 and I opened the note and read. Oh, my, but I've been fright- 
 ened. If you hadn't come just as you did I'd a' gone to the 
 door and hollered bloody murder, {re-enter Pat icith a roll of 
 manuscript under his arm) Oh, you outrageous Irishman — 
 you inhuman flatterer — you — you — {grasps iinibrella and rushes 
 at Mm.) 
 
 Pat. Xow be aisy, darlint, wid the eye of a daisy and the 
 voice of the lark, for it's mesilf have towld the bist-lookin' 
 printer b'y in the office about ye, and he wishes me to be axin' 
 if ye've any objictions to his usin' yer face for copy fur a 
 poster fur a thrashing machine wid a patent attachment 
 
 Betsey. I'll patent attachment ye. {goes at him icith um- 
 hrella ; he drops manuscript and starts for door.) 
 
 Pat. Lovely crathur ! {Exit. 
 
 Betsey. Too much for Betsey. She's a first-class failure. 
 Good-bye. Between Mr. Ackerman and that Irishman there's 
 
db PEESCOTT S PLAIN DIALOGUES. 
 
 just one step, tliat is for Betsey Maria to step out. Adieu i 
 (waves umbrella) Keep my wages to buy a tomb for tlie dead 
 man in tlie box. [Exit. 
 
 Mr, G. Why, tlie girl's crazy. 
 
 Mrs. G. Not at all ! When you cut a woman's pride to 
 the quick you make her hate herself — a fact women only too 
 well understand, but which men rarely, if ever, properly com-{ 
 prehend. A woman's pride comes even before her conscience^ 
 or her honor. Humiliate that pride and you commit the same 
 mistake you make in treading on hot iron. 
 
 Mr. G. Whew ! Live and learn. But who would have 
 thought such a creature had pride to wound ? 
 
 Mrs. G. Betsey is a woman. No woman is so humble or 
 lowly that she cannot be mortified and humiliated. But, don't 
 worry. She'll return soon for her clothes, and then I'll right 
 matters. Let us get dead Mr. Ackerman out of the way and 
 exhibit him to Betsey (Mr. G. picks up box and Mrs. G. picks 
 up roll of manuscript) when she comes, so that the awful mys- 
 tery will be an awful mystery no more. [Exeunt. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 39 
 
 MISS HIGamSOIT'S ¥ILL. 
 
 J. A. BELLOWS. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 Akethusa Wildee,. Miss Snivel. 
 
 Hester Bluestockikg. Agatha IvIartin. 
 
 MiLDWEED Buttermilk. Raphael Angelo. 
 
 LAYfYER Gay. 
 
 Scene. — A parlor in Miss Higginson's house. Agatha dust- 
 ing the chairs. 
 
 Agatha. Well, wlio'd lia' thouglit it ! Miss Meliitable lias 
 walked ofE tlie stage, and here's everybody and more too coming 
 to liear lier ^vill read. I notice they're all precious fond of lier 
 just now, tliougli tliey let lier pretty mucli alone wlien slie 
 was alive. (Jcnocldng) I reckon there's one of the vultures ; it's 
 about time, {goes to the door and admits Miss Snivel and 
 Arethusa.) 
 
 Arethtisa. Ah, my good girl, I suppose you recognize me. I 
 am Miss Arethusa Wilder, the nearest relative of our dear 
 friend who has lately departed. 
 
 Aga. (aside). Yes, mim, I know gou like a book. 
 
 Miss Snivel. Ah, " this life is all a fleeting show ! " Who'd 
 have thought that Mehitable would have been cut oil in her 
 prime ? She v^^as like a rose full blown, and the frost, I might 
 say, nipped it. 
 
 Are. Very true, indeed, dear Miss Snivel ; though I must 
 say, she never suited me on the subject of capstrings. It is a 
 lamentable fact that she was wearing at her sudden departure 
 a headgear with yellow ribbons. 
 
 Hiss 8. Ah, Arethusa, what are capstrings and such vanities ? 
 We live in a vale of tears, and our mortal frames are but hin- 
 drances. 
 
 Aga. (aside). She takes precious care of her mortal frame ; 
 she wont even stir out of doors when it rains. 
 
 Are. My good woman, (to Agatha) you were, if I mistake 
 not, our dear friend's lady in waiting. 
 
40 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Aga. I was her servant, miss, if thafs wliat you mean ; I 
 don't understand Frencli. 
 
 Are. Ah, and probably you know more tlian you're willing 
 to tell about the state of lier mind — ahem ! — in regard to her 
 property, etc. 
 
 Aga. I haven't lived a dozen years in the house without 
 learning a little. 
 
 Are. Just as I supposed. And perhaps you'd not be unwill- 
 ing for a slight compensation 
 
 Aga. I never tell secrets, miss ; not for bribes, leastways. 
 
 Are. {turning away). A low-born rustic ! She evidently 
 does not understand the customs of Parisian society. And {ap- 
 plying her eye-glass) now that I notice her, she really has a 
 green gown. Highly unbecoming. 
 
 Miss 8. Ah, Arethusa, my mind is filled with thoughts that 
 are bitter as wormwood. I think of the day when Mehitable 
 Higginson said to me : '' Sarah Snivel, we are all sinners, and 
 you're the most artful of them all." I forgave her then. I for- 
 give her now, but I can't say that I don't think of it. 
 
 Aga. {aside). What magnanimity ! Perhaps she expects 
 a compensation to the tune of a few thousands. 
 
 Miss 8. I feel as if Mehitable Higginson was a looking down 
 from the clouds, and saying, ''Sarah Snivel, bless you." {she 
 hides her face in her handkerchief.) 
 
 Enter Mildweed Buttebmilk and Hesteh Bluestocking. 
 
 Hester. I protest, Mr. Buttermilk, the poems of Juliana 
 Flayemalive strike me as much more calculated to thrill the 
 hearts of mankind. 
 
 Mildiceed, By no means. Miss Bluestocking. What can equal 
 these soul-stirring lines of M. I. H. P. Huggermugger ? 
 
 " The cat went up a tree, 
 He squinted at the bee ; 
 An artful lover, he 1 " 
 
 In fancy I see that feline quadruped mounting the umbrageous 
 tree, looking f uritively at the droning bee, who flies from flower 
 to flower. Oh, what a picture ! 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 41 
 
 lies. But tlien in my opinion notliing can rival that stanza, 
 ''To a Bug :" 
 
 "Oh, darling bug, 
 Upon my rug, 
 Thee would I hug I " 
 What pathos ! '* hugging a hug ! " All, I beg pardon, my dear 
 Miss Arethusa ! M iss Snivel ! {they all shake hands and sit 
 doicn) Oh, what a shock my nerves have received ! Who is 
 that vulgar woman dusting ? 
 
 Are. You speak with truth, Miss Bluestocking ; she is not 
 one of the elite. In fact, she works for pecuniary consideration . 
 
 Mild. I thought so. She calls to my mind those unique lines 
 of Jeremiah Jones, beginning, 
 
 " A common flower, 
 Kot born in a bower." 
 
 Hes. The quotation is apt ; I've wept over it many times. 
 
 Miss ti. The tears of this world are many, the laughter is 
 small. Fve often been led to think that life has not that value 
 which has been ascribed to it. 
 
 Are. There are certainly many things that are not as we would 
 wish them. I purchased a new muslin yesterday, and found 
 to my dismay that there was a spot as large as the eye of a 
 needle on the elemnth breadth. 
 
 lies. And I, in the work of construing seven hundred and 
 sixty-nine yards of Homer, found it utterly impossible to find 
 the meaning of a certain word. I was in despair. 
 
 Mild. Still if our Vv^orthy friend, Miss Higginson 
 
 Are. (aside). If she leaves her property to me, as she is 
 certain to do, I will eclipse all rivals at Mrs. Jimjam's party. 
 
 Miss S. {aside). If I get the money, I will have my hand- 
 kerchiefs marked with black stripes five inches and a half 
 broad, {knocldng. Agatha admits Raphael Ai>gelo.) 
 
 Raphael. I've left my great picture of '' The Soul in Despair, 
 or The Blackberry Hollow," and come to pay my respects. 
 
 Aga. {aside). His respects to the idHI, perhaps. He might 
 as well have staid at home. 
 
 Hap. You oiiCnd my sense of vision, good woman. AYould 
 you be so kind as to remove yourself from my presence ? You 
 do not afford an attractive picture. 
 
42 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Aga. Attractive or not, I believe I shall stay and hear the 
 will. 
 
 Rap. Ah, ladies ! ah, Mr. Buttermilk ! we are here on a most 
 sad errand. 
 
 Miss 8. Sad, indeed ! You never said a truer word. 
 
 Eap. I picture Miss Higginson in her prime ; I picture her 
 when she sported among the heather ; I picture her as a 
 babe 
 
 Aga. You've got a very fertile mind, I think, sir. You must 
 have been rather small in those days. 
 
 Mild. The matter of fact element in that girl is distressing. 
 How could Miss Higginson have endured her ? 
 
 Hes. How, indeed ! But our friend was a rough diamond, 
 she had peculiarities of manner. 
 
 Aga. {aside). Ah, that she had ! She despised every one of 
 you, and rated you at just what you were worth. 
 
 Bap. As I was saying, I picture her as a cliild ; I now picture 
 her, I might say, in her grave. 
 
 Miss So Oh, and to think of the number of times she and I 
 .lave made sage tea together! Once she gave it to Molly 
 Parsons ; I told her it would do no good. But our friend had 
 a will of her own. 
 
 Are. That she had. And yet I always loved it — even when 
 she told me I was '' a vain chit and fond of furbelows ! " 
 
 Bap. She has often reminded me of a picture I have seen, 
 •■' Patience on a Broomstick." It is very touching. 
 
 Aga. {aside). I should think it would be ! 
 
 Mild. I have written a little poem about our friend. If you 
 would like to hear it — ahem ! ah I 
 
 Hes. Oh, pray read it ! I'm passionately fond of poetry : it 
 is so ethereal. 
 
 Mild. I have a bad cold, {clearing Ms throat) a terrible cold ! 
 
 Miss 8. I recommend Shagbark Bitters ; they cured Hannah 
 Haines . 
 
 Mild. Still, if you would really like to hear it, I will read it. 
 It has only one verse, but it is pavDum in multo, which is Latin 
 for *' nothing in a great deal," {reads affectedly :) 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 43 
 
 " Oh, Mistress Higginson, thy star is set, 
 
 We weep for thee, we weep, we weep ; 
 I feel as one whose heart might break, 
 
 I soon shaU twnb'e in a heap ! " 
 
 Res. Oh, be-utiful ! be-ntiful ! Mr. Buttermilk, you must 
 send it to tlie Ssmi-iceekly Peashooter. (Agatha lauglis. ) 
 
 Mild. \Yoman, wliat mean you by tliis inane laugliter ? 
 
 Aga. Oil, sir, I couldn't lielp it ; it was so funny wliere yo:i 
 talked about falling in a lieap. 
 
 Rap. Slie has no feeling, no sensibilities. I saw tlie pict:Tr3 
 in a moment ; I could paint it easily. 
 
 lies. K\i, Mr. Angelo, slie belongs to the lower order ci 
 civilization. As Ilezekiali Softsoap justly observes, " somo n.\i 
 born to plougli, and some to sing, some to delve, and sonic ':) 
 soar." It is for us to soar, to sing, like — periiaps I sliould be 
 justified in saying, like tlie lark. 
 
 Enter Lawyek Gay. 
 
 Laicyer. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, good morn- 
 ing ; solemn duty, solemn duty. Suppose you've all come to 
 bear tbe will ? 
 
 Miss S. Tbis world is full of partings and tears. Yes, Law- 
 yer Gay, we've come to bear tbe last will and testament of 
 Meliitable Higginson. (Lawyeh sits cloicii, taJces out papers 
 from a bag, puts on spectacles, tcipes Ms forehead^ etc.) 
 
 Are. I must say, I feel uneasy ; 1 really wish I'd been a little 
 more polite to tbe old lady Vv^ben sbe was alive. But sbe bad 
 no taste whatsoever ; sbe v/ore blue and green indiscrimi- 
 nately. 
 
 M'dd. Ab, brothers and sisters, such a life as that Vv-oman led ! 
 When I recall the noble vrords she used to me at the beginning 
 of the war, I am quite overcom.e. Said she, ''You're a con- 
 temptible coward, Mlldweed Buttermilk, staying at home 
 writing poetry, and letting others do the work." Ah, she was 
 a noble creature ! 
 
 Hap. Vv'hen I remember what she said about my great pic- .. 
 ture, ''The Bandits of the Kocky Pass." my feelings are too 
 
4:4: pbescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 mucli for me. Said she, *' Tliis is a mere daub, Raphael 
 Angelo, a miserable daub." Sucb. a mind as that woman bad ! 
 
 Hes. I tbink none of you appreciated it more tban myself. 
 I loved ber as a sister, or I migbt say, as a mother. (Lawyer 
 Gay 7ias meanwliiU opened tlie will and gone over it ; he sud- 
 denly starts up) 
 
 Law. Goodness gracious I What's this ? [all start from their 
 chairs.) 
 
 Miss 8. Oh, you've given me such a turn ! What is it ? Tell 
 me at once. (Arethusa snatches the paper y reads, and shrieks.) 
 
 Are. Oh, the wretch ! the stony-hearted sinner ! Where is 
 my fan ; my smelling bottle ? She has left her whole property 
 to that plebeian upstart, Agatha Martin. (Agatha stares, loolcs 
 confused, cries, "You don't say!" {throws her apron over her 
 heojd and runs out. ') 
 
 Hes. Oh, to think of it ! She must have had a softening of 
 the brain ; and yet I wrote to her every day during her illness : 
 what can it mean ? I was preparing a short sketch of her life 
 for the Pictorial Album, but — now — it — will — never — be — com- 
 pleted ! (runs out crying) 
 
 Rap. And to think that I painted her likeness and called it 
 Heroism ! That it should come to this ! '' Oh, what a fall 
 v/as there, my countrymsn ! '* Life is a delusion ; truth has 
 departed ; Raphael Angelo's miserable career is over ; he lias 
 gone, he has gone — where ? Echo answers '' Nowhere ! " (Jie 
 rushes out) 
 
 Are. Ah, I shan't get over this for a week ! And I can't 
 buy — my — pink — tarletan — for Mrs. Jim jam's ! \^Exit crying. 
 
 Mild. It is truly lamentable, Miss Snivel. It recalls forcibly 
 to my mind those exquisite lines of Louisa Bulfinch ; perhaps 
 you know them ? 
 
 " When yon catch a linnet—" 
 
 Miss 8. Who'd a thought Mehitable Higginson would have 
 played so false ? I made sage tea with her forty times if I 
 did once ; and as for preserving raspberries and making cur- 
 sant wine, there's no knowing how often we've done that to- 
 gether. This world is far from being what it should be ! 
 enou2:li and more than enon.^di. If he rxave them more ho v/ 
 
PKESCOTT'S PTiATN DIALOGUES. 45 
 
 LsEwyer Gay, give me your arm. I feel a sinking and a fail- 
 ing ; pray give me your arm. {they go out, ) 
 
 Law. {looking hack). Rather a strange thing, eh? Miss 
 Higginson's will ! 
 
 THE GOOD THEY DID, 
 
 PRANK S. FINN. 
 
 CHAEACTERS. 
 
 Miss Rughooker. Mrs. Teasipper. 
 
 Mrs, Worth. Mrs. Gaddler. 
 
 Miss Spindle, Mrs. Bonton. 
 
 The scene represents an apartment. All the characters^ with the 
 exception of Mrs. Gaddler, discovered sewing, knitting or 
 cutting cloth. 
 
 Miss Hughooker. Well, ladies, our work goes on bravely, and 
 no one can find fault with our attempts. The amount of pen- 
 wipers and pincushions we have manufactured cannot be 
 counted. Captain Markham tells me that his vessel will soon 
 sail for Sennegambia, and will take a box of these useful arti- 
 cles to the shores of Africa to assist in the work of civilizing 
 the heathen savages. 
 
 Mrs. Worth. I am scarcely satisfied with what we have done 
 and are doing. I think we should look after the welfare of the 
 heathens we have nearer home. I am sure there are plenty of 
 worthy objects all around us whom we could help — plenty who 
 are almost dying for lack of that help. I am inclined to believe 
 in home missions. 
 
 Miss Spindle. You are behind the age we live in, my dear. 
 I am sure we have had lots of notices given us in the news- 
 papers recounting our numerous benefactions. '* 'Tis sweet to 
 be remembered," as the poet beautifully expresses it. 
 
 Mrs. W. The question that arises in my mind is just this : 
 Is our society doing as much good as it should ? Are we work- 
 ing for applause or to relieve the necessities of the suffering ? 
 
 Miss li. Of course we want to have a good time when we 
 
46 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 meet together, and I think that no one should find fault with 
 what we do. 
 
 3£rs. W. I do not want to find fault, but T think we ought to 
 work more for the poor and destitute of Slime Alley ; we know 
 that thej are really in need of decent clothing, but we do not 
 know whether the inhabitants of Sennegambia are in need of 
 pincushions and penwipers. 
 
 3Irs. Teasipper. Not know whether the heathens of Senne- 
 gambia, who wallow in the mire and dirt of idolatry, and 
 who know nothing of the lights of Christianity and civiliza- 
 tion, are in need of penwipers and pincushions ? Would our 
 good friend, Mrs. Worth, desire to retard progress ? Would 
 she withhold the blessings and aid of civilization ? Would she 
 deny their suffering, hungry and thirsty souls the comforts of 
 penwipers and pincushions ? Not want them, indeed ! Hasn't 
 Captain Markham repeatedly said that they haven't any? 
 
 Mrs. TFo The inhabitants of Slime Alley haven't any ice- 
 creams, but that doesn't follow that we should send them any. 
 
 Mrs. T. Since our co-worker, Mrs. Worth, is so attracted to 
 Slime Alley and its immaculate inhabitants, why doesn't the 
 good lady take up her residence there ? 
 
 Miss Bj. Ladies, ladies, no quarreling. Let discord cease to 
 prevail and harmony once more reign„ My motto is just this : 
 those who prefer to work for Slime Alley, let them do so, and 
 those who prefer to do the same for Sennegambia, let them do 
 it. For my own part I am a Sennegambian. 
 
 Mrs. Bonton. My dears, I go in for fashion. If fashion dic- 
 tates a thing, her votaries can but follow where she leads. 
 Sennegambia is just now the fashion, and we must Sennegam- 
 bianize. 
 
 Miss 8. I agree mth you fully. When the last great uncivil 
 war took place it was the fashion to send the soldiers some red- 
 flannel undergarments. Then it was considered the style 
 for the ladies to write their own names on a slip of paper and 
 pin the same to the clothes they sent. Of course it was the 
 fashion for the soldiers to write gushing letters to the senders. 
 I sent some clothing with my name and post office address to a 
 soldier. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 47 
 
 Mrs. T. Bless us, if Miss Spindle liasn't liad a romance in 
 lier life ! Did you get a gushing answer ? 
 
 IIlss S. No, lie didn't gusli. I never lieard from it. 
 
 Mrs. T. Wliat do you suppose was tlie reason ? 
 
 Miss S. I don't know, unless it had gone out of fashion to 
 gush. I was very particular to inclose my tintype too. 
 
 Miss E. (aside to Mrs. Bonton). Poor creature ! Her fea- 
 tures probably scared. the poor fellow. 
 
 Mrs. W. It is all well for those who have the means 
 to follow Dame Fashion's whims and caprices. But those who 
 have nought but rags to put on cannot follow them. 
 
 Mrs. B. Pray, my dear, don't mention such things as rags — 
 the very name of such awful things makes me feel faint. If I 
 am ever compelled to v/ ear them I shall retire to the privacy of 
 my room and expire from very mortification. But such a thing 
 as my ever having anything to do vv^ith rags is an unheard of 
 impossibility. 
 
 Mrs. TF. Not so very impossible, for the very finest note- 
 paper you malvo use of is made from rags. 
 
 Mrs. B. If that is really so I shall always write with kid 
 gloves on. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Gaddler, liurriedly. 
 
 Mrs. Gaddler. Excuse me, ladies, for being so late. I am 
 all out of breath in hurrying so. 
 
 Mrs. B. Don't do it. my dear. It is decidedly unfashionable 
 to be out of breath, and positively contrary to all laws of eti- 
 quette to be in a hurry. 
 
 Miss JR. What is the cause of your excitement ? 
 
 3Irs. G. Well, you see, as I was coming along Main street, I 
 saw a crowd, and naturally wishing to know more about the 
 cause of such a gathering, I made one of it. It proved to be a 
 poor girl fallen on the sidewalli — ' ' drunk, " somebody said she 
 was ; others said it was exhaustion. \ 
 
 Mrs. W. How shocking ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Hov/ positively improper it was for her to faint 
 away in the public streets ! She ought to have had more mod- 
 esty and had h^r svv-oon in some alley where no one v.'^as round. 
 
48 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Mrs. W. (aside). How lieartless ! 
 
 Mrs. G. By the way, Mrs. Bonton, I heard that she works 
 for your husband's stcfi-e and makes shirts. Possibly you may 
 know her. 
 
 Mrs. B. Certainly not. I hope you do not think that I 
 would condescend to know a shop girl ! All I know about 
 them is that my husband pays them exorbitant salaries. They 
 could live on half what he pays them. But then, Augustus 
 dear is so tender-hearted ! If you are very anxious to inform 
 the ladies the name of this creature, you had best tell Mrs. 
 Worth. She is partial to such personages. 
 
 Mrs. G. It was Caroline Vinton. 
 
 Mrs. W. Poor girl ! I know her well. She receives ten 
 cents for making a shirt, and often has to go without food. 
 The shop is several miles from her home and she has to walk, 
 being too poor to pay car hire. Can you wonder at her ex- 
 haustion ? 
 
 Mrs. B. My dear, these creatures are quite used to it, and 
 don't know when they are well off. 
 
 Mrs, W- Ladies, I must beg you to excuse me as T must see 
 after this poor girl myself. My conscience reproaches me be- 
 cause I have not done so before. Good afternoon. [ Exit. 
 
 Miss B. I have a bright idea, ladies. 
 
 Miss 8. {aside). She should be very careful of it, as it is the 
 first she ever had. 
 
 Miss B. Suppose, instead of giving the penwipers and pin- 
 cushions to the Sennegambians, we get up a fair for this girl ? 
 
 Mrs. B. If such is the case, I shall certainly withdraw from 
 the society. I shall not countenance anything of the kind. I 
 consider it a foul aspersion on my dear husband's generosity. 
 Exhaustion indeed ! What right have poor people to be ex- 
 hausted ? 
 
 Miss B. I presume she couldn't help her feelings. 
 
 Mrs. B. Feelings ! There's no possible necessity for poor 
 people having any feelings. 
 
 Miss B. Perhaps if their employers were to pay them more, 
 they wouldn't be so bold as to have feelings. 
 
 Mrs. B. That's an aspersion on my husband. He pays them 
 
pbescott's plain dialogues. 49 
 
 enougli and more than enough. If he gave them more how 
 could I dress as I do, I should like to know ? I did not come, 
 here to be insulted. So now ! {flounces out,) 
 
 Miss 8. Well, if Mrs. Eonton withdraws from our society, I 
 shall feel it to be my bounden duty to do so, too. Mrs. Bontoii 
 is all the fashion, and if I belong to a society that she does not, 
 she will not countenance me at her parties and assemblies, and 
 she does have such eligible young gentlemen attend them. 
 Good-day, ladies ; you are welcome to all I have done for you. 
 
 [Lxit. 
 
 Mrs. T, Poor dear, she's been angling after a husband these 
 thirty years and hasn't caught one yet. But if Mrs. Bonton 
 finds that I belong to a society that she does not, she will get 
 her husband to withdraw his patronage from my husband's 
 store, and they do buy a great deal of cloth from us. Adieu, 
 ladies ; I make you a present of what I have done for the so- 
 ciety. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. G. Well, of all the strange creatures that ever existed 
 those females rather take the premium. Ah ! well, I don't 
 know but it's a good riddance to bad rubbish. Folks do say 
 that Mrs. Bonton was nothing but a poor girl once, herself, 
 and used to go out vrashing by the day. I don't know how 
 that may be, but I've heard it said that she scrimps her ser- 
 vants, and every penny she saves in that way she lays out on 
 her own dress. I don't see what good people get by making 
 such remarks about their neighbors. I think it's always best 
 to be on the safe side and say nothing. 
 
 Miss B. That's my policy to a T. If you can't say any good 
 of a person the best way is to keep silent. 
 
 Mrs. G. Right, my love, as you always are. I have heard — 
 but I can't say how true it is — that Miss Spindle is afraid of 
 Mrs. Bonton because the latter knows something about her 
 that wouldn't be much to Miss Spindle's credit to tell, and she 
 holds that secret over her like the flaming sword of Baalam 
 which was hung by a thread. 
 
 Miss B. Is it so bad as that ? 
 
 Mrs, G. Mind you, I don't say so of my own knowledge ; it's 
 onlv what I have heard. 
 
50 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Miss B, It is singular liow mucli you do hear. 
 
 M7'S. G. That's "because I keep mj ears open. There's noth- 
 ing like having good hearing. And, speaking of that, reminds 
 me that I have heard it said that Mrs. Teasipper chews brandy 
 hops, though she is a member of a flourishing temperance so- 
 ciety. How people will talk ! There ought to be a prohibitory 
 law preventing all this scandal telling. Probably there's as 
 much truth to it as there is to what they say about you. 
 
 Miss B. Have the vile calumniators dared to meddle with 
 my fair fame ? Has the vituperous tongue of scandal dared to 
 cast remarks on my name ? Tell me, my love, what they have 
 said. Let me not dwell in ignorance. 
 
 Mrs. G. You'd never forgive me. 
 
 Miss R. Forgive you ! Why, I would reward you with a 
 thousand kisses for the information. 
 
 Mrs. G. Well, as truth must be told at all times — they say 
 that you buy your complexion at the paint shop — that the very 
 hair on your head is not your own,, because it is not paid for, 
 there being a mortgage on it, and that you • 
 
 Miss B. And you have dared to listen to such scandal ? 
 1 ou have dared to have the audacity to taunt me in my ovy^n 
 house by repeating it ? 
 
 Mrs. G. If you are going to flare up like that, I'm gone. 
 
 [Exiif. 
 
 Miss B. Are there any true friends in this world ? Mrs. 
 W^orth is the only good one among the whole set. She has 
 gone on her errand of mercy, and is doing more practical good 
 than we have done with all our talk. Why shouldn't I go, 
 too? I will. If the nev/gpapers make a comment on our 
 actions, T shall see that there wdll be some truth to their head- 
 ings of the notices of their benefactions, which they style ' • The 
 Good Tliey Did." ' [Ect^it. 
 
PnjESCOTT'S PLAIN DIALOGUES. 51 
 
 MAEEYING POE MOITEY. 
 
 H. E. M'bKIDE. 
 
 CHAEACTERS. 
 
 IiArvrwY Browx. Robert Bruce. Eliza Greely. 
 ScEXE I. — A room in Mrs. White's boarding-house. 
 
 Broicii (looking in Tds pocket-hoolS). Only five dollars in my 
 I)ocIiet, and ten dollars due for board. Aint I in a pretty fix ? 
 I must raise tlie wind somehow ; that's certain ; but the query 
 is, liow am I to do it ? Beside my board bill I liave sundry 
 other little bills that ought to be squared up. I really don't 
 know why it is, but as soon as I get out of money everybody 
 commences dunning me. 
 
 Bruce {outside). Helloi Brown ! 
 
 Brown. Hello yourself ! 
 
 Bruce. Will you let a a fellow come in ? 
 
 Brazen. Come in, of course, and don't stand there hallooing 
 at a fellow when he's in trouble. Come in right away ; I want 
 to ta.lli with you. 
 
 Enter Robert Bruce. 
 
 Bruce. You really want to talk to me, do you ? Well, go 
 ahead. You're talking nearly all the time. If you don't have 
 any one to talk to, you talk to yourself. I think you were in- 
 dulging in that pastime when I came to the door. 
 
 Brown. Well, that's nothing. Somebody has said that all 
 great men talk to themselves, and I believe it's a fact. But, 
 Bob, I wish it to be distinctly understood that I do not consider 
 myself a great man, but perhajDs I will be . a great man some 
 day. There's one thing certain. Bob, I've a great load of trou- 
 ble to bear, and the question naturally arises, how am I going 
 to rid myself of that trouble ; how am I going to pitch the 
 great load from ofE my shoulders, and stand once more in the 
 free light of day a relieved man, a free man, an untrammelled 
 man — a man who feels that a great load has been jerked from 
 oil his shoulders — a man that — ah — ahem ! {pauses.) 
 
52 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Bruce. Well, that's good ! go on. 
 
 Brown, Bob, are you laugliing at me ? Come now, tliat 
 v/ont do. Would you laugh, at one who was floundering in the 
 mud of despondency ? Would you let a smile wreath your lips 
 when a fellow-being was in trouble ? Answer me. Bob. As 
 Shakespeare says, " Let me not burst in ignorance." 
 
 Bruce. No, I wouldn't. How could I laugh at a man when 
 his misery makes him so very eloquent ? I couldn't do it, in- 
 deed. But, Harry, what's the matter now? What new trou- 
 ble have you got into ? 
 
 Brown. I haven't got into any new trouble. I'm in the same 
 old trouble — want of money. 
 
 Bruce. Oh, is that all ? I can lend you an X, if that will get 
 you through. 
 
 Broion. Bob, you're a good old fellow, but I can't take any- 
 thing more from you until I have squared off the old .account. 
 You know I owe you ten now. 
 
 Bruce. Yes, I know ; but you needn't trouble yourself on 
 that score. I can wait. By the way, Harry, have you seen 
 the new boarder yet ? 
 
 Brown. No ; who is he ? 
 
 Bruce. Who is slie, you mean. Her name's Eliza Greely. 
 
 Broicn. A relative of Horace, is she ? 
 
 Bruce. Can't say, indeed. 
 
 Brown. Well, is she pretty ? 
 
 Bruce. No, not killingly beautiful. Wont smash many 
 hearts, I judge. 
 
 Brown. One more question. Bob. Is she rich ? 
 
 Bruce. She is. She told Mrs. White she had a few thou- 
 sands, and asked her where she had better invest. 
 
 Brown, Good ! hurrah ! I'll marry her. 
 
 Bruce, Ha ! ha ! Wait until you see her before you get ex- 
 cited. And then remember that it takes two to make a bargain. 
 Kemember also, 
 
 " It's easier far to like a girl, 
 Than to make a girl like you.'" 
 
 Brown. Well, I'll do my best anyhow ; but stop, is she 
 young ? 
 
pbescott's plain dialogues. 53 
 
 Bruce. About your own age, I sliould say, perhaps younger. 
 
 Brown. Well, that's good so far. Now let's see, how am I 
 to manage ? I'll get an introduction to her to-night, of course, 
 
 Bruce. Oh ! of course you will. And then what next? 
 Will you propose before you go to bed ? 
 
 Brown. Xo, Bob ; that vrould be rushing things. !N"o, no ; 
 I'll take time and work carefully. As old Hopkins used to say, 
 ' ' I'll make haste slowly. " 
 
 BrucQ. And perhaps in the meantime you'll have the pleas- 
 ure of seeing the fair lady carried off by some fellow who makes 
 ]i2iSte fastly . 
 
 Brown. I'll be on the lookout for all such fellows. 
 
 Bru4ie. Perhaps the lady is engaged. 
 
 Brown. Well, to be sure, {with a 'puzzled air) I never 
 thought of that ; but if she is, I'll find out before I ask the 
 momentous question. I say, Bob, wouldn't you enter the ring 
 yourself if it wasn't for your darling little Alice ? 
 
 Bruce. I might ; I don't know ; wiser men have done more 
 foolish things. 
 
 Brown, Well, it's all arranged ! I'll marry the new boarder, 
 and then with our few thousands in our pocket we'll laugh at 
 poverty. We'll " walk the water like a thing of life," or, 
 rather, like two things of life. We'll live in a big house, and 
 have a coach, and servants, and horses, and everything we 
 want. In short, we'll be as happy as the day is long. I wish 
 it was night. I am anxious for the introduction. Roll swiftly 
 round, ye wheels of time. Make everything scatter, and bring 
 the night with all possible speed. I'm in haste. Fm all in a 
 shiver of expectation and excitement. 
 
 Bruce. Keep cool, Harry ; the night will come soon enough. 
 I must be off now, but before I go allow me to wish you suc- 
 cess in your pursuit of a wife with golden charms. 
 
 [Exit Robert. 
 
 Brown. I believe I'm going to make a raise at last. Xow, if 
 brother Tom was here and knew all, he would give me a regu- 
 lar scolding for attempting to rush headlong into matrimony. 
 But Tom is too slow and too careful. There's no use in court- 
 ing a girl a year, nor half a year, nor two months. It's all 
 
54 PEESCOTT's plain DIxVLOGUES. 
 
 nonsense ; if a man likes a girl, and the girl likes liim, tlieyll 
 know it before two days. I believe in rusliing right ahead, 
 and never stopping to think. This stopping to think has 
 ruined many a man, and spoiled thousands of good matches. 
 Now, if this new boarder isn't engaged, I'll lay a wager shell 
 be mine before three months ; I'm going to be in a hurry ; I'm 
 going to rush things ; she's got the tin, and that's what I'm 
 after. Wont Tom open his eyes wide when he hears that I'm 
 married ? But won't he open his eyes "Dery wide when he 
 hears that I'm living in a brown-stone front ? But I can't sit 
 here ; it's impossible for me to stay here until supper-time ; I 
 must go out and walk the streets until nightfall ; my impatience 
 will not let me be quiet, {gets up and takes Ms hat) Good-bye, 
 poverty, and hurrah for the new boarder and her thousands 
 of dollars. \_Exit Harry Brown. 
 
 CURTAIN FALLS. 
 
 ScEX^E II. — A room in Mrs. White's loarding -house. Harry 
 BROYfN discovered. 
 
 Brown. I'm married, thank fortune ; I'm married at last. 
 My wife, although not the most beautiful woman in the world, 
 is, I think, a good sort of a woman. She will be liberal ; I 
 knov/ she will ; she will shell out the dollars as though they 
 were cents ; there's one thing mystifies me a little ; I think she 
 miglit have bought herself a grander outfit ; her bonnet might 
 have been just a little better. But then she looked well in it, 
 and I suppose she understands the mysteries of dressing better 
 than I do. Now, there's some women who look a thousand 
 times better in calico than they do in silk, and I have no doubt 
 Eliza is one of that number. I've been married two days now, 
 and I think it is about time I was finding out just exactly liov/ 
 many thousands she has. It's a delicate matter to talk on, but 
 then I needn't care ; the knot is tied and can't be severed. 
 Hello ! here comes my wife now. My wife 1 how funny that 
 sounds I 
 
 Enter Eliza. 
 
 Eliza. Well, ducky, not gone out yet, I see. 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 55 
 
 Brown. Ko, my little darling, I ain't gone out yet. Fact is, 
 'Liza, I don't like to bo avv'aj very long from you. 
 
 Eliza. Don't you, Brov/nie dear? Ah, you'll get over that 
 by and by. 
 
 Lroicn. Xo, Eliza ; I don't think I will. I may even say I 
 am sure I will not. I am convinced that there is, away down 
 in my heart of hearts, a long, strong, broad, deep flame of love, 
 that vdll blaze on and blaze on through countless nights of 
 waking and days of woe. There rolls not a billow of sorrow 
 nor salt water that can extinguish that flame. That flame will 
 burn as long as — yes, Eliza, that flame will burn as long as — 
 ahem — yes, Eliza 
 
 Eliza. Is there an}i;hing the matter with you BroT\Tiie, 
 dear ? 
 
 Broicn. Xo, Eliza, nothing ; I was only soaring. But to 
 come to business, wifey tifey, where is your money deposited ? 
 
 Eliza. My money ! ha I ha ! That's good ! Brownie, dear, 
 I haven't ten dollars to my name. 
 
 Broicn. Ah ! I see ; a good joke, Eliza ; a good joke indeed. 
 You want to make me beheve for a little while that you 
 haven't any money, and then tell me all at once what an awful 
 pile you have. But don't do it, Eliza ; the news would be too 
 good ; I couldn't bear it ; reason might totter and throw her- 
 self. 
 
 Eliza. Brownie, you are talking kind of shallow this morn- 
 ing. Is there anything the matter with your head ? 
 
 Brozcn. Xo, ducky, nothing ; but do tell me just how many 
 thousand dollars you have, and where it is deposited ? 
 
 Eliza, I told you before, and I tell you again, I haven't ten 
 dollars to my name. There's my portmonnie. (Jiands it) Ex- 
 amine for yourself. It contains every cent of my mone. 
 
 Brown. Great Constan 
 
 Eliza. Stop, Brownie ; don't swear. Did you think I was 
 wealthy ? 
 
 Brown. To be sure I did. Didn't you tell Mrs. White you 
 had ^a few thousands ? 
 
 Eliza. I believe I did say something of that kind ; but I 
 
56 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 meant a few tliousand cents. Of course I didn't say it to lead 
 any person to believe I was wealthy. 
 
 Brown. Oli, I'm sold. I'm a wretched man ! 
 
 Eliza. No, you ain't, Brownie, dear, {puts her arms around 
 Ms neck) Clieer up ; perhaps you'll find I'm worth more than a 
 few thousands dollars. 
 
 Brown. Eliza, I believe you are right. I believe I have 
 found a treasure, but not the kind of treasure I expected. 
 Anyhow, the knot is tied, and we may as well make the best 
 of a bad arrangement ; not saying at all, ducky tifey, that it 
 is a bad arrangement. Oh, no ; not at all. 
 
 Eliza. No, no ; it isn't a bad arrangement, Bro^vnie, dear. 
 We'll get along swimmingly. I know we will. 
 
 Brown. Yes, we'll get along swimmingly ; at least I hope we 
 Avill. But still I think it is a bad arrangement to marry in haste 
 and repent at leisure. 
 
 THE GALIFOENIA UIIOLE. 
 
 DK. LOUIS LEGRAND. 
 FOR THREE MALES AND THREE FEMxiLES, 
 
 Scene. — A parlor. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Lay/rence, reading a letter. 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence. Strange ! Horace coming back I Let me 
 see — he has been gone nine years. How he must have changed : 
 And returns, he ssijs, (reading) '^ to enjoy among friends the 
 little means I have scraped together by years of toil and saving 
 in California." Little means ! Oh, I did hope if he ever re- 
 turned it would be to better our condition. Here I struggle to 
 maintain myself and two girls, and no hopes of ever getting 
 ahead again unless I should capture some rich widower. Grirls 
 without a good money prospect have but small hopes of making 
 a good match, but must take up with men as poor as them- 
 selves. Oh, dear ! If Horace only had returned with a for- 
 tune, as he is a bachelor he would have lived with us, and ail 
 would have been bri^^ht cnonu-li. 
 
pksscott's plain dialogues. 67 
 
 Enter Edith and Ruth. 
 
 Girls, here is a letter from your uncle Horace. 
 
 Edith. Uncle Horace ! Tliat brother of yours wlio went off 
 to California, ever so long ago, with, a drover, to drive slieep 
 for liim ? 
 
 Mrs. L. Yes, lie has never written back a word until now, 
 and here he says he is to be mth us — mercy me ! this is the 
 very day ! 
 
 Edith. I hope he isn't a boor. Sheep drovers are not apt to 
 be pohshed gentlemen. Is he rich, mother ? 
 
 Mrs. L. I presume not. He speaks of returning among his 
 friends to enjoy the little means he has scraped together by 
 years of toil and saving. I infer that he is not rich, by any 
 means. 
 
 Edith. Oh, bother ! What a nuisance it will be to have 
 such a man in the house — coarse and illiterate, I suppose, and 
 money enough to pay half price for a hall bedroom. I'm sure I 
 wish he'd stayed with his drovers, in California. 
 
 Euth. Oh, Edie, how can you say so ? I think it will be de- 
 lightful to have him here. 
 
 Edith. Very ! Just imagine our having to introduce him to 
 the gentlemen who call ! To Colonel Graham he would say — 
 '' How are you, old fellow ? "Wnicre'd ye win yer spurs ? " To 
 Eugene LeMoyne, he'd say, — '' Wep, boy, what' re you up to 
 fur a livin' ? " Oh, dear, must we have him here, mother ? 
 
 Mrs. L. If he wishes to stay, of course I won't turn him 
 away ; but perhaps we can manage it so that he will not be in 
 the way. We'll give him the back room, third floor. The bed 
 isn't nice, but as he has been accustomed to a rough Hfe he'll 
 not mind that. 
 
 Uuth, And the furniture is so old and shabby, and the car- 
 pet is so worn — I'm ashamed to put my uncle there. Why 
 not give him the front room ? It's so nice and sunny, and 
 has a pleasant lookout — do give uncle Horace that room, 
 mamma. 
 
 Edith. Oh, you little goosie ! As ma says, he is accustomed 
 to rough things, and it won't matter much about his room. We 
 
58 i'iiesoott's plain DIALOarES. 
 
 vvjiJii i]n) front room for g-iiests wlio can pay a good price for 
 it. J 'in to liav(i all tlio money I'rom it, you. know, for my spend- 
 'in<r money tliis winter ; bo uncle Horace can't have it, 
 
 lliiih. Well, then, Edie, we are not so particular ; let us 
 give liim our room, and we take the third story, back, for our- 
 selves. 
 
 Edith. What an idea ! Of course, I won't do that. He can 
 have the third story, back room, and if he don't like it he can 
 chang(3 his quarters to some other boarding i)lace. (l)6U rings) 
 Dear me, there's a caller, 1 sui)pose, and I'm not yet dressed 
 for calls. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. L. ilutliie, I guess you'll have to go to the door. Bridget 
 is cleaning down stairs and is not lit to appear. [Exit Ruth. 
 It would not surprise me at all if it is Horace. He always 
 used to be frightfally prompt. Nine years since he left, and 
 he is now thirty years old I lie ought to be a help and great 
 comfort to us, but I suppose 
 
 E titer Ruth and Uncle Horace, dressed as a rough Califor- 
 
 NIAN. 
 
 IIorac(5 ! 
 
 Horace. Nobody else ! Througli safe and sound. Six days 
 and four hours. Sound as a nut ! How are you, 'Liza? {offers 
 hand. She mahes no advance hut glees him her hand somewhat 
 distantly) Ain't mortal gl^ to see me, hey ? All right. I'll 
 go to some shebang to bunk, and will drop in occasionally when 
 it suits, {starts for door.) 
 
 Uuth {jAiying her hand on his arm). Uncle Horace I Stop, 
 sir ! 
 
 llor. II(^y 1 who be you ? 
 
 Mrs. L. That is my daughter, Ruth. 
 
 Ilor. You don't say I Why, you purty puss I Only a seven 
 year old chit, when I last saw you — a lovable chit, too, and 
 my little pet ! Now you're a gal ready fur some feller's wife. 
 
 IltitJi. Oh, no — not that for several years. I'm Ruth yet, 
 and — and — if you'll only stay I'll — I'll 
 
 Hor, Well, what'll you do ? 
 
 Biith. I'll be your pet again. Oh, uncle — you shall stay ; I 
 
pesscott's plain dialogues. 59 
 
 won't let yoii go. {takes both of Ms hands in hers) Do you liear, 
 sir? 
 
 Ilor. Wliew ! Are you boss of tliis ranclie ? 
 
 Mrs. L. Horace, I wisli you to stay, of course ; I would be 
 deeply mortilied to liave you go away to some otlier liouse to 
 board. You mustn't be so brusque and rougb.. We must get 
 acquainted with, you, again, as it wore, and you with us, and I 
 have no doubt we will get along very well together. 
 
 Hot. All right ! I'll order in my traps. Haven't much 
 duds, that's a fact ; a sheep-raiser don't have much need of 
 store clothes ; but, I've kim East with a few hundreds and I'll 
 let Ruthie, here, rig me out in toggery to suit herself — will 
 you, puss ? 
 
 Buth. Oh, you heathen ! Of course I will, and make you 
 the nicest beau in town. Is it a bargain ? 
 
 Ilor. Just the persimmons ! You're the gal for my picture- 
 frame or I'm no judge of a m.ustang. 
 
 Ruth, What queer language ! Oh, but I'll train you. 
 
 Re-enter Edith, stylishly dressed. 
 
 Hot. Put me through my paces, hey ? Rope me in — corral 
 me — stop my cavortin', an' ef I try to purkachee jest fetch me 
 up with a buck and a histe. 
 
 Edith {aside to Mks. L.). What a boor ! I'm disgusted ! 
 The idea of such a man in this house ! 
 
 Hor. Hello ! What other gal is this ? {ajpjproaches Edith.) 
 
 Mrs. L. My eldest daughter, Edith. 
 
 Ilor. You don't say ! Why, when I left, you were nigh on 
 to twelve — a purty, spunky piece, and had your own way. Is 
 it so yit ? How are you. Miss ? Give me yer paw. Shake ! 
 
 Edith {giving her hand reluctantly). How do you do, sir ? 
 
 Hor. Purty well, thank you. Hope yerself is refreshin.' 
 Mighty stylish gal she is, Lize. 
 
 Mrs. L. Oh, don't call me Lize. That sounds vulgar. Call 
 me Eliza, or before folks say Mrs. Lawrence. 
 
 Hor. Ha — ha — ha ! I ain't in Calaveras county, am I ? Thar 
 v.^e bite off names at both ends — no long handles wanted tliar ! 
 
60 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 But, here it's particular primrose. All hunkey ! Mrs. Law- 
 rence it shall be before folks, but, honest Injin, I prefer Lize. 
 And, as fur my handle — ^jest call me Hod. And you, gals, jist 
 call me Uncle Hod. None of yer '' Mister " and " Horace " in 
 mine, if you please, until I get a full rig of store duds and a 
 stovepipe hat. Lordy, kin I come to that ? 
 
 Buth. Of course you can, you uncivilized grizzly. 
 
 Hor, Call me a Digger ef I do I 
 
 RutJi. Call me a Eackapoo if you don't ! 
 
 Hor. Ho — ho — ^ho ! 
 
 Edith {aside to Mrs. Lawret^tce). This is positively vulgar. 
 {twitching Ruth aside) Are you a fool ? 
 
 Hor. Nice squaw — much grit — ^big Injun — whoop 1 
 
 Ruth. Ha — ^ha — ^ha ! Shake ! {gims hands.) 
 
 Hor. {takes 'both Ruth's hands, and they commence a dance, 
 
 bowing and swaying and striking the foot fiat on the fioor at 
 
 emry third motion, while Horace shouts) Whoop ! yah — whoop 
 
 - big Injin — ya hoo ! (Mrs. Lawrence seizes Horace, 
 
 and Edith seizes Ruth.) 
 
 Enter Mr. Le Moyne, unnoticed. 
 
 Mrs. L. For mercy sake, don't. What will people think? 
 Horace, you must be more circumspect. 
 
 Edith {to Ruth). I'm ashamed for you. This is simply dis- 
 graceful. 
 
 Hor. Oh, say, gal, let up on that. It's just good for a clean 
 hundred fine wool merinos to let out the kinks that way. 
 Haven't had a square paw-paw and kiyi sence I made a run up 
 among the Shoshones last summer. It makes me feel tew 
 home. 
 
 Buth {extending her hand to him). Shake ! 
 
 Hor. {taking her hand). May I be cut up into mule whips ef 
 I don't freeze to you. You've jest walked into yer uncle's 
 claim an' struck the big vein, gal. {catches sight of Le Moyne) 
 Hullo, sonny ! Walk in ! Don't be bashful. Folks is all tew 
 home. 
 
 Edith {to her mother). Oh, this dreadful ! 
 
 Mrs. L. {advancing to Mr. Le Moyne). Come in, sir. This 
 
pbescott's plain dialogues. 61 
 
 is my brother, Horace — just from California. Mr. Alplionse 
 Lamartine Le Moyne, Horace. Mr. Horace Herbert Stanfield, 
 Mr. Le Moyne. 
 
 Le Moyne {adjusting his eyeglasses). Oh — ah — yas — I see. 
 {offers hand to Horace.) 
 
 Hot. Well, I'm blest ef you aint a nice little fellow, {takes 
 his hand and squeezes it.) 
 
 j Le M. {squirming). Oh — ah — yas — I see. Glad to meet you, 
 sir. 
 
 Hor. {squeezing hand again). Be you ? How's the gov'nor an' 
 the old gal ? 
 
 Le M. {squirming and wrenching hand away). Oh — ah — yas — 
 God bless us — confounded familiar on showt acquaintance. 
 ( drawing himself up . ) 
 
 Hor. {whistles). Whew ! Hain't riley, are ye, bub ? Guess 
 yer not used to b'ar meat and dodgers. Why, ye little grass- 
 hopper, it's the fust time in nine years I've gripped sich a 
 kid glove, an' I don't jest know how much squeeze to give it. 
 
 Edith {advancing to Le Moyne). Mr. Le Moyne, we owe you 
 an apology for this rudeness, and for what you've seen. Oh, 
 it's too bad to be so annoyed — and — and 
 
 Mrs. L. There, never mind. Your uncle meant well, but I 
 see he is wholly unaccustomed to the intercourse of gentlemen. 
 You must excuse him. 
 
 Hor. Unaccustomed to the intercourse ov gentlemen ! Well, 
 if that isn't sweet on California ! Why, if any one hed said 
 that to me out in Calaveras, I'd just shucked him quicker'n a 
 ear of corn. 
 
 Edith. You're a boor, and I wish you'd go away and never 
 come here to outrage our friends by your outlandish manners. 
 
 Hor. All hunkey ! If you say the same, Mrs. Lawrence, 
 I'm off like a mustang out ov a corral. 
 
 Edith {aside to Mrs. Lawrence). He shall not stay in this 
 house. 
 
 Mrs. L. I think you are very rough and inconsiderate, and 
 fear you'll never feel at home here, Horace. 
 
 Hor. {turning to Euth). And what do you say, puss in 
 boots ? 
 
62 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Buth. I say go, too. 
 
 Hot. Honest Injin ? 
 
 ButJi. Honest Injin. I don't want an uncle of mine tliat I 
 love as I love you, you dear old lieatlien, to stay where lie isn't 
 wanted — only 
 
 Hor. Only wliat ? 
 
 ButJi. Only, I wisli lie liad a house all his own where he 
 could do as he pleased, and I could be his housekeeper. 
 
 Edith. What a simpleton you are, Ruth. 
 
 Hor. A house of my own ! That's the horn fur my sheep ! 
 An' you really would be my little housekeeper ? 
 
 Butli. Of course I would if you wanted me, and mother 
 would give her consent. 
 
 Mrs. L. Oh, you have my consent. If Horace wants you to 
 oversee such a home as he can provide he can have you. But, 
 I guess, you'll soon enough tire of it. 
 
 Hor. May I be split into barrel-staves if I don't do it ! 
 Good-bye, gals, ontil ye hear from me ag'in. I'll jist have a 
 shebang where Euthie an' I'll have all the paw-pavvs we want, 
 an' not enough humbug in it fur Mister Le-what-do-you-call- 
 'em to hang his glasses on. [Exit. 
 
 Le M. Oh — ah — yas. Queer fellow. Vewy singulaw, too. 
 'Ov/ can he buy a 'ouse to be sure ? 
 
 Rutli {flusMng up). He's a Qnan, sir — which is too scarce a 
 commodity, in this polished society, to be appreciated or under- 
 stood. It's a shame to us that he should have been sent away. 
 
 EdMh. Good riddance, I say. 
 
 Mrs. L. I'm afraid, Edith, you have been hasty and impo- 
 lite. Eough as he is, I am sure he is a kindly man, and should 
 not have been driven, as he certainly has been, from our door. 
 
 Le 31. Oh — ah — yas — to be sure ; but then, you see, gentle- 
 men don't care to meet such fellows, an' if he weally caii buy 
 a 'ouse it's bettah so ; he'll be more at 'ome there, you see. 
 
 Buth. Undoubtedly, and thus escape grasping hands that 
 never did an honest day's v/ork. 
 
 Ze M. Oh — ah — yas — I dare say he would prefer w'at is 
 wuii {rough) to w'at is polished. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 63 
 
 Enter Coloxel Geaha^i. 
 
 Colonel Graham. Ali, ladies, good-afternoon. How are you, 
 Le Movne ? (Mes. Laweexce offers clieiir) Xo, tliank you, 
 Mrs. Lawrence ; can't stay. Just met an old friend ; didn't 
 know lie was in town ; my employer, in fact — tlie great Cali- 
 fornia stockman and banlvcr — Stanfield ; wortk liis millions to 
 my thousands ; and, queer enough, asks me to bring I^»Iiss 
 Ruth, here, along with me, Saratoga trunlvs and all, for he 
 says she is to be his little housekeeper in the finest house in 
 San Francisco, and his heiress, to boot. So tliafs what I'm 
 here for. Carriage at the door. ^Yhat do you say. Miss 
 Euth? 
 
 2tirs. L. Colonel Graham, what do you mean ? 
 
 Col. G. ^Vhat do I mean? ^^Tiy, madam, just what I've 
 said. Stanfield is off for California, within twenty-four hours. 
 Came East to see some friends, but says they don't want to see 
 him ; so he is oli again. Don't just see how he knew of ZnIIss 
 Ruth, nor why he don't come for her himself ; but it's none of 
 my business, the whys and wherefores. When he- orders I 
 obey. 
 
 ILrs. L. I am astonished, indeed. Do you mean to say that 
 Mr. Stanfield is Horace H. Stanfield? 
 
 Col. G. The same, madam — Horace Herbert. 
 
 Mrs. L. And that he is a wealthy man ? 
 
 Col. G. One of the great capitalists and leading business 
 men of California, madam — a true gentleman and a man of 
 honor, through and through, {all have aclcanced and noic sur- 
 round the Coloxel.) 
 
 JIro L. Oh, what a mistake have we made I "^"^"hy, ire are 
 the friends he came to see, and, wholly mistaking his charac- 
 ter, we — we — did not receive him well. 
 
 FvUth. Drove him from your door, mother. 
 
 Col. G. Sorry enough to hear it. ZSTo use now to recall him. 
 You've committed an act which I fear he vill not pardon. 
 
 Edith. But, he was so rough, uncouth — had such outlandish 
 ways. 
 
 Le 2f. Oh — ah — yas, "pon my honaw he danced a bear dance 
 
64 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 wight heali in this pawlaw, and talked such, peculiaw lan- 
 guage — w'y, hless ma soul, he cawn't be a wich man ! Impos- 
 sible ! 
 
 Col. G. One of his jokes, I dare say. He's as much a gentle- 
 man as I. He doubtless was trying you for some reason. 
 
 Mrs. L. He is my own brother. 
 
 Col. G, Is it possible ? And Miss Ruth is his niece ? 
 
 Mrs. L. She is. 
 
 Col. G. Then she's his heiress, sure enough ; for here are 
 ten thousand dollars in gold notes which he gave me, with 
 orders to stop at Tiffany's with her and secure its entire value 
 in jewels of her own selection ; and here are another ten thou- 
 sand which he bade me give her for a visit to Stewart's. 
 
 Mrs. L. Oh, most miserable mistake indeed ; and you, 
 Edith, were its chief cause. How can you forgive yourself for 
 your language to him ? 
 
 Enter Servant with letter. 
 
 Servant, A letter, madam, just left at the door. No answer. 
 
 [Servant retires. 
 
 Mrs L. {opening and reading aloud). '' Dear Mrs. Lawrence : 
 As Colonel Graham, my eastern agent, has by this time ex- 
 plained, I request the fulfillment of your promise to let Ruth 
 become my housekeeper, and, I may add, my heiress. Colonel 
 Graham has money to provide her wardrobe and jewels, and I 
 propose at once to return to San Francisco with her. 
 
 " When Miss Edith can bear with my bad manners enough to 
 apologize for her rudeness to me, I may find it in my heart to 
 forgive what was an unnecessary disrespect to a person whose 
 only fault was want of 'polished manners.' A proper prelim- 
 inary will be to ask Alphonse Lamartine Le Moyne to seek 
 other society, for no niece of mine must sanction the atten- 
 tions of a nobody." 
 
 Le M. Bless me ! Oh — ah — yas ; but, you see, there's a 
 mistake somewhere. If he's a gentleman I'm sure there's a 
 mistake. 
 
 Col. G. No doubt of it ; but, as Stanfield is not apt to make 
 mistakes it must be on your side. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 65 
 
 Lg M. Oil — all — yas ; I see. But, I say, colonel, he squeezed 
 my hand shockingly. He made me squirm. 
 
 Col. G. Did he ? Then I'd advise you to keep out of his way 
 entirely, for he might Tzring your neck if you have oifended 
 him. 
 
 Le M. Bless me — I wouldn't meet him again for the world ! 
 
 Col. G. Wouldn't you ? What if he should take it into his 
 head to return here ? 
 
 Le M. {in trepidation). Oh — ah — yas ; I guess I must be going. 
 {starts for door) Good-day, ladies. I'll see you again, Miss 
 Edith, in a few days. 
 
 Edith. You need not mind, sir, to call again. I shall not be 
 at home to see you any more. 
 
 Le M. Is it pawsible ? Oh — ah — yas — good-day. [Exit. 
 
 Edith. Oh, that I ever encouraged such a ninny I 
 
 Ruth. A good representative ladies' man. 
 
 Mrs. L. {continuing). " As for you, Eliza, old as you are, and 
 own brother as I am, it was a heartless thing to do, even to x>er- 
 mit me to leave your house, and I can only excuse it by knovr- 
 ing woman's respect for sham and her weak deference to 
 appearances. If this experience teaches you the good lesson to 
 honor honest worth, and to scorn snobbery and pretence, I will, 
 lend you a helping hand in your struggle for a living. Your 
 brother, HORACE." (Mrs. Lawre^sCE d.rops letter ^ and covers 
 her face with her hand.) 
 
 Edith {to Colonel (xraha:m). Colonel, I cannot express to 
 you how deeply mortified and pained I am at my share in this 
 miserable affair. I don't care a sna.p about my uncle's fortune, 
 now ; I don't want his money ; but I do want his forgiveness. 
 I did him an unladylike and mean discourtesy, and am now 
 lady enough to offer through you my apology and regrets. I 
 say again, I do not want a dollar from him, nor must mother 
 call upon him for aid of any kind, for it would then add insult 
 to injury by making our apology seem mercenary and selfish. 
 I see him and myself in a new light. The lesson has been 
 worth to me more than gold, and that is my reward. Will you 
 say this to him for me ? and do I not speak for you, too, 
 mother ? 
 
6Q pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 3frs. L. Oil, yes ; I cannot think of Horace going away with- 
 out giving me his forgiveness. I do not want his money now ; 
 it would seem the price of my humiliation, when the only thing 
 I want is his brotherly trust and love. Therefore, say this to 
 
 him 
 
 Re-enter Horace, dressed genteelly. 
 
 Hor. That he knows a great deal more about merino sheep 
 than about women — that he was a little mean in playing off the 
 Big Injin on you, and loas a little rough on 
 
 Mrs. L. {clasping Tier hands supplicatingly before Mm). Oh, 
 Horace — Horace, can you forgive my unsisterly welcome and 
 mean spirit ? 
 
 Edith {clasping her hands in same attitvxle). Can you forgive 
 me, uncle Horace, for my rudeness and impertinence ? 
 
 Hor. {to Euth). And what have you got to say, young 
 Kickapoo ? 
 
 Ruth. That you are a humbug — an impostor, who obtained 
 my regard under false pretences. I thought you were a real 
 rough diamond — a gulch nugget that I v\^as to have the jDleasure 
 of polishing, but after all you're only a gentleman. Pah ! 
 make peace with mother and Edie, right away, sir, or 
 
 Hot. Or what ? 
 
 Ruth. Or ITl not go one step toward that shebang in San 
 Francisco — so now ! 
 
 Hor. {extending his hoMds to Mrs. Lawrence and Edith). 
 Shake, girls. The little one is right. I am an impostor, and 
 came to ask your pardon for the ruse I played, {to Euth) How's 
 that, puss? 
 
 Ruth. All hunkey ! Now take away from Colonel Graham 
 that twenty thousand dollars you gave him — for me. Take it 
 back, I say, or I'll not go a step with you. 
 
 Hot. {takes lack money). Why, you little tyrant ! What 
 next? 
 
 Ruth. Just this, sir. Ill not go to California or anywhere 
 else unless my mother and Edie go too. What I have they 
 they must share. Pretty conduct for me to be playing the lady 
 in San Francisco and they here pinching and scrimping, and 
 toiling for a living. Not if I know myself, I won't — so now ! 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 67 
 
 Hot. Wliy, you little minx ! YouVe got tlie lieacl and heart 
 of a queen. I'm your slave. Command and it sliall be. 
 
 Ruth. I order you to take us all to California, and to let 
 mother manage your house, while Edie and I help to spend 
 your money. 
 
 Mrs, L, Ruth — how can you ? Horace, don't mind her 
 chatter. 
 
 Hot, But I will. Her idea is my idea too. I really came 
 East to get you to return with me, if after staying with you 
 avvdiile I thought that was the oSer to make, so I do make it 
 now. What do you say ? 
 
 Ruth, Why, yes, of course. Shake all around on that. 
 Here, mother — Edie. {drawing their hands forward, and all 
 shalce hands together) There, that's a bargain ! So, now, run 
 out the red flag — let's have an auction ; and, oh, my ! wont I be 
 glad to get rid of a boarding-house ! 
 
 Col. G. And pray, what is to become of me ? 
 
 Ruth. Why, sell you oil to the highest bidder, of course I 
 
 Edith. Ruth — Ruth, how can you be so rude ? 
 
 Col. G. {cidi^ancing to Edith). Ill consent to be sold, if yoiCll 
 bid. Miss Edith? 
 
 Ilor. Capital ! I'll go ten thousand dollars for her, colonel. 
 
 Ruth. And I'll go that other ten you were to spend for me, 
 colonel, at Tiffany's ; you shall spend it there for Edie. 
 
 Edith, {tries to break away). Oh, how can you ? Are you all 
 crazy ? 
 
 Mrs. L, And I'll throw in all that there is in this house, and 
 so spare us the annoyance of an auction. 
 
 Ilor, Capital aga.in ! and colonel, I'll make your salary a clear 
 ten thousand a year. 
 
 Ruth, And Edie, yon can tell the colonel all the sweet 
 things you said aljout him to me—show him the poetry you've 
 written about him. (Edith, covering her faoe ivith her hands 
 as 'if to hide her Uushes, rushes off th3 stage) \¥hew ! caught 
 at last. Corralled ! Go a^nd ring her, colonel right away. 
 
 Col, G. Oh, you little witch ! [Exit. 
 
 Hor. Oh, you little marplot ! This makes a delay of at least 
 a week, I suppose. 
 
68 pkesgott's plain dialogues. 
 
 MutJi, Of course it does, you grizzly bear ! Do you suppose 
 we can say our good-byes and pack our tilings in less tlian a 
 week? You big men are reasonable creatures — very. 
 
 Hot You litfle women are incomprehensible creatures — 
 very. 
 
 Mrs. L. Not incompreliensible — only tlie weaker sex, you 
 know. 
 
 Hor. Tlie weaker sex ? I don't see it. 
 
 Ruth. Nor I either ! Silk to your cotton, tliat is all. More 
 strength in one thread of us than in ten strands of you. Finer 
 fiber — better material — superior v/orkmanship, you know. 
 
 Hor. Ha — ^lia — ha ! I'll tame you, you little mustang. 
 
 .Euth. And I'm willing to be tamed when a gentle hand does 
 it. 
 
 Hor. And here's the hand that is gentle, {offers hand.) 
 
 Buth. And here's the heart that is true, {gives hand.) 
 
 Mrs. L. And here's the aifection to trust in. {takes Horace 
 hy left hand.) 
 
 All. And good-night (or day) to each one of you. 
 
 CUBTAi:^; FALLS, AS THEY BOW. 
 
 " HONEST AID HOITOEABLE." 
 
 ALICE A. COALE. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Nannie Eldridgb. ) ^. , Uncle Jacob, rich relative. 
 
 Laura Eldridge. J ^^^^^^^^- Mrs. Banks. 
 
 Scene I. — Small, scantily furnished room. Nannie fivirZLALTiA 
 Eldridge talking together, the latter dressed to go out. 
 
 Nannie. Ben wont be home till Saturday night, and the 
 flour will be out by that time, and who is going to trust us for 
 bread, and where is the money to come from to buy any ? I 
 have half a mind to go to Uncle Jacob and tell him just how it 
 is with us, he surely would not refuse to aid us, although he 
 was so opposed to papa's second marriage, and has never been 
 near us since the funeral. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 69 
 
 Laura. What, Nannie ? Go begging to Uncle Jacob ? I 
 would just as Hef beg oil a stranger. Have you no self- 
 respect ? 
 
 Nan. And liave you no pride, going about from workshop 
 to workshop asking for something to do, when w^e don't know 
 but Uncle Jacob might be only waiting for us to ask his aid, 
 and he would gladly help us ? It is natural he should help us, 
 rich as he is, and childless too. 
 
 Laura. More probably he is waiting for us to cast about and 
 try to do something for ourselves. I am told that though quite 
 rich he is very industrious. I, for one, am going out to find 
 work. If I cannot find one kind of work to do I will another. 
 I doubt if I could ever be a successful teacher, even if I had a 
 certificate or a situation, both of which are difficult to procure, 
 owing to the over-crowded state of the profession. A milliner 
 or mantuamaker I might become, but then in both these de- 
 partments of female industry the supply far exceeds the de- 
 mand. I heard the other day Mrs. Banks had said she w^ould 
 give almost any price for a good steady girl in her kitchen. 
 
 NoM. Oh, Laura, such talk ! The idea of your working 
 as a hired girl in Mrs. Banks' kitchen, and we used to ride to 
 her door in our own papa's carriage, and order our bonnets and 
 dresses sent to our number ! Oh, dear ! I shouldn't mind it so 
 much if you could get to be a teacher or seamstress. The 
 thought of the other is enough to drive one mad. 
 
 Laura. And I hold that whatever is honest is honorable, and 
 that I shall be just as w^orthy of respect, cooking good food 
 in a digestible manner for the nourishment and healthful 
 growth of the little Banks, as if I were teaching their ideas how 
 to shoot, or making bedecked saucepans to cover silly pates and 
 frowsy chignons. But I'm going to see Mrs. Banks. Good-bye. 
 [Exit Lauba. Nannie takes up hook and reads. 
 
 Be- enter Laura. 
 
 Nan. (excitedly). What success? 
 
 Laura. Splendid ! Mrs. Banks will take me to cook, set the 
 table and wait on it, and wash the dishes and give me four 
 dollars a week." 
 
70 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Nan. And you are going to accept it ! Oh, Laura, wliere is 
 your pride, your family pride ? 
 
 Laura. Just where it ought to be ; pride, Nannie, will not 
 put clothes on our backs, nor food in our months, and I am 
 going to do the one kind of work that I do well, for a comfort- 
 able home and good wages, regardless of what the world may 
 say. If it does not approve my course, why, I am happy tof 
 be able to say that it is a matter of indifference to me. I 
 
 Scene II. — A room in Mrs. Banes' house, the family seated 
 around an inmting dinner table. Uncle Jacob seated 
 zcith them as their guest. 
 
 Uncle Jacol). You are most fortunate, Mrs. Banks, in pos- 
 sessing a rare treasure now-a-days in your cook, whoever she 
 may be, judging from this repast. 
 
 Mrs. Banks. You may well say so, Mr. Barry. I esteem 
 myself quite indebted to Providence for casting her in my way. 
 Her mother is a widow, and the family are obliged to do some- 
 thing for self-support, or else ask it of a rich relative, which 
 latter they are too high-spirited to do. 
 
 Uncle J. The girl who can get up a dinner like this need 
 never be dependent. May I inquire her name ? You have 
 quite interested me in her. 
 
 3Irs. B. Laura Eldridge. 
 
 TJncle J. {starting back). Tell the little minx to come here at 
 once ; her L"^ncle Jacob wants to see her. Zounds ! a girl with 
 pluck enough to do this is the girl for me. 
 
 Enter Laura, in short clean calico dress, large apron, tidy hair, 
 and neat collar, sleeves rolled tip. 
 
 Uncle J. {rising and coming towards her). So, ho ! my little 
 girl, so you wont ask a penny off your old uncle, and wont de- 
 pend upon your brother's wages, but will go to be cook in a 
 lady's kitchen? This is the spirit which I admire; but you 
 are just the kind of little housekeeper which I need about my 
 premises, so Mrs. Ba.nks will have to excuse you. My carriage 
 is yet at the door, and we will go. {to audience) The dear young 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 71 
 
 people must not imagine that self-sacrifice is always re- 
 warded in tliis world, but generally God helps him who helps 
 himself. 
 
 TRUE MANLINESS. 
 
 M. L. B. 
 A DIALOGUE FOR BOYS. — IN TWO ACTS. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mr. Howard, a wealthy gentleman, 
 
 Mr. Wayne, teacher, 
 
 Tom Jones, a blusterer, 
 
 Caleb Nott, a toady. 
 
 Charles Stephens, son of a ^oor widow, 
 
 Harry Dare. 
 
 Edward Burton. 
 
 ' Pupils. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. — The school room. 
 
 Teacher. Boys, I have something to tell you after school, or 
 rather, you must be prepared to hear something. I believe, 
 however, that I had better not tell it. 
 
 Boys. Oh, please, teacher, do tell it ? What is it ? 
 
 Teacher. No, I shall not tell you ; but you shall hear it this 
 afternoon, nevertheless. Now attend to your studies, {goes on 
 correcting exercises) 
 
 Torn Jones {to Caleb). What a mum fellow our teacher is, to 
 be sure ; isn't he ? 
 
 Caleb. Yes ; he might as well out with it now. 
 
 Teacher. Attend to your studies, boys. Are you talking ? 
 
 Tom. No, teacher, only Charlie Stephens, he makes such a 
 noise with his lips. (Charlie looks confused, but does not 
 speak.) , 
 
 Teacher {semrely). Tom Jones, how often must I correct you 
 in speaking ? It is unnecessary to use the personal pronoun 
 when you use the noun. A great boy like you — almost a man 
 — should be more careful. Charles Stephens, you must make 
 less noise studying ; you disturb me. 
 
72 peescott'g plain dialogues. 
 
 Tom {to Chablie). I'll be even with you for that lecture ; see 
 if I don't. 
 
 Caleb, Hide liis old hat after school. 
 
 Enter Mr. Howahd. Mr. Wayne advances, and they shake 
 hands. Boys rise. 
 
 Mr. Howard, I am pleased, Mr. Wayne, to see your school 
 in such good order. Have you mentioned my proposition to 
 your pupils ? 
 
 Teacher. I have not, sir ; but merely intimated to them that 
 they would hear something. I preferred leaving it to yourself. 
 Boys, you know who this gentleman is ? 
 
 Boys (all). Yes, sir ; Mr. Howard. 
 
 Mr, H. Thank you, young gentlemen ; I am glad you re- 
 member me. (boys bow) Your respected teacher tells me that he 
 has prepared you to hear some particular news. 
 
 Boys. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mr. H. Well, I shall now proceed to tell you what it is. I 
 am, as you may be aware, a great friend to education, (boys 
 bow) Education, my young friends, is better than houses and 
 lands — ^better than gold. But mental education, without 
 moral, is useless. The boy who possesses one without the 
 other, may be compared to a man who has eyes, yet is blind ; 
 who has ears, yet cannot hear. Do you understand me ? 
 
 Boys. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mr. H. Very well. Now, that you may learn to appreciate 
 the value of moral education, I have determined to offer a gold 
 eagle to that boy whose meritorious conduct best deserves a 
 reward. 
 
 Boys. Oh, thank you, sir ; you are very kind. 
 
 3Ir. H. Remember, boys, that you all cannot get it ; but the 
 trying for it will be an advantage in many ways. First, striv- 
 ing for this prize will beget in you a noble emulation. Second- 
 ly, you will, if you really desire to obtain it, practice many 
 virtues — patience, self-denial, energy, etc. Thirdly, you will, 
 in pursuit of this prize, acquire a habit of perseverance, which 
 alone will be worth many half eagles to you. Fourthly — I be- 
 lieve I have no fourthly, except to say, that your term of pro- 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 73 
 
 bation expires a montli from to-day — wlien I shall have the 
 pleasure of bestowing a reward on the most deserving, amid, 
 I trust, the approving smiles of his noble-minded companions. 
 Good-afternoon, young gentlemen ; good-afternoon, Mr. Wayne. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Boys {all together). Who'll get it, I wonder ? I mean to try. 
 I don't ; 'twould be no use. Ten dollars in gold— I v/ish I had 
 it, etc. 
 
 Teacher. Boys, silence ! Is this rude clamor the beginning 
 of your competition for a reward of merit ? Now act more like 
 the gentlemen Mr. Howard calls you. As it wants but twenty 
 minutes until the hour of dismissal, I shall let you off now. 
 But tell me, who intends to gain the prize ? Tom Jones, do 
 you? 
 
 Tom. Xo, sir ; I couldn't get it if I did try ; and, besides, old 
 Howard is rich enough to have o:Sered twenty dollars, and I 
 call him stingy. 
 
 Boys. Oh, shame ! he had no need to give it at all. 
 
 Teaclier. Thomas, I am astonished to hear you speak in such 
 a disrespectful manner ; but I hope you are not in earnest. 
 Ned Burton, will you try ? 
 
 Ned. Yes, sir ; and I'll get it, too. 
 
 Teacher. Indeed ; how do you know ? 
 
 JSfed. Why, I never tried for anything that I didn't get. 
 
 Tom. You didn't get the book that master offered for that 
 problem in Algebra, and you tried for it. 
 
 Ned (aside). I'll get satisfaction out of you, though ; see if I 
 don't. 
 
 Tom {sneeringly). Well, maybe you'll get satisfaction ; but 
 you wont get the ten dollars. 
 
 Teacher. Charlie Stephens, will you get it, too ? 
 
 Charlie. Oh ! if I only could. 
 
 Teacher. Why, what would you do with it ? 
 
 Tom {aside). Buy a little doll-baby. 
 
 Teacher. Answer, Charles ; what would you do ? (Ckakles 
 endeavors to speak, but falters, and turns away. Tom — behind 
 teacher — places one arm across the other, pretending to dandle 
 
74 prescott's plain dialogt:es. 
 
 a baby; sings softly By -o-hahy ; buy a dolly with ten dollars. 
 Boys laugh.) 
 
 Teacher {musing). I cannot nnderstand Charles Stephens . I 
 would fancy lie liad some trouble if lie were not too young. 
 It must be only silly baslifulness, and I must cure liini of it. 
 Boys, wliat are you laughing at ? 
 
 Caleb. Why, sir, Charlie looks so funny when he's crying ; 
 just like a girl. 
 
 Teacher {sternly). I do not see why a girl should look more 
 funny than a boy. Charles, are you crying ? 
 
 Charlie. No, sir ; I am not crying. 
 
 Tom. Only mighty near it. 
 
 Teacher. Tom, I insist on your being silent, or, at least, you 
 must cease these personal remarks. Because you have sense 
 enough to be neither bashful nor vain-glorious, {looks at 
 Charlie and Ned) you should not tease those who are either. 
 Now you can leave, boys ; and I wish you, each and all, to try 
 for Mr. Howard's prize ; for if he be really pleased with you, 
 ■ -is generosity will not be limited to this act ; but I must not 
 .ell any more. However, I hope you will all deserve it, though 
 only one can get it. [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 Scene II. — Immediately after Scene I. Boys at play. 
 
 Tom. I wonder now who will get that ten dollars. I call it 
 a mean trick not to give twenty. The old miser could 
 afford it just as easy, and then 'twould be worth having, though 
 not worth tryhig for, I say. 
 
 Caleb. No, not worth trying for, I say, too ; but, Tom, you 
 could get it, couldn't you ? Ten dollars aren't picked up in the 
 street. 
 
 Tom. Why couldn't you get it, if you are so anxious for it ? 
 
 Calel). Oh, Tom, 'twouldn't be any use for me to try. Old 
 master doesn't think that much of me ; but you could wheedle 
 it out of his own pocket, if 'twas only in, you're such a pet of 
 his. 
 
 Tom. No, I ain't though. 
 
 Caleb. Why, didn't you hear what he said to you when "lat 
 cry-baby, Charlie, began to blubber ? 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 75 
 
 Tom. Oh, you want to gammon me now. I'm not quite that 
 green, tliough. Here^omes Burton ; now'U 111 teach him to 
 
 brag. 
 
 Caleb. Xow don't, Tom ; master would be sure to hear of it. 
 See what he says first. 
 
 B'ed. I say, Tom, let's have a game of football. 
 
 Tom (aside). To be sure ! he's trying for it in earnest. (eiloucT) 
 How about that satisfaction, Xed ? 
 
 I^ecl. Oh, hang the satisfaction (ccside) till I get the prize. 
 
 Tom. Well, I'll hang it, if you like, I see you're going in to 
 vvin. 
 
 i^Ted {indifferently). Xo ; I needn't try. There's so many bet- 
 ter fellows in the school than I am. Besides, my father's ricli, 
 and I can get ten dollars any time I want it. 
 
 Tom. You think you can ! 
 
 Caleb {sidling up to Xed). Xed, I think you've about th3 
 smartest chance going. I'll tell master how you forgave Torn, 
 after ail his meanness, and 'tmll stand in your favor. 
 
 Ned. Oh, go 'way ! I don't want to have anj-thing to say lo 
 you. 
 
 Ccdeb (bitterly). You don't, don't you ? Well, maybe you'll 
 come down yet, Xed Burton, for all you hold yourself so high. 
 {goes off by himself.) 
 
 is'ed. Where's that little girl, Charlie V I guess he'll get it ; 
 he never does anything wrong ; oh, no ; not he ! 
 
 Tom. I say, now, that's too bad. If a cry-baby, girl-boy, 
 like Charlie SteT)hens, gets it, TU leave school. 
 
 Several Boys. So will I. So will I. 
 
 Harry Bare. And why may not Charlie get it as well as any 
 one else, if he deserves it ? and he won't get it unless he does 
 deserve it. 
 
 Boys. Oh, preacher ! preacher ! 
 
 Torn. Maybe you'll get it, you think ? 
 
 Harry. Xo, I'll not get it ; for I couldn't be the best ; but 
 I'm above joining in against a fellow that's not here to take 
 his own part, and vrho is the best of us anyway. 
 
 Tom. Come, now, Harry Dare, I like that ; may be, since 
 you're so ready to talk for the ' ' one that's the best amongst 
 
76 PBESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGUES. 
 
 us/' you'll be willing to figlit for liim too. You'll not say he 
 would do that for himself, I guess. 
 
 Harry, Yes, I'll fight for him as long as you please ; and I 
 am a match for you, too, Tom Jones, big as you are. {puts Mm- 
 self in an attitude.) 
 
 Ned (Jiastily). Oh, come now, boys, don't make fools of your- 
 selves, fighting about a fellow who hasn't spirit enough to open 
 his mouth. 
 
 Tom. Well, I do not care about fighting, particularly ; let's 
 shake hands, Hal ; (aside) Ned's bound to win ; how disap- 
 pointed he is that we don't fight. I hate a hypocrite. 
 
 Caleb {approaching hastily). I say, boys ; oh, what I have to 
 tell you ! 
 
 All. What ? what ? 
 
 Caleb. Let me get my breath — I shall die laughing. You 
 know our girl ? 
 
 Boys. No ; we don't know your girl. What about her ? 
 
 Caleb. You don't understand me. I mean the one that goes 
 to our school — Charlie Stephens. 
 
 All. Yes, yes ; go on. 
 
 Caleb. Well, while you were talking, I saw him scuddin' 
 across the field at a two-forty pace ; so, thinks I, I'll see what 
 you're up to. So I follows him a safe distance, or he'd a heard 
 me. 
 
 Harry. Mean spy ! 
 
 Caleb. So, on I sneaks after him, slowly, slowly, till he came 
 to that little, rickety, tumble-down hole of a hut at the edge 
 of the woods. So in there my gentleman goes. You know 
 none of us never could find where he put up. So, my fine boy 
 goes in ; and I sees a hole of a window at one side, so up I 
 goes, giving him time to get seated at his piano, as I supposed, 
 from his high and mighty airs. In I peeps, and there — oh, my, 
 I can't tell you. {laughing immoderately.) 
 
 Boys. Come, tell us, Cale ; go ahead with it. 
 
 Caleb, It's too good ; I can't tell you. 
 
 Tom. You'd better, or I'll shake it out of you. 
 
 Harry. I'd like to shake his mean soul out of him. 
 
 Caleb. Well, here goes. Oh, gracious ! I peeped in at the 
 
pbescott's plain dialogues. 77 
 
 window, and there was King Charlie, with — what do you 
 think? 
 
 All What ? tell us what ? 
 
 Caleb. With — oh, nij ! ^vith a great, big, blue clieck woman's 
 apron on. 
 
 All. I-Jurrah for Miss Charlie ; hurrah for the boy with a blue 
 check woman's apron on. Go on, go on, Cale. 
 
 Caleb. Yes ; oh, I'll die with laughter. I most burst, trying - 
 to keep in there. 
 
 Boys {impatiently). Well, what was he doing? 
 
 Caleb. I'm comdng to it. What do you think ? — iDasliing tJie 
 dishes. 
 
 Boys. Hurrah for the dish-washer ! 
 
 One. I'll tell my mother to hire him — she wants a gal. 
 
 Another. I'll hire him myself. I'm going to housekeeping. 
 
 Tom. Now, Harry, what do you say for your paragon ? I 
 believe that's the word ; ain't it ? 
 
 Harry {aside ; angrily). I did not think he ^s^as such a milk- 
 sop. I'll let him go. {aloud) Why, perhaps, it wasn't him at 
 all. 
 
 Boys. Oh, now, that wont go down ; you know it was ; but 
 go on, Caleb — tell us the rest ; did he wash them clean ? 
 
 Caleb. It was the poorest kind of a place, I tell you. He was 
 a standing at a little table, where he couldn't see me ; but I 
 could see him. He was a washing away, and I heard something 
 else — a woman — talking. Charlie was saying : ''Mother, don't 
 you be tiring yourself washing little Alice ; when I'm done the 
 pots, and pails, and kettles, I'll wash her, too ; just you lean 
 back in your chair and rest ;" and then the woman says : " No, 
 Charlie, this doesrr't tire me ; and you have your lessons to 
 study, too, for you know I want you to keep your place." 
 Now, wasn't that mean — just putting him up to keeping us out * 
 of our places ? 
 
 Torn. I say, boys, let's go, after school to-morrow, and see 
 Charlie washin' dishes. Say, shall we ? 
 
 Boys. Yes, yes ; let's go. 
 
 Harry. I, for one, will not go. I'm no eavesdropper nor 
 
 spy. 
 
78 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Caleb, Bo you mean to say I am ? 
 
 Harry. Yes. (Caleb slinks aicay. Airproaches To:^J[, and in 
 dum'b show , as^cs him to fight IIaeky.) 
 
 Torn. 1\0y no ; figlit your own battles. I've enougli for me. 
 Come, boys, let's go home, and dream we've nabbed old Howard, 
 and eacli got a. ten dollar gold piece. \_Excunt. 
 
 Ned. I'll go along to keep tliem in order ; 'twill go liard witli 
 me, but I will win tliis reward ; psliaw, tliis ten dollars, I 
 mean. With it, I can reach tlie city at last, and then good bye 
 to being a good boy. \_Exit, slowly. 
 
 ACT II. ScEXE I. — Charlie sitting on a log at the edge of the 
 woods, in a desponding attitude. 
 
 Charles. No, I can not endure it any longer. I icill leave 
 school, though to do so, will be to give up all my bright dreams, 
 all my cherished hopes ; for, poor boy though I am, I haze 
 dreams and hopes. Yes, I have dreamed of a time when I 
 could support my dear mother and my little sister, (Jiere Mr. 
 HowAKD and Mr. Wayxe approach, unperceived ; they see 
 Charlie, and stop. Charlie continues) when the education 
 she has worked so hard to give me might be made the medium 
 and the evidence of my gratitude to her. 1 have hoped, but it is 
 no use. For three weeks, my schoolmates have taunted and 
 jeered me. Some way they have found out how I work, and 
 every moment they can, tliey taunt me by saying, " Polly, put the 
 kettle on," or ask me if my dishcloth is clean, and the baby's 
 face washed ? Oh ! if one of them had a sick mother, who still 
 sewed day after day, and far into the night, h^w gladly I would 
 help him with the v.'ork he did to help her. I would not call 
 him a girl-boy nor tantalize him ; but I must give it up. Mr. 
 Eoss will give me three dollars a week to mind his store, and I 
 must take it. If I could only get that ten dollars, it would en- 
 able mother to take a rest, and then she would get well ; but I 
 need not think of it ; they are all against me, even Mr. Wayne. 
 {rises, and exit slowly. Mr. Howard a;zcZ Mr. \Yayne look at 
 eacli other.) 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 79 
 
 Mr. H. Is that boy one of your pupils, Mr. Wayne ? 
 
 Mr, W. He is, and lie seems in great trouble. 
 
 Mr. H. Yes, but it is sucli as can be easily remedied, I hope. 
 Wliat is it ? 
 
 Mr. W. Well, really, Mr. Howard, I amlialf ashamed to say 
 that I do not know. Charles Stephens has always been so re- 
 served that I could not understand him, and I dislike anything 
 like secretiveness above all. I can forgive what to others might 
 seem graver faults, if accompanied by an upright spirit. 
 There's Tom Jones, for example ; he is heedless, often displays 
 a spirit of rebellion, but still, he is so candid 
 
 Mr. H. {interrupting). Excuse me, my dear sir, but I do not 
 think that Tom Jones' candor, which may really be only a spirit 
 of brava^do, should extenuate the commission of the faults you 
 mention. I happen to know something about him myself . As 
 for this other boy, what faults do you find in him beside the re- 
 serve you so dislike ? 
 
 Mr. W. I must say I cannot find any fault with him except 
 on that score — he is quiet, obedient, and studious. 
 
 Mr. H. (icarmly). My dear sir, what more would you have ? 
 We must not look for perfection in a school-boy. I shall be 
 satisfied with a 'cery good one, for whoso benefit I can expend a 
 portion of my superfluous wealth. If I find such a one, I shall, 
 as you know, aid him to prosecute his studies, enable him to 
 enter college, give him a trade or profession, or the means of 
 starting in business, as he may prefer, and if he prove worthy, 
 be a friend to him for life. I am not an advocate for j)osthu- 
 mous charities. The good I do now may be indefinitely multi- 
 plied if my boy, when he grows up, should do the same for 
 another, and he for a third, and so on. 
 
 Mr. W. Yes, I see ; like Benjamin Franklin and his dollar, 
 you would extend the sphere of your benevolence beyond your 
 own time. 
 
 Mr. H. I don't call it benevolence. I have more money than 
 I need, or shall ever use, and I was once a poor struggling boy 
 myself, who would have given ten years of his life for this 
 chance that I offer, of an education, 
 
 Mr. W. Well, Mr. Howard, I wish to assist you consc3en= 
 
I 
 
 80 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 tiouslj, therefore I shall try and find out the secret of Charlie's 
 reserve, and give him an equal chance with the rest, of profiting 
 hy your liberality. 
 
 3Ir. H. Do not misunderstand me ; it is the most meritorious 
 who is to gain the reward, both the present slight one, and the 
 future more valuable one, whether it be Tom Jones or Charles 
 Stephens. But I would like you to find out the cause of his 
 trouble, and let me know. 
 
 Mr, TF- I shall not fail to do so. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The school-room. Boys standing around teacher. 
 
 Teacher. Well, boys, the day after will be the day. Already 
 I have seen the truth of Mr. Howard's assertion that though all 
 cannot gain the prize he has offered, yet all would be the bet- 
 ter for trying. I think you have all been trying, for there is 
 certainly the evidence of it in the increased subordination, and 
 diligence of the greater number of you, at least. 
 
 Ned. B. Well, teacher, I don't care so much for the prize, 
 for, as you know, my father is very rich ; but I would like to 
 please you and Mr. Howard, who is so kind. 
 
 Harry. D. The hypocrite ! 
 
 Teacher. What did you mutter, Harry Dare ? Don't hesitate 
 so ; answer me. 
 
 Ned. Please, teacher, don't mind making him answer. 
 
 Teacher. Why not ? 
 
 Ned. I don't v/ant him to be punished — or I don't mean that ; 
 but I do not care v/hat is said of me, if I only have your appro- 
 bation and that of my conscience. 
 
 Harry. ISTow^ I will speak ; I said 
 
 Teacher. Harry, be silent. Ned Burton, I should be sorry to 
 think you did not merit the ai)proval you speak of ; but your 
 words are almost too fair and good. Take care that your actions 
 correspond with them. 
 
 Harry. Master, I loill speak, at the risk of your displeasure. 
 I said Ned Burton was a hypocrite, and I maintain it, 
 
 Teacher. Can you prove what you assert ? 
 
 Ned. No, sir, he can't ; he's no witnesses. 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 81 
 
 Harry {indignantly), ^Vitnesses I my word is as good as 
 - yours. 
 
 Teaclier. Well, say wliat you have to say. 
 
 Harry. Yesterday you blamed Cliarlie Stephens for not hav- 
 ing written his Latin exercise, and when he said he had written 
 it, but could not find it, you would scarcely believe it. 
 
 Teacher. Yes, I remember ; go on. (Xed appears agitated, 
 but says notliing.) 
 
 Harry. At noon, to-day, I wished to get something from my 
 portfolio. Xed Burton has one exactly like mine. I went to 
 my desk, and to my surprise saw the portfolio on, instead of 
 inside the desk. I opened it, and the first x^^iper I savv- was 
 Charlie Stephens' exercise. Surprised at this, I turned over 
 another leaf, when I saw at once the portfolio was not mine. 
 I looked for the name, and found it to be Edward Burton. He 
 has known of the exercise being there, for I have seen him 
 looking all through his i^ortfolio since then. 
 
 Teaclier. Edward, what have you to say to this charge ? 
 
 i^ed. Xothing, sir, except that it is false. 
 
 Harry. Look in his portfolio. 
 
 Is'ed. Yes, as you did, sneaking Paul Pry ! 
 
 Harry. I did not pry ; your portfolio was on my desk, and I 
 thought it was mine. 
 
 ^ed. Oh ! yes, that's easily said. 
 
 Teaclier. Boys, cease this crimination and recrimination. 
 An inspection of the ]3ortfolio will settle the question. Tom, 
 bring it to me. 
 
 Is'ed. Xo, sir, I deny your right to inspect my possessions. 
 He shall not get it. 
 
 Teacher. Shall not I Do you say he shall not obey my com- 
 i mands ? 
 * Xed.. Yes. sir, I say he shall not touch my property. 
 
 Teacher. Tom, bring me his por-tfolio. (Xed makes an effort 
 to get it, hut is held ly several hoys. Then assumes a defiant ex- 
 pression.) 
 
 Tom. Here, sir. {teacher looks through, the portfolio, and 
 draics forth the lost exercise. Boys utter xarious sounds of as- 
 tonishment and horror.) 
 
82 PKESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGUES. 
 
 Teacher {sternly). Edward Burton, I am shocked and pained 
 beyond expression, to find tliat one of my "boys — one, too, whom 
 I trusted; and wlio but to-day made professions so greatly at 
 variance with such conduct — should be guilty of the great 
 WTong of wilfully seeking to injure another, and adding to that 
 WTong the grievous one of falsehood. You are dismissed from 
 this school, and sorry I am to be compelled to say, that in your 
 case there are no extenuating circumstances. In order to lessen 
 the chance of another gaining an offered reward, you hesitate 
 not to subject him to unjust censure, nor to expose him to the 
 suspicion of falsehood. Charles, I regret my hasty action 
 tov/ard you ; as for you, Edward, you are no longer a pupil of 
 mine, but if, after long reflection on your wicked conduct 
 
 Ned {interrupting). Oh, if you mean I'll want to come back, 
 and beg pardon, and all that, you're very much mistaken, and 
 as for your dismissal, why, if I had only succeeded in getting 
 old Howard's ten dollars, I intended to dismiss myself right 
 oft, for I am sick of this lov/ school, where rowdies and disli- 
 v/asliers get all the favors. You wanted to find me out a 
 villain, and nov/ j)i'etend to be sorry that your scheme v/as suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 Teacher. Take your books and depart ; 1 will hear no more. 
 (Ned collects hooks, etc., goes to the door, stops, and, loith an 
 ironical boio, saps :) 
 
 Ned. Good-bye, sir ; I wish you joy of your excellent scholars 
 and your liberal friends. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — School-room. Mk. Howard and Mr. Wayne 
 
 seated. 
 
 Mr. H. Well, sir, his mother, you say, appears to be deli- 
 cate ? 
 
 Teacher. Yes, sir ; it is my honest opinion that one year 
 more of her present existence v/ould terminate it. 
 
 Mr. II. And she says that, but for this son, she could not 
 manage to get alon^' ? 
 
 Teacher. Yc3 ; Charles has, when freed from his school du- 
 ties, earned, on an average, from one to two dollars a week by 
 
PRESCOTT's PliATN DIALOGUES. 83 
 
 doing various little services for tlie farmers living about here, 
 particularly, carrying messages, an office in whicli lie is inval- 
 uable ; tbev say lie never makes a mistake, never requires to 
 bo told twice, and is always j)unctual and prompt. 
 
 J/r. n. I tliink more of liis assisting liis motlier in lier 
 bouscwork, for that sliows a spirit whicli is above false pride, 
 a quality I detest. So many boys are ruined by the pernicious 
 idea that it is degrading to do aught that seems, to their per- 
 verted view, unmanly. A want of manliness is degrading ; 
 but few of the young understand that true manliness consists 
 in doing our duty, whatever it may be, unmoved by the sneers 
 of others. But, I say, Mr. Wayne, I am a pretty good judge 
 of human nature, or boy nature, am I not ? 
 
 Mr. W. I must say you are, sir. Your penetration in this 
 case was greater than mine. 
 
 Mr. H. Ah ! ha I I thought you would agree to that. "Well, 
 time is nearly up ; and now be sure to tell the boys everything ; 
 that is, tell them all about Charlie's devotion to his mother ; 
 but do not, of course, say anything of my intention to provide 
 for his mother and sister until he is able to do so himself. 
 
 Mr. W. I shall attend to it, sir. 
 
 Enter Boys. They low to Mr. Howard and Teacher, and 
 stand in order. 
 
 Teacher. Well, boys, this afternoon w^ill decide w^hich of you 
 will obtain the reward offered for good conduct by your kind 
 friend, Mr. Howard ; a rew^ard, which, as I intimated, will 
 not stop at the sum of money oiTered to-day. Take your seats. 
 
 Mr. H. Xo, young gentlemen, the one who is proved most 
 worthy shall receive substantial and lasting evidence of my 
 good- will. Your teacher tells me that you have, with one ex- 
 ception, appeared actuated by a desire to improve. I trust this 
 improvement will continue, and I shall feel a pride and pleas- 
 ure in continuing the w^arm friend to education as manifested 
 in this school, that I ahvays have been. Mr. Wayne, will you 
 proceed ? 
 
 Teacher. As> Mr. Howard had said, I have been pleased to see 
 
84 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 a decided improvement in many of you, and all of you liave 
 merited in different degrees. I liave, liowever, already decided 
 upon tlie one, wlio, judged by liis actions in school and out of 
 it, lias best deserved tlie prize, {sensation among the hoys) But 
 before announcing liis name, I sliall first tell you a little story. 
 Not very far from your scliool liouse -t^liere is a little cottage, 
 in wbicli dwells a widow and lier two children. These chil- 
 dren, the elder of whom is a boy, she has supported by con- 
 stant and untiring, though not altogether unaided labor of her 
 hands. The aid she has had was given by her son, in the in- 
 tervals of his school duties. But I should have said that this 
 poor woman has contrived to keep her son constantly at school, 
 hoping that the education he thus acquired would be the 
 means of enabling him to support her when she could no 
 longer provide for him. He assisted her in various ways, earn- 
 ing now and then a little money, but most of all in her liousc- 
 iDorlc. (boys appear surprised) Yes, young gentlemen, though 
 you may think it derogatory to the dignity of a boy, it seems 
 he did not. His mother, whose health was enfeebled by her 
 efforts in behalf of her children, would have sunk long ago 
 had not her tasks been lightened by her devoted assistant, Avho 
 took upon himself the hardest, as well as the most menial, du- 
 ties of the household. It is unnecessary for me to enumerate 
 in detail all that he did. Although his schoolmates frequently 
 had ridiculed his sensitive and retiring disposition, they w^ent no 
 further, until, by some unfortunate, and, I fear, underhand 
 means, they discovered his mode of spending the hours given 
 them for play. From that moment there was no more peace 
 for him. At every opportunity he was saluted by such terms 
 as dish-washer, baby-tender, and similar ones. This became 
 at last so unendurable that he resolved to quit the school, and 
 take a situation in a store. Against this determination his 
 love of knowledge and his mother's wishes both contended, 
 and in the end prevailed. That you may not under-cstimate 
 the heroism of his course — for heroism it certainly w^as — in thus 
 continuing to endure the taunts and jeers of his school- fellows, 
 I shall merely say, that his sensitiveness is so great that, on one 
 occasion, being unjustly and harshly accused of a fault, he vra;i; 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 85 
 
 unable to defend himself, and only cliance revealed tlie truth. 
 This boy, whose true manliness enabled him to endure con- 
 tempt and ridicule, rather than swerve from the path of duty, 
 is, I need scarcely add, one of your own companions ; and to 
 him is adjudged the prize, with, I hope, your approval. 
 
 Boys. Yes, indeed, sir ; he deserves it. We didn't know his 
 mother was sick, etc. 
 
 Mr. H. Yes, young gentlemen, you truly say he deserves it ; 
 and I am glad to know, by the heartiness of your replies, that 
 you speak as you think. Charles Stephens, by the decision of 
 your teacher, and the aj^proval of your schoolmates, you are 
 entitled to the prize. And while I commend your example in 
 the past to them, I trust that neither you nor they will ever be 
 led away from the right by ridicule, and nevei' consider any 
 service that is done for a mother as detracting in the sliglitest 
 degree from your character for True Manliness. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 THE BOY VHO WINS. 
 
 ASA D. COX, A. M. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Dick Richardson, a hoy of sixteen, who has surfeited with the 
 vam pleasures of the world, is weary of life, and imagines 
 himself Lord Byron No. 2. 
 
 Frank Cleveland, a hoy of fifteen, a dashing, youthful Beau 
 Brummel. 
 
 Barkeeper. 
 
 Policeman. 
 
 Uncle John Cleveland, an old man. 
 
 Samuel Mason Strong, a country hoy of about fifteen. 
 
 Scene I. — Barroom. Jyic^ and Yra.'i^is. seated, with their feet 
 on the hacks of chairs, smoking. Both carry canes and 
 wear high silk hats. 
 
 Frank. Well, Dick, let's have another reviver. 
 
86 pkescott's plain DiAiiOarES. 
 
 Dick. With all my lieart ; it makes a fellow feel better. It 
 creates a m.ental delusion wliicli is very agreeable, {they go to 
 bar. Barkeepek hands out bottle and glasses.) 
 
 Frank Qiolding up his glass). Here's luck to you, Dick ! 
 
 Dick {Jiolding up his glass). Here's liealtli and long life to you, 
 Frank, {they touch glasses and drink.) 
 
 Frank {to B.^:k,keepeii). Let's have fresh cigars ; the best 
 you have in the shop. (Barkeeper hands out a box. They each 
 take a cigar, light them and resume their seats) That's a pretty 
 nice fitting pair of boots, Dick. 
 
 Dick. Oh, they'll do for the sort of boot-makers we have in 
 this country, but I'm going to send to Europe for my boots 
 after this ; they can't make anything right on this side of the 
 Atlantic. 
 
 Frank. That's just vv^hat I've been telling everybody. 
 
 Dick. This country is a played out place, Frank. 
 
 Frank. Well, I don't know. There's some very good things 
 in it yet ; and considerable fun, too. 
 
 Dick. No, Frank. I'm sick of this country and long to get 
 away from it. 
 
 " \Vith thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 
 
 Athwart the foaming brine ; 
 Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 
 So not again to mine." 
 
 Frank. Well, that's very pretty. But, old fel, why are you 
 so sick of this country ? 
 
 Dick. Oh, it's played out ! There's nothing in it to interest 
 a fellow. 
 
 "Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue weaves, 
 
 And when ye fail my sight, 
 Welcome ye deserts and ye caves. 
 My native land— good-night." 
 
 Oh ! if I was on the ocean, destined to some far-off country, 
 how gladly would I address those lines to my country ! I don't 
 know v/hat I was ever born in this country for. I ought to 
 have been born in Greece or the Orient. 
 
 Frank. Why, yes, Dick ; to a gentleman of your poetic turn 
 of mind this country is a sort of humdrum place ; that's a fact ; 
 but, then, Dick, there's a good many things that's pleasant in 
 
PRESCOTT S PLAIN DIALOGUES. 87 
 
 this country ; there's tlie ladies, and sleigh-riding, and the 
 Fourth of July, and Christmas, and lots of other good things. 
 
 Dick. Yes, Franlv ; to a young fellow like you there's a good 
 many things that are very i^leasant, but, when a fellow gets 
 along in years as I have, he gets iccary of the dull monotony 
 of life, he demands change of scenery and new skies. 
 
 Frank, ^^'hy, Dick, we have some beautiful ladies here- 
 abouts ; that fact ought to keep a fellow from being low 
 spirited. 
 
 Dick. Oh, Frank, there are no ladies of my accaiaintance 
 who are able to excite in my heart emotions even of a tran- 
 sient nature. 
 
 '' My days are in the yellow leaf, 
 
 The flowers, the fruits of love are gone ; 
 The worm, the canker and the grief 
 / Are mine alone." 
 
 ^ Frcink. Y\e\\, for my part, I am still fond of the society of 
 the dear creatures. By the way, Dick, you ought to see the 
 divine Spigelia Spignet. You haven't seen her, have you? 
 
 Dick. Xo. Is she very pretty ? 
 
 Frank. Pretty ! My dear sir, that is too feeble a word. 
 Beautiful falls far short of the truth. "^Vhy, Dick, her loveli- 
 ness is of that ethereal type that makes you think you are be- 
 holding an angel when you look at her. Her eyes sparkle lilve 
 diamonds in the noonday sun. Her neck — but what's the use 
 of my attempting to describe her beauty. It surpasses all de 
 scription, 
 
 Dick. I should like to see her. Perhaps she may excite some 
 new emotion in my heart. 
 
 Frank. "VVTiy, my dear fellow, you will go crazy the very 
 minute you see her, but that can't be for a month. She has 
 gone to her uncle's, about twenty miles from here, and won't 
 be back for a month. So you must wait with patience until 
 she returns. Well, I feel like taking another wee bit of the 
 nectar, don't you, Dick ? 
 
 Dick. Oh, I'm not very dry, but I'm at your service, {they 
 go to the bar again and drink, and then resume their seats.) 
 
 Frank. What do vou think, Dick ; the old s-overnor tried to 
 
88 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 get me to go to school last Monday morning ! Wliat do you 
 think of tliat ? 
 
 Dick {icitli disgust). Scliool ! tlie last place in the world. I 
 am surprised that your father wants you to fool your time 
 away at such a place. 
 
 Frank. I gave the old gentleman notice that I am a little too 
 far along in years to be a spooney and go to school. Says he : 
 '' My son, when I was a boy of your age I went to school.'' 
 Says I, ** Governor, the world h.diS progressed since then." By 
 the way, Dick, Araminta, your old flame, is getting along in 
 years somewhat, isn't she ? 
 
 Dick. Yes, somewhat so. She don't interest me any more. 
 
 Frank. I should think she must be somewhere in the neigh- 
 borhood of thirteen or fourteen, aint she ? 
 
 Dick. Yes, not far from it. I don't take any interest in her 
 now, or, in fact, in anything else. I am out with the world. 
 "I have not loved the world, nor the world me." 
 
 Franlc. Why, Dick, you are a real misanthrope. 
 
 Dick. Yes ; somewhat on that order, 
 
 Frank {looking at Ms tcatcli). Well, it's time for me to go. 
 I have an engagement this evening. Call around and see me, 
 Dick. 
 
 Dick. I v/ill. {Exit Frank) I wish I could enjoy life like 
 that fellow. 
 
 Barkeeper. Why, yes ; he's a gay blade. 
 
 Dick. Well, I guess I must be going. I want to read Byron 
 a little v/hile, and then take a game of whist with Miss Wilson. 
 I must do something to drive off the ennui which torments me. 
 {Exit Dick repeating ) " The day of my destiny's over, and the 
 star of my life has declined." 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Enter Sa^iuel Mason Strong, a country hoy, dressed in clothes 
 much too small for him ; a hat too Mg ; 'bundle in hand, 
 etc. He is staring around as if looking at signs. 
 
 Samuel. Oh, dear, I'm very tired and almost discouraged. 
 I've been in twenty places, and nobody wants a country boy. 
 
PHESCOTT's plain DIxiLOGUES. 89 
 
 Some treat me kindly but the most of tliem laugh at me, and 
 their clerks jeer at my clothing. It's very hard for a boy to 
 start alone in the world. If mother could see me now and 
 know how hard I've tried to do something for myself, she 
 would cry herself sick at my wretched condition. I don't know 
 w^here I'll sleep to-night, and I'm sick with hunger, I believe ; 
 I feel so very faint. 
 
 Enter Dick Kichardson, cigar in mouthy cane in hand. He 
 runs against Sam. 
 
 Dick, Out of the way, you country lout. 
 
 Bam. Did you run against me on purpose ? 
 
 Dick. Of course I did ! When a gentleman comes along 
 after this you'll know enough to give the path. 
 
 Bam. You call yourself a gentleman, do you ? I don't. 
 
 Dick. Take that ! {striking Mm icith cane) I don't bandy 
 words with a country boor. 
 
 Sam. Take that ! {striking him a hloio on the head that 
 knocks him down) I don't bandy words with a city ruffian, nor 
 submit to his insults either. 
 
 Dick {springing to his feet and rudbing his head). Oh, you 
 scoundrel — you asassin — to strike a gentleman ! I'll have you 
 arrested at once. Police ! Police ! 
 
 JEJiiter Policeman. 
 
 Police. What's the row here, now ? 
 
 Dick. That country boor knocked me down and would have 
 robbed me. 
 
 Sam. He's a liar and ruffian. He first insulted me grossly by 
 trying to run me ofi the walk, and then, because I called him 
 no gentleman, he struck me with that cane, and I knocked him 
 down for it, as I'll do to any one who offers me an insult vvitli- 
 out provocation. 
 
 Police. Right, boy. You, Mr. Tailor Sign, travel, or I'll 
 give you lodging in the station-house. 
 
 Dick. If this aint outrageous — to take the part of that 
 bumpkin against a gentleman. 
 
90 peescott's plain DiALoarES. 
 
 Police. No gentleman, you young puppy, or you wouldn't 
 have insulted this harmless country boy. Move along, I say, 
 or I'll make you answer for this unprovoked assault by having 
 you sent up for thirty days. 
 
 Dick {sullenly). Beastly country this, where even the officers 
 of the law are leagued against the upper classes. I'll get out 
 of it. {moves on,) 
 
 Police. Well, boy, who are you? 
 
 Sam. I'm named Samuel Mason Strong. I came from the 
 country to find something to do in the city, and for three days 
 have tramped the city over in search of work, but can find 
 nothing to do. I'm tired, hungry, and most discouraged. 
 
 Police. Poor fellow ! I'm sorry for you and for the hun- 
 dreds of other country lads who drift into the city to their 
 own injury. There are too many people here now. 
 
 8mn. I must find employment, for mother's sake, if only to 
 send her five dollars a month. We're alone in the world now, 
 and I'm to be her stay and support. I will find work, or die 
 in the effort. 
 
 Police. You're the true stuff, lad. It's such boys as you 
 who are to become the future great men. Boys like that snob 
 who insulted you — gentlemen's sons, whose greatest misfortune 
 is in not having to work for a living — will make our future 
 vagabonds. That's the way the scales go up and down. Here's 
 my card. If worst comes to worst, you shan't want for food 
 and lodging if you'll call at the Grrand street station house ; 
 I've always got a bed for such as you. [Exit. 
 
 Sam {stepping for loard, recites:) 
 
 Alone, amidst the countless throng, 
 
 My feet with trembling stand ; 
 Only in youth and honor strong, 
 
 And a willing, ready hand. 
 " God helps those who deserve His aid,'' 
 
 I hear my mother say ; 
 And when God aids am I afraid ? 
 
 My soul within cries— ?iay .-' 
 Be strong, my heart ! My soul, be true I 
 
 There's a future grand to meet I 
 There's a mother's love to steady you, 
 
 When weary grow the feet. 
 
pksscott's plain dialogues. 91 
 
 I'll faint not on the path men tread, 
 
 Nor falter while there's light, 
 But, hj my youth and honor led, 
 
 Strike for my manhood's right 1 
 
 While Sam is reciting, Uncle John enters and listens, and ichen 
 Sam turns, he confronts Uncle John. 
 
 Uncle John {eyeing ^am from head to foot). Um ! country boy, 
 ell? 
 
 Sam, Yes, sir. 
 
 Uncle J. Want work, eli ? 
 
 8am. Yes, sir, anything honorable. 
 
 Uncle J. Got recommend, eli ? 
 
 Sam. No, sir ; I know nobody in this great city. 
 
 Uncle J. Um ! Read and write, eh ? 
 
 Sam. Yes, sir ; I have a fair education. Mother taught me. 
 
 Uncle J. Um ! Name ! 
 
 Sam. Strong — Samuel Mason Strong, sir, from Franklin 
 county. 
 
 Uncle J. You'll do. Come ! {starts to go.) 
 
 Sam. But, sir, I want to know just what I am to do before I 
 go. I am not afraid of work, but I will not go at anything 
 blindly. 
 
 Uncle J. Um ! Right, boy, right ! Good principles, good 
 mother. 
 
 Sam. The dearest mother in the world ! I want work right 
 away for her sake, and wages enough to send her five dollars 
 a month. 
 
 Enter Frank, in hacJcgroiind. 
 
 Uncle J. Um ! You shall have it. Want boy — honest, 
 bright, faithful, to stay with me, go round with me, read to 
 me, do errands for me that I can't commit to the servants, have 
 you write letters, perhaps, kee]3 accounts. Expected^ my 
 nephew to take the place, but he's spoilt — a fop — a spendthrift 
 — wont amount to anything — um ! That's all I What do you 
 say? 
 
 Sam. I'll go with you, sir, and try. I hope I'll please. 
 
 [Exeunt Sam and Uncle John. Frank advances. 
 
92 pkescott's plain dialogues, 
 
 Frank, Well, if this isn't rich. Uncle Jolin expected me to 
 take tlie place of errand-boy and body-servant. I'd see Mm 
 liung first. The governor must provide for me until I'm 
 twenty ; then I'll go in on matrimony and marry some one of a 
 dozen rich girls, and go in business in a fine way. The idea of 
 the old fool's thinking I would serve as his penwiper and body- 
 guard, when I'm his natural heir ! 
 
 Be-enter Dick, with eye "bound np. 
 
 Whew ! Dick ; what's the matter ? 
 
 Dick. A country lout struck me and so blackened my eye 
 that I can't be seen for a month. It was right here he did it, 
 and I've. returned to pistol him. {shows pistol.) 
 
 Frank. Ha ! ha ! Uncle John just took your lout home with 
 him. He's going to make him his secretary, errand-boy and 
 body-guard. 
 
 Be-enter Uncle John, in background. 
 
 Dick. Your Uncle John has taken that country bumpkin into 
 his employ ! The old ass ! 
 
 Frank. Oh, he got him cheap, I suppose. Uncle John goes 
 in on the economical, if he is worth his half -million. All 
 right, Dick. It'll be more for me to spend when I come into 
 his property. So, I say, Dick, let the country greenhorn 
 alone and use your pistol on better game if you want to shoot 
 somebody. 
 
 Dick. All right, Frank. Let's go and liquor ! 
 
 [Exeunt. Uncle John advances from background. 
 
 Uncle J. Um ! So that's the programme, is it ? I saw Dick 
 pass my carriage, and came back here to speak with him. Glad 
 I came. Promising youth ! And Frank, too ! It's enough. 
 I'm decided now, if I never was before. [Exit. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 Scene III.— Uncle John's study or office. Present, Uncle 
 John and Sam. Sam dressed in neat clothes. 
 
 Uncle J. Samuel, you have been with me one year to-day. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 93 
 
 We've had no settlement, nor liave I given you any fixed 
 wages, for, you see, you've been with, me on trial. Xow I 
 propose tliat we come to some definite understanding. 
 
 Sam. Thank you, sir, for your kindness to me. You've 
 been very good indeed. I've drawn the sixty dollars I sent to 
 mother, and sixty dollars more that I've had to spend on my- 
 self. That is one hundred and twenty dollars. I hope, sir, 
 I've earned that much. 
 
 Uncle J. Um ! Here's my account. {looJcing over poclcet 
 riiemoranduin-hook) Yes, you've had just what you say ; but, 
 as I've kept the account, there's a little balance due you, and 
 here is a check for the amount. (Jiands clieck.) 
 
 Sam {looking at clieck). A mistake, sir. This is for one thou- 
 sand dollars. It's for the house use, I suppose. 
 
 Uncle J. Xo, my boy. I really owe you more than that 
 amount for the serAi.ce you have rendered. You have saved 
 me that much every month since you have been with me, by 
 your management of my accounts and business. That check 
 is yours, Samuel, with my sincere regards. Shake hands, 
 boy I {tliey clasp liands.) 
 
 Sam. Dear, good Mr. Cleveland I I've not earned such a 
 sum, and it would be wrong for me to take it. What v/ould 
 mother say if I should permit your generosity to outweigh my 
 services ? 
 
 Uncle J. A. mother ought to be proud of the son who thinks 
 always of her before he thinks of himself. 
 
 Sam. I hope she is, sir. She has been an angel to me. All 
 I am I owe to her. 
 
 Uncle J. Would you like to see her ? 
 
 Sam. Oh, so much, that I was going to ask you if I might be 
 permitted to be absent a week to spend with her. 
 
 Uncle J. Xo need to go away, Samuel. She will be here to- 
 night. 
 
 Sam. Mr. Cleveland — Uncle John, what do you mean ? 
 
 Uncle J. That's right — Uncle John's the word, Sammy, boy ! 
 I've been in correspondence with your mother for some time. 
 Fact is, I was so sure she was a good and trustful v/oman, by 
 
9i prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 your strict integrity of cliaracter, that I propose to restore to 
 lier all my property in the upper part of tlie city. 
 
 Sam. Restore to her ? What can you mean ? 
 
 Uncle J. Well, boy, I will explain, partially, at least. Your 
 m.other's father and myself were half brothers by marriage — 
 my father marrying his widowed mother, Mrs. Mason, vv^hen 
 we both were small boys. His mother was possessed of the 
 fifteen acres of rocks and swamp in the upjoer part of the city, 
 which has stood in my name for over thirty years, by no right- 
 ful deed, but by will of my father, who had no legal right to 
 will it away at all. But John Mason was willed the homestead 
 at Southwich, and I was given the New York property, which 
 then really had very small value. The location of the park, 
 however, changed all that, and within a few years it has be- 
 come immensely valuable. After you had been with me a 
 short time, I had reason to think you were John Mason's grand- 
 son, and soon found out by correspondence with your mother 
 that she was indeed John Mason's only surviving child. That 
 Park property is hers, and this day, Sammy, boy, I have made 
 out and recorded a quit-claim deed that makes her its sole and 
 rightful possessor, and she comes down to-day to enter upon its 
 possession. I congratulate you, Sammy. Shake hands ! {tJiey 
 again clasp hands.) 
 
 Sam. Why, Uncle John, it is robbery. Shell never take it. 
 
 Uncle J. She cannot help herself. The deed is done — ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! and I am so happy, boy, about it, that — well, never 
 mind. That puppy and spendthrift, Frank, never will have 
 one dollar of my money to spend or lend to that greater puppy 
 and spendthrift, Dick Richardson — bound to become to as con- 
 temptible scamps as the city can produce. 
 
 Sam. They certainly are mean boys. 
 
 Uncle J. Ay, my lad ! And are winning their just reward — 
 the contempt of every right-minded person. You see in their 
 and your own experience a lesson which is the same every- 
 where — that true worth and integrity, sooner or later, win 
 the first places in life, while pride and contempt for honest 
 worth bring inevitable disaster. Now, go, boy ! The rest of 
 the day is yours to prepare for your mother. Take this check, 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 05 
 
 get it cashed, and spend one hundred dollars of the money in 
 some nice gift for her, that she can treasure as a memento of 
 the happy anniversary of the advent in Xew York of the poor 
 country lad. 
 
 Sam. And of the acquaintance of a good and truly honest 
 man. \_Exit. 
 
 Uncle J. "A. good and truly honest man." Thank you, "boy. 
 The old man can die content with that engraven on his tomb- 
 stone, (puts handkerchief to eyes as if weeping.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 imOLE NATHAFS INDIAN. 
 
 A. H. WIDNEY. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Uncle Nathan, an old settler. Tom, aged 12 [ ...^ „.„?,.,.<, 
 Uncle Chris, his brother. Bill, aged 10 J ^^^^^^ nepneics. 
 
 Scene. — Boom in Uncle Nathan's house. 
 
 Tom. Uncle Nathan, you promised us boys that if we 
 wouldn't pester you when you were husking corn, you would 
 take an evening and answer our questions about settling u.p 
 the backwoods. Now, here it is almost Christmas, and we 
 haven't heard from you yet. 
 
 TTncle N. Who is to blame, Tom, you or I, eh ? 
 
 Tom. No matter now, 'spect we boys are. Well, were there 
 Indians here when you came ? 
 
 Uncle N. Indians ! Guess there were. Right across the 
 river, not more than a mile from here, there was a camp of 
 over two hundred. 
 
 Tom. What — real wild Indians ? 
 
 Uncle N. To be sure they were. 
 
 Tom. And did they ever scalp anybody? Weren't you 
 
96 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 afraid ? Did they liave bows and arrows, and tomahawks and 
 scalping-knives ? 
 
 Uncle i\r, Nobody was ever scalped to my knowledge. We 
 used to be somewhat fearful at first, but we soon found out 
 that they were either afraid, or had no disposition to hurt us. 
 They had bows and arrows, and some guns and tomahawks, 
 and long knives, which they used for dressing game. 
 
 Bill. Ah, Tom, wouldn't you like to see an Indian — a real 
 bloody, wild Indian ? {a rap at the door, ichicli Uncle Nathan 
 opens, and Uncle Chris enters, disguised as an Indian, Ms 
 face colored a reddish hrown.) 
 
 Uncle Chris, {stepping hack a little into the darkness). 
 Who-o-o-o-o-p ! 
 
 Tom and Bill {starting for the stairs). Oh, dear ! he's an 
 Indian. 
 
 Uncle N. Come back, boys, he won't hurt you. Come in. 
 Wild Cat. 
 
 Uncle C. {laughing). Papooses big scare, oogh ! Big Injun 
 no kill papoose — no kill squaw — kill schmaukie man, oogh ! 
 
 Bill {whispering to his uncle). Oh, I'm afraid he'll kill you, 
 'cause you smoke. Hide your pipe, uncle, for fear he does. 
 
 Uncle N. {taking the pipe from his pocket and handing it to 
 Uncle Chris). Have a smoke, Wild Cat ? 
 
 Uncle G. Ah ! schmaukie man much good. Heap tobacco, 
 big pipe. Any wiskee f 
 
 Uncle N. No whiskey to-night. 
 
 Uncle C. {sorrowfully). Oogh ! Wild Cat much cold. Moc- 
 casin no good. Blanket, oh, much hole. Wiskee make warm, 
 come — make no shiver. Little much wiskee, eh ? 
 
 Uncle N. {shaking his head). No whiskey. 
 
 Uncle G. Schmaukie man no good. Poor Injun wants 
 wiskee^ — make warm come — make Injun much money — much 
 fight. No wiskee? Injun take papooses, eh? Schmaukie 
 man give wiskee, get papooses back, {makes a spring, catches 
 Tom and Bill, and starts for the door.) 
 
 Tom. Murder ! Murder ! MURDEE ! 
 
 Bill. Oh ! toe'U be scalped ! 
 
 UncU JV. Hold on, Chris, enough, enough ; let them go. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues, 97 
 
 Uncle C. How do you like a real, bloody, wild Injun, Bill ? 
 
 Bill {a little sulky). You ain't an Indian. Indians wouldn't 
 scare little boys like you did nie. 
 
 Uncle G. Come, now, Bill, let us be friends again. Here is a 
 book about tlie Indians, that I bouglit for you tlie otlier day. 
 Won't tiiat pay- for your big scare? And I'll sit do'un and 
 be liave myself tlie rest of tlie evening. Come, let us make 
 up. 
 
 Tom. All right. Hurrali for Wild Cat, tlie celebrated Flat- 
 head Chief ! Had any roasted dog to-day, Wild Cat ? 
 
 Uncle N. Now, boys, don't be too hard on Uncle Chris, for I 
 eng*aged him to favor us v/ith an Indian performance to-night, 
 and he has done nobly. Old Wild Cat himself couldn't have 
 surpassed him in playing his part. Come, Billy, let us have 
 your opinion of a real, bloody, wild Indian. 
 
 Bill. I've got over my scare now, and I want to know if that 
 was the way the Injuns used to talk, and did they yell like 
 that ? 
 
 Uncle N. When we came here forty years ago, the Indians 
 had traded with the white people enough to understand the 
 English language, and speak it about as well as your uncle did 
 to-night. Some, of course, got hold of it more readily, and 
 others again w^ere very hard to be understood. Uncle Chris is 
 a fair, average Indian. 
 
 Tom. What did they live on ? Did they farm any ? 
 
 Uncle N. Many years ago they had some cornfields on the 
 river bottom. Wherever they had a village, there was usually 
 a small field close by, where the squaws raised corn, beans, and 
 sometimes pumpkins. 
 
 Tom. The squcaos I Hey, Wild Cat, does your squav/ raise 
 your corn for you? Wouldn't xVunt Em. ''raise cane" if her 
 *' big Injun " wanted her to hoe corn? 
 
 Bill. Hush, Tom, Uncle Xatlian is full of talk ; let us hear 
 vvdiat he has to say. 
 
 Uncle jy. They depended on their guns and bows for most 
 of their living. I have seen a young Indian shoot a blue-bird 
 v/ith his bow and arrow, pull a few feathers off, and roast it on 
 a rod over the smoke and fire, and then eat it. 
 
98 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Tom. Mighty nice, Uncle Wild Cat. How'U you take youi 
 bine-bird ? feathers off, or roasted whole ? 
 
 Uncle G. Tom, I'm afraid yon are not truly thankful to me 
 for showing off the Indian to-night. 
 
 Tom. Oh, yes ! Much obliged to you, Mr. Wild Cat, for 
 scaring me out of a year's growth. Wont you oblige me by 
 taking off my scalp ? Would it be too much trouble to roast 
 me to death, and dance around me while I'm burning ? Would 
 you have some ''wiskee' to get drunk on? Now please do 
 favor us with one of your delightful whoops before going to 
 your wigwam to beat your squaw, and scare your poor orphan- 
 less papooses to death. 
 
 Uncle C. I give it up, Tom ; and if I didn't see the fun in 
 your eyes, I should feel sorry that I had come over here to- 
 night to play the Indian, or the fool, whichever you please to 
 call it. 
 
 To'in {laughing). There, now, Uncle Chris, I'm even with 
 you. You made me believe you were an Indian, and I made 
 you believe I was mad about it, so after we've had one apiece 
 of Uncle Nathan's bell-flower apples, we'll go home. 
 
 Uncle N. {passing the ajpples). Perhaps you will relish them 
 more if I tell you that I bought the tree on which these apples 
 grew of ''Old Johnny Appleseeds," who was a great charac- 
 ter in the early days. 
 
 OTIBTAIN. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 99 
 
 THE USE OF STUDY. 
 
 MISS KOSB LE STRANGE. 
 FOR THREE FEMALES. 
 
 Scene I. — Sitting-room with centre-table. Helen discovered 
 busily studying. - 
 
 Enter Rose. 
 
 Rose. Wliat, Helen ! sitting liere reading those dreadful 
 books ? I want you, right away, to go down town shopping. I 
 must have a new dress for next Monday. Surely your are going 
 to get one, also ? You have worn your last dress four times 
 already ! 
 
 Helen. To tell the truth, Rose, I hardly think I shall go to 
 Mrs. Montgomery's on Zvlonday. I am sick of these fashion- 
 ahle parties, where no one says a sensible thing, but only talks 
 of the opera, beaux, etc. I have been invited to Mrs. Preston's 
 literary reunion, Monday evening, and intend to go. ^ 
 
 Rose. You don't mean Mrs. Charles Preston ! Why, she 
 dropped out of our circle long ago. I'm sure I never acknowl- 
 edge her when I see her. But, what notion vront you get into 
 your head next ? Sitting here reading Tyndal's Lectures is bad 
 enough. Come, put on your things and go with me. 
 
 Helen. I am sorry to disappoint you. Rose, but I cannot 
 aitord to waste a whole morning shopping when I really need 
 nothing. 
 
 Rose. But, I cannot get along without you. I wish you to 
 help me select my silk. You have such good taste. 
 
 Helen. Cannot you go without me this time. Rose ? Do take 
 pity on me and leave me home ! 
 
 Rose. I suppose I will have to ; but, tell me, Helen, do you 
 really prefer your books to parties, dinners, and all our other 
 nice times ? I don't see how you can. 
 
 Helen. I do, and am not ashamed to say so, and I am sure 
 you would be happier if you would learn to love books. 
 
 Rose. Oh ! I could never take all my old school-books and 
 
100 PEESCOTT's PliAlN DIALOGUES. 
 
 review tliem, and read history and pliilosopliy and sucli 
 tilings. 
 
 Helen. But yon could dr.nce until tliree o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, and tliink nothing of it. 
 
 Hose. Come, Helen. Don't be sarcastic, I beg of you. I 
 guess I know enough for all ordinary purposes. And, as I 
 never expect to earn my own living, I do not tliink more study 
 necessary. 
 
 Helen. You say you know enough for all ordinary purposes. 
 Let me examine you. 
 
 Rose (laughing). Well, go on ; I am ready. 
 
 Helen. How many planets has the solar system ? 
 
 Rose. How many planets has the solar system ! Why, I 
 don't remember just now. I suppose I could if I thought a few 
 iTiinutes. 
 
 JJilr/n, Eose, you are a little goose. Every school-girl knows 
 'nr system has eight planets thus far discovered. 
 .1 am. not a scliool-girl. 
 
 Helen {adcle). No, but you ought to be. {direct) Well, how 
 many kingdoms are there ? 
 
 Rose. Grreat Britain, and 
 
 Helen. I do not mean that. I mean mineral, vegetable and 
 animal. 
 
 Rose. How was I to tell what you meant ! However, go 
 on. 
 
 Helen. What is the oldest town in the United States ? 
 
 Rose {hesitating). Let me see : New York ! 
 
 Helen. Why, Rose Yanfield ! 
 
 Rose. Well, you needn't laugh. I'm sure you do not remem- 
 ber everything you ever learned. 
 
 Helen. Who were the first settlers of the city of New York ? 
 
 Rose. The English, of course. 
 
 Helen. Nov/, Eose, I have asked you four simple questions 
 that any persons ought to be ashamed not to be able to answer. 
 You really have given the most absurd answers. If I were 
 you, I would go home, hunt up my history, astronomy and 
 geography, and spend a couple of hours over them each day for 
 a year. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 101 
 
 Rose, Oh, psliaw ! What is the use of studying ? / don't 
 see, as long as I forget it all again. 
 
 Helen. You should have staid two or three years longer at 
 school, instead of going into society. Listen ! {a knock islteard 
 at the door) Come in ! 
 
 Enter shabbily dressed young icoman. 
 
 Young Woman, Good-morning, young ladies, {turning to 
 Helex) jMiss Monroe, I presume. 
 
 Helen. Yes. What do you wish of me ? 
 
 Y. W. Having heard of your deeds of kindness, I came here 
 in hopes of finding some employment. Can you help me ? 
 
 Helen. V>Tiat kind of work can you do ? Do you Vv'ish a 
 place as governess or music-teacher, or are you not fitted for 
 those positions ? 
 
 Y. W. Alas ! That is it. How often have I repented my 
 past life and Avished I could live it over again. May I tell you 
 my story? It may serve as a warning to you two young 
 ladies. 
 
 Helen. We will hear your story. 
 
 Y. TK It is just like a hundred others. I was once the child 
 of loving parents, who gave me my slightest wish. I came 
 out of school at sixteen, considering my education finished. I 
 went right into society, never thinking of anything higher than 
 the opera or a new dress, and never opening a book other than 
 the latest novel. After two or three years of such life, the 
 crash came. My father failed, and, unahle to bear the sneers 
 of those who had once been his friends, shot himself. Then 
 my mother supported herself by taking in fine sewing and 
 other work. Last month she died, and now I am all alone in 
 the world, without home or friends. ! that I had spent my 
 earlier years in study. But, I was vain and idle, and now 
 must take the consequences. 
 
 Helen. Poor woman ! How sorry I am. for you. I will try 
 my best to get a place for you. Let me think ! I believe Mrs. 
 Preston told me she was looking for a genteel young woman as 
 companion to her invalid sister. I shall speak to her about you. 
 You may go up-stairs to mamma, and remain there till I come 
 
102 peescott's plain bialogues. 
 
 np. {Exit Y. W. Turning to Rose) Xow you see, I hope, some 
 of the advantages of early education. 
 
 Bose. Yes, indeed I do. I never thought of it in that way 
 before. Poor woman ! How sorry I am for her. And so 
 young, too ! 
 
 Helen. Her father failed. So may mine or yours. Rose. , 
 Her mother was forced to work, by her hard fortune, and that [ 
 fortune was made tenfold worse by reason of the daughter's | 
 being unfitted for education or training for anything practical. 
 Too much society was her sin. 
 
 Rose. I see it. 
 
 Helen. And her young life was almost an exact counterpart 
 of the life you are now leading — is it not so ? 
 
 Hose. I cannot deny it. 
 
 Helen. Are you brave enough to look the future in the face 
 and say you will not run the risk of that woman's ill fortune ? 
 
 Bose. I am, indeed. One such lesson is enough. I'll take 
 to books again, but in earnest novv^ — not in trilling, as we all 
 did at boarding-school ; and, too, I'll take my share of house- 
 hold duties, thus to be of some service. I amount to nothing 
 nov>^, that is certain. With your help, good Helen, I'll grov/ 
 into a nev/ and a nobler life, (starts to go.) 
 
 Helen {rising). My help, dear Rose, you shall have freely. 
 And, what say you — will you go to Mrs. Preston's with me to 
 see about a place for that poor wom.an ? 
 
 Bose. Certainly I will. 
 
 Helen. V/hat about the new silh ? 
 
 Bose. Never mind the new silk. Perhaps Mrs. Preston will 
 invite me for her reunion, and i^riQn I will not need it. 
 
 Helen. Y\^ould you attend, and thus give up Mrs. Montgom- 
 ery's soiree ? 
 
 Bose. I cannot make a commencement in a better way. 
 
 Helen. Let us go. You shall have the invitation, and I know 
 you'll bo happy over a v^ell-spont evening. 
 
 Rose. The beginning of a v/ell-spent life, I shall seek to 
 make it. 
 
 Helen. And will succeed, I am sure. \_Exeunt. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 103 
 
 THE TOBACOO PLEDGE. 
 
 ELIZABETH E. RALSTON. 
 
 CIIABACTEKS. 
 
 JoK^ LossiNG. Albebt Miller. 
 
 Mr. Wise, their teacher. 
 
 Albert. Good-morning, Jolin. Wliere is your craft bound for 
 so early ? 
 
 Joh)i. Good-morning. As you are trying to talk sailor stylo, 
 I will try, too. My craft is steering, all sail set, for scliool. A 
 delightful harbor, wliere all such vessels as ours may anchor 
 in safety* from the storms of temptation, sure to assail those 
 who remain out at sea. 
 
 Albert. Well done. That's first rate. But come with me to 
 the grocery, and then I will go with you to school. 
 
 John. Why, what do you want there ? 
 
 Albert. I coased five cents from father last night, and I am 
 going to have some cigars. 
 
 John. You have never smoked any, and thej will make you 
 sick. I would rather not go. 
 
 APoerf. Oh, come along and I Vv^ill give you one. We vvill 
 have some fun, I'll warrant. 
 
 John. I thank you. I never use tobacco, for a number of 
 reasons. One is, ''it is a wicked Vv^aste of money." Just 
 think ; if you begin nov/, at eleven years, and spend five cents 
 a day until you are twenty-one years old, to what will it 
 amount ? ^Yhat a number of good books and papers it would 
 get ! $182.50 ; count for yourself. 
 
 Albert. But every boy, who is any kind of a man, smokes, 
 and I am as much of a man as any of them. Why, all use it 
 when they get big, and you will, too. It is just because your 
 mother will not let you. 
 
 John. No, that is not the reason. But my mother has shovm 
 me that it is a sin, and a poison that will destroy my health. 
 And I promised her I would '' Touch not, taste not, handle not 
 the unclean thing. " 
 
104 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Albert. My father uses it, and so does our minister, and 
 nearly everybody I know. And tliey would not use it if they 
 tliouglit it was a sin. Wliy, ministers preacli against every- 
 thing that is v/rong, and I have seen them chewing in church. 
 Now, what can you say to that ? 
 
 John. They do not view the subject in the right light, or 
 they would not do so. Mother says, the Bible forbids " using 
 our money for that which is not meat, or our substance for 
 that which satisfieth not." Now, if it is a poison, it is not 
 m.eat ; it will not sustain life. Therefore, it is wrong. 
 
 Albert. Yes, yes ; that may all be if it is a poison ; but how 
 are you going to prove that ? It has been raised for hundreds 
 of years, and I have never seen or heard tell of a case of poi- 
 soning from tobacco. 
 
 John. It can be proved, both by chemistry and physiology, 
 that it is a poison. And if no one uses enough at one time to 
 kill him, yet the continued use will debilitate the body, and 
 bring on diseases which do end in death. 
 
 Albert. I do not know anything about chemistry ; but I would 
 like to know a part of what you seem to know so well. 
 
 John. Any reliable work on chemistry will tell you that by 
 analysis a property has been discovered, called nicotine. This 
 is so poisonous that one drop placed on the tongue of a cat will 
 kill it in five minutes. Chemistry says, that the eiiect of to- 
 bacco, in small quanities, on the human frame, is of a very 
 pleasing character for a time ; the nerves are quietly lulled into 
 a very comfortable feeling, and may for the moment endure 
 more than they can unstimulated. But after the undue stimu- 
 lus is over, they are weaker than before ; and thus begins the 
 slow but sure undermining of life. 
 
 Albert. Why, how you talk I It all sounds very good ; but I 
 intend to ask some one else. I shall not take your word for it. 
 John. I do not want you to take my word for it. But just 
 reflect how many persons we see who are pale and nervous by 
 sm.oking ; complaining of headache, dyspepsia, weak stomach, 
 etc. All this is caused by imposing upon the stomach with 
 the use of tobacco. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 105 
 
 AToert. You say it makes lieadaclie ; I say it cures tootliaclie. 
 I liave seen it done more tlian once. 
 
 Jolm. Yes ; it cures tlie tootliaclie on tlie same principle any 
 other narcotic would. But liere conies Mr. Wise, on liis way to 
 scliool, and we can wallv along, and ask liim about wliat I liave 
 said. He understands chemistry and physiology. 
 
 AlGert. Ha ! ha I ha ! That will not do you any good. 
 Choose some one else. 
 
 John. What is the matter ? Why will he do me no good ? 
 
 Albert. See, he is smoking nov/. Do you expect him to take 
 his cigar from his mouth, and say, '' Yes, I am poisoning my- 
 self. I am using my money for that which is not meat. I am 
 sinning?" Ha ! ha ! that is too funny. 
 
 JoJin. Xo ; I do not want him to answer so ; neither do I in- 
 tend to ask the questions. You must do that. It would sound 
 like impertinence from me, while you can do it with perfect 
 propriety. (Me. Wise approaches, smolcing. They meet.) 
 
 Albert and John. Good-morning. 
 
 Mr. Wise. Grood-morning, boys ; I am glad to see you out so 
 early. You were very busy talking when we- met ; may I 
 know what it was about? 
 
 John. Yes, sir ; and we want you to decide which of us is 
 right. 
 
 Mr. W. Well, what is it ? I will decide justly, to the best 
 of my knowledge. 
 
 Albert. I wanted John to go with me to get some cigars, and 
 he tried to make me believe that it was wrong, and that any 
 person who knew anything about chemistry would acknowledge 
 there was poison in tobacco. 
 
 Mr. W. What else did he say, that you want my opinion 
 concerning ? 
 
 Albert. Oh, much more. He said the Bible forbade us to use 
 our money for that which is not meat, etc. He said, if tobacco 
 would kill, it was not meat, and that it was wicked to waste 
 our money so. 
 
 Mr. W, It is true, it is wrong to spend our money needlessly. 
 But how does he prove the rest ? 
 
 Albert. ^ Let him tell it as he told it to me. 
 
106 puescott's plain dialogt:es. 
 
 John. Tlie clieniical analysis of tobacco lias discovered a 
 poison called nicotine so active tliat one drop placed on tlie 
 tongue of a cat vv^ill produce deatli in five minutes. 
 
 Albert. Is tliat true ? Is tliat true, Mr. Wise ? 
 
 Mr. W. His authority is very good. I believe tliat state- 
 ment is correct. But, Jolm, you do not know of any person 
 being killed by tobacco, do you ? 
 
 John, I do not, sir. But a great many weak and sick persons 
 complaining of lieadaclie, dyspepsia (and I know not wliat else) 
 are made such, by debilitating the stomach with tobacco. 
 
 Mr. W. You said before tobacco was stimulating ; how then 
 can it debilitate ? 
 
 John. The very fact that it stimulates at one time is proof 
 of debility afterward. And you know, sir, these secretions of 
 the glands of the mouth are absolutely necessary to assist the 
 stomach in its ofiice of digestion. When the saliva has become 
 saturated with tobacco no one swallows it, but expels it ; thus 
 the stomach is deprived of this help, and becomes diseased or 
 >verworked. 
 
 Albert. Well, it's not wrong for old folks to smoke. It is 
 such a comfort v/hen they get so old and blind they cannot 
 read to enjoy themselves. 
 
 John. They are then only suffering from its use when young. 
 Perhaps if they had never injured their eyes with the use of 
 tobacco, their sight might not have failed so seriously. It has 
 a pov/erf ul effect upon the eyes. If you were to smoke a cigar 
 nov/ it could be told on the eyes as easily as any other way. 
 
 Albert. Why, I never heard any person talk so about to- 
 bacco in all my life. I have heard them scold about it being 
 dirty and hateful, and all such. But is this true, Mr. Wise ? 
 If it is I will never use it. 
 
 Mr. W. John, you reason like a scholar. Although I use 
 tobacco, I dare not dispute you. You have religion and science 
 on your side. But who taught you this ? You are too young 
 to have learned yourself. 
 
 John. My mother taught me, sir ; and I promised her I would 
 '' Touch not, taste not, handle not the unclean thing." 
 
 Mr. W. {throwing away Ms cigar). You are right, my noble 
 
teescott's tlain dialogues, 107 
 
 hoy. I have tlirown avray niv cigar, aDcl will sign your pledge 
 of "total abstinence." I liave reasoned and smoked against 
 my own convictions long enongli. Ton liave a wortliy mother. 
 I v/ish there were more such. 
 
 John. I signed no pledge, sir ; hut gave my word, which I 
 intend to keep as faithfully as if written on the Bihle. 
 
 Albert. Can't we get up a pledge ? I want to sign, and get 
 others to do so, too. 
 
 JTr. JV. You draw one up and see what success you will 
 have. Your cause is a good one. 
 
 Albert. I would sir, if I could, hut I cannot compose it right. 
 
 Mr. JV. John will help you. Here is a pencil and x:)aper — 
 now go to work, (after a slwrt icldspering, they approach icuJl 
 the following) 
 
 Albert. W'illthis do, sir? {reads.) 
 
 WnEr.EAS our schoolmate, John Lossing, has proved to ns 
 that the use of tobacco is both morally and physically wrong, 
 Therefore, we, the undersigned. 
 
 Resolve, Ist, We will ''Touch not, taste not, handle nou " 
 tobacco in any shape or form. 
 
 Besohe, 2d, We will do all we can to persuade others of our 
 friends to join us. 
 
 Besolve, 3d, If we live to become men, and are entrusted 
 with the office of hiring teachers for youth, or ministers of the 
 Gospel, we will patronize none who use. or advocate the use of 
 tobacco. 
 
 Ilr. W. That ^ill do very well ; but we will adjourn now. 
 It is schoohtime. 
 
108 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 THE SILVEE DOLLAR. 
 
 H. E. MC BRIDE. 
 
 CHAKACTERS. 
 
 Harry See tin. Mr. Berkley. 
 
 A Flower Gtirl, afterwards Mrs. Berkley. 
 
 Scene I. — A counting-house. Harry Seetin discovered with 
 newspaper in his hand. 
 
 Harry. Not mucli doing to-day, that's certain ! Well, if I 
 just liad tlie time and money to spare I'd go to liear Professor 
 Baker lecture to-niglit, but I must be bere until nine o'clock, 
 and besides this, my funds are ratber low, and I will have to 
 be economical, I wonder if Mr. Patterson isn't going to raise 
 my w^ages soon. I tliink it is bigli time be sbould if be is go- 
 ing to live up to bis promise. If be doesn't I will bave to seek 
 employment elsewbere. Hello ! wbo comes bere ? 
 
 Enter Eliza, a little girl, icith a tasket ofbouquets. 
 
 Eliza. Please, sir, wont you buy a bouquet ? 
 
 Harry. Bouquet ? No ! Wbat do I want witb a bmiquet ? 
 I'm sure I've got no fair lady friend to present it to, and, as 
 for myself, I either baven't tbe time to admire bouquets, or 
 else I baven't any taste. No, little girl, I don't want a 
 bouquet. 
 
 Eliza. But, please, sir, do buy one ! I've been trying to sell 
 all day, and no one cares anything for them. Please buy one, 
 sir, for we need money very much, {almost claying.) 
 
 Harry. Well, well, don't cry, little girl. You say idc need 
 money very much. Whom besides yourself do you support by 
 selling bouquets ? 
 
 Eliza. My mother, sir ; and she has been very sick for a 
 long time, and I can scarcely make enough to keep ourselves 
 alive and from being turned out of doors by the landlord. 
 
 Harry. Well, I don't want a bouquet, but here's a dollar ; 
 {hands money) take it, and may you soon see better times. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 109 
 
 Eliza. Oil, thank you, sir ; I will remember you as long as I 
 live, and may God bless you and 
 
 Harry. Oli, never mind, little girl — it's nothing. Run home 
 to your poor sick mother and be kind to her. 
 
 Eliza. Oh, you're a kind man, and I wish there were more 
 like you in the world. [Exit Eliza. 
 
 Harry. There's another dollar gone. Well, that cuts off my 
 supply of cigars for awhile, but I don't care. Mother used to ' 
 tell me to cast my bread upon the waters, and after many days 
 I would receive it. Well, I've cast a dollar away, or rather, 
 I've cast a good many cigars away, and bestowed a dollar on a 
 poor little girl. Wonder if 'twill ever return. I don't know 
 why it is that all the poor little girls come tome for money and 
 never ask Mr. Patterson. I'm sure he is a thousand times 
 abler to give than I am. Vv'ell, I don't regret giving this little 
 girl the dollar, for she certainly is honest — I'm sure of that ; and 
 then her mother is sick, and they are very j)Oor. I wish I had 
 money enough to place all the poor people in the world in com- 
 fortable circumstances, and make myself a little more comfort- 
 able too. 
 
 Scene II. — Room in Mr. Berkley's house. Time, evening. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Berkley discovered. Ten years are sup- 
 posed to have elaiDsed 'between first and second scenes. 
 
 Mrs. Berkley. Who was that man who was in here a short 
 time ago ? 
 
 Mr. BerJdey. His name is Seetin — Harry Seetiil, I believe. 
 He came to apply for the situation of bookkeeper. He said 
 he had been at the store and found it closed and thought he 
 would call here. 
 
 Mrs. B. Did you give him the situation ? 
 
 Mr. B. No, I didn't promise it to him, but told him to call at 
 the store to-morrow and I would give him an answer. He 
 makes a very poor mouth of it. He says his wife has been 
 sick for some time, and that his two little children have barely 
 enough to keep them alive. One doesn't know wdiether to be- 
 lieve half the stories one hears or not. However, this man 
 looks honest enough, and from his appearance I know he 
 
110 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 hasn't a very great share of this world's goods. I told him to 
 call at the store to-morrow and I w^oiild give him an answer. 
 
 Mrs. B. Give him the situation ? I ask it as a favor. 
 
 Mr. B. And why, my love, do you take such an interest in 
 this man ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I will tell you. You know that ten years ago, and 
 long before you married me, I was very poor. I was out one 
 day trying to sell bouquets to make something with which to 
 purchase some delicacy for my mother, who was very sick. 
 I could not sel] a single bouquet. Ko j)erson would buy. 
 They would not even look at them. I went into Mr. Patterson's 
 store and found this young man there, and asked him to buy. 
 Pie replied that he didn't want a bouquet — that he didn't care 
 anything for them, but he gave me a silver dollar. He would 
 hardly let me thank him for it ; and I ran home very happy. 
 I have seen Mr. Seetin several times since, but not since we 
 were married until this evening, and never dreamed that he 
 was in such straightened circumstances. 
 
 Mr. B. Most assuredly shall he have -the situation. There 
 are two other applicants who come with rather better re- 
 commendations than does Mr. Seetin, but he shall have the 
 preference. And, my dear, you are very right to remember 
 those who were kind to you long ago, wdien you were poor, 
 and when you needed kindness most. I v/ill write a note to 
 Mr. Seetin this evening and send with Thomas, telling him he 
 can have the situation. Fortunately he left his address with me. 
 
 Mrs. B. You need not go to so much trouble, William. 
 You know he will call at the store to-morrow. 
 
 Ifr. B. I know ; but somebody has said that delays are 
 dangerous, and it's true. From what Mr. Seetin said, I know 
 that he and his family are very much in want. And, my dear, 
 here is a one hundred dollar note. (Jianding money) You shall 
 give that to him — a dollar for every cent he gave you — and 
 write him a note stating that it is given in grateful remem. 
 brance of the silver dollar bestowed on a poor little girl ten 
 years ago. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. Ill 
 
 WOETH BEFOEE SHOW, 
 
 PAULINE BUTLER. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 George Shaw, ) ^^^^^^-^^^^ attending academy. 
 Fred Shaw, ) 
 Louis Horton, a hired loy. 
 Uncle John, George and Fred's rich relation. 
 
 ScB:sB.—Interio7' of a room in George and Fred's hoarding- 
 house. Fred and Louis discovered. 
 
 Louis {idth hook in hand trying to study, Fred attempting to 
 interrupt him). I wisli you wouldn't bother me so. I can't 
 lialf study. 
 
 Fred. And what difference does your liigli-miglitiness think 
 that makes to me ? I guess I have a right to do just as I want 
 to. (George enters frantically, waving a letter o'cer his head) 
 Halloa, Geoige ! You act as though somebody had left you a 
 legacy, or something equal to it. 
 
 George. And so there has. Read this, wont you ? {gives 
 letter) and then tell me if my fortune isn't made. - Oh, but it's 
 glorious ! 
 
 Fred (reading). '; My dearest nephews (why that's me, too), 
 your Uncle John, whom we all supposed lost at sea many years 
 ago, has returned at. last, worth, nobody knows how many 
 millions. He wants to adopt a son and heir, and is coming to 
 see you both in two or three days. Do your best to step into 
 his good, graces, for on this visit will depend, perhaps, your 
 future good fortunes. The little money that your parents be- 
 queathed to you was long ago spent, and this sudden reverse 
 in money matters has crippled my means, so that I can do 
 notMng further for you. I will tell you beforehand to be on your 
 guard, as he is very eccentric, and often takes a very sudden 
 like or dislike to anybody. In haste, Aunt Julia. '- 
 
 'vVell, this is a stroke of good fortune. Let me see, {refers. 
 to letter) why he may be here this very day, this very hour, 
 tLis very minute, as it were ! (begins io arrange his clotlies) 
 i.m I presentable, George ? 
 
112 peesgott's plain dialogues. 
 
 George {^gutting hands in pocket, and looking conteynptuouslg 
 at Fred). Oh, fiddle-de-dee ! I guess he wont care much for 
 dandies, {complacently) I intend to put my best foot for- 
 ward. 
 
 Fred {scornfully glancing dozen at George's feet). Please 
 don't hide the rest of us. 
 
 George. Oh, my ! we are some, aren't we ! 
 
 Louis. Come, boys, don't quarrel. 
 
 Fred. I'd like to know what right you have to say anything 
 about it. {eontemptuously) My uncle John wouldn't even look 
 at a poor errand boy like you. 
 
 Louis. I neither expect nor desire him to. I intend to work 
 my own way in the world independently of any oi^'s looks ; 
 but, if you'll take my advice, neither of you would put on too 
 much style, but act in your own natural manner. 
 
 Fred. I wonder, George, {looking at Louis) how long it is 
 since we managed to crowd such an immense amount of wis- 
 dom into one cranium ? 
 
 Louis. I merely wished to give my honest opinion, but I 
 fear I shall be forced to seek less disagreeable company. 
 
 George. Oh, ho, ho ! Our errand boy is going to leave us, 
 is he ? Now that is too good. Whew ! [as Uncle John enters, 
 lent and tottering, representing an old man in searcli of id or k) 
 What does this old fellow want here ? 
 
 Fred {to George). Let's have some fnn with him. {siriking 
 an attitude in front of Uncle John) My antiquated friend, 
 whence comest thou, and wherefore ? 
 
 Uncle John {speaking in a faint Doice). Young gentiemen, 
 can you tell me if I am on the right road to the academy ? I 
 was told that the young masters, George and Frederick Shiw, 
 - would hire a person. 
 
 George {mimickingly). And you vfish to be that person, hey, 
 my seedy-looking friend? If so, we are the " young masters." 
 Uncle J. And might I ask for the situation ? 
 
 Fred {mimickingly). You might. 
 
 Louis. Nonsense, boys, don't bother him. 
 
 George. You hold your tongue, wont you ? and don't inter- 
 fere with what's none of your business. ^\ 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 113 
 
 Fred. I say, George, lie must be trying to imitate Cupid's 
 bow, by tlie way liis back is bent. 
 
 George. My ancient friend, if you'll secure an engagement 
 as a '' circus clown," they will cure you of tliat. 
 
 Uncle J, {a liitle angrily). If the young gentlemen don't 
 wish, to give me tlie i)lace, let tbem say so, and I will try an- 
 other place. 
 
 Louis. My friend, the i^lace is already filled. They hired me 
 several weeks ago. Somebody has cruelly misinformed you. 
 (Uncle John turns to go, hut GeoPvGe and Fred iciaJc at eaoh 
 other, and each take hold of Mm to detain him.) 
 
 George. Oh, come now, we can't let you go just yet ; your 
 society is altogether too fascinating. (Louis suddenly comes for- 
 tcard, and taking their hands from Uncle John, takes him ly 
 the hand,) 
 
 Louis. Come, my friend, I will take you where I think you 
 can find work. 
 
 George and Fred {attempting to regain their hold on Uncle 
 John). That's cool ! 
 
 Louis {suddenly turning and facing tliem). See here, boys, 
 I've stood it about as long as I can, and I wont see a helpless 
 old man ridiculed and abused. Whoever touches him will first 
 have to conquer me ; so there! {assuming a defiant attitude.) 
 
 Fred {sneeringly). Ho ! Turned prize fighter, hey ! 
 
 Uncle J. {straightening np and throwing off all disguise). 7, 
 too, have stood it as long as I can. (George and Fred have 
 meamohile been looking in amazement at Louis, and noio seem 
 thunderstruck at the change in Uncle John.) 
 
 Uncle J. You seem surprised. Know then that I am your 
 Uncle John. 
 
 Fred and George. You ! 
 
 Uncle J. Yes, I ! I was afraid (and it seems my fears were 
 well founded), that if I came before you first, in my real char- 
 acter, I should have no chance to test yours. So I assumed 
 the disguise you saw, I am perfectly satisfied with my exper- 
 iment. I trust that ''the fun" you have had with the 
 " antiquated friend," will repay you for the pecuniary loss you 
 will sustain. 
 
114 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Fred. Uncle Jolin, we are lieartily asliamea of ourselves, 
 and ask your forgiveness for our foolish conduct. 
 
 Uncle J. I hope, my boys, that you will always find pardon 
 as freely as I grant it now ; none know better than I how to 
 pity and forgive the errors of youth. I will bear all the ex- 
 penses of a thorough education for you both, and help you to 
 master any trade or XDrofession you may choose ; but further 
 than that, you need expect nothing from me — at least, until 
 you have shown your worthiness of it by such evidence as 
 only an entire reformation in your character can give. 
 
 George. Uncle, your kindness is far greater than we deserve. 
 
 Uncle J. As for Louis, {turning to Mm) in him I discover the 
 son of the dearest friend I ever had. Illm I shall adopt as my 
 own child ; for I am convinced, from what I have seen of him, 
 that neither riches nor honor will make him despise his poorer 
 and humbler neighbors. 
 
 Louis. But, sir 
 
 Uncle J. I will have you, and none other ; and I hope you 
 will take for your motto, as I did years ago, " Worth before 
 ''^how." 
 
 CUPvTAIN. 
 
 THE OLD APPLE-WOMAl^. 
 
 H. ELLIOT MC BRIDE. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Dick Jones, a newsboy. John Dufficks, a hoothlack. 
 
 MpvS. Mulpavey, an apple-icoman. 
 
 Scene I. — A room scantily furnished. Dick Jones and John 
 Dufficks discovered. 
 
 Dick. Well, John, how many boots did you shine to-day ? 
 
 JoTin. Let me see. Two times nine are eighteen. Eighteen 
 boots — nine pairs of boots. 
 
 Dick. A better day's work than you did yesterday. 
 
 John. Yes ; yesterday was a dull day, but business was 
 pretty brisk to-day. How many papers did you sell ? 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 115 
 
 Blck. Oil, it was a slo v/ day for me ! Only sold a few papers. 
 Xobody wanted to l)uy. I tell you, Jolm, we will liave to make 
 a raise in some v/ay, or leave tliis ST)lendid room of ours, and 
 go out and locate on tlie street. 
 
 Joliii. You don't say so ! Wliy, wliat's up ? Has old Smitli 
 been round again ? 
 
 DicrC. Yes ; lie was liere a few minutes before you came in, 
 and lie said we would liave to pay up in two days or step out. 
 And lie said it, too, in a very surly sort of a way. What's to 
 be done ? We can't make more tban will keep us alive — we 
 can't raise money enough to purchase any new clothes, although 
 we need them sadly enough. But we could get along if wo 
 could but pay the rent and keep the room. x\.h I John, it is 
 sad to have neither money nor friends. 
 
 John. That's true, Dick, but we needn't get down in the 
 mouth about it. Let us work and go forward and trust that 
 it will all come out right. If we do our best we can do no 
 more. Providence '\vill take care of the rest. 
 
 Diclc, Why, John, you talk like a preacher ! 
 
 John. You know I have been going to Sunday-school, and of 
 course I should learn something. My teacher told me that, 
 last Sunday, and I suppose he ought to know about these 
 things. 
 
 Dick. You always were a hopeful sort of a boy, and it was 
 a lucky day for me when I fell in with you. We have messed 
 together in this old room for nearly a year, and all that time 
 you have been cheerful and contented. 
 
 John. It isn't necessary to be cast down because troubles 
 overtake us. 
 
 Dick. Sunday-school teacher told you that, too, didn't he ? 
 
 John. Yes ; he says a great many things in the course of the 
 lesson which are a benefit to me. 
 
 Dick. I think I shall go one of these days. Do you think they 
 would let me in ? 
 
 John. You know they would. I have asked you several 
 times to go with me, but you have always refused. 
 
 Dick. Well, I'll refuse no longer. If going to Sunday-school 
 makes a fellov/ happy and cheerful I \y\\\ go. I want a lesson 
 
116 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 or two ill those branches. But how about the rent ? We must 
 pay up inside of two days or step out, and I am sure I do not 
 want to be pitched out now when w^inter is coming on. If it 
 was the month of July now I wouldn't growl. Old Smith 
 could have his ricketty old room, and we could get along com- 
 fortably outside. I wonder v\^hy it is that rich people like old 
 Smith are so very mean, j^ow, if I had a million dollars, I 
 would provide comfortable rooms for every newsboy and boot- 
 black in this city. 
 
 Jolin. I believe you, Dick, but you haven't the million, and 
 so you can't provide the rooms. Vv^ell, we must do the best we 
 can, and trust in Providence for the rest. The rent due 
 amounts to ten dollars. I have one dollar. 
 
 Dick. And I have fifty cents. I ought to have a pair of 
 shoes. 
 
 John. And I ought to have a coat. 
 
 DicTi. And I would prefer better boarding, but we can get 
 along on slim boarding. 
 
 John. And with an old coat. 
 
 Diclc. And a pair of old shoes, if we can but settle with old 
 Smith. {Iznock at the door.) 
 
 John. I wonder who wants to visit us. 
 
 Dick. Probably some person from one of the other rooms, or 
 it may be that Jack Harleyhas come down to spend the evening 
 with us. (Dick opens door.) 
 
 Enter Mks. Mulsavey. 
 
 Why, granny, is it you ? 
 
 Mrs. Midravey. Yis ; I thought I'd jist step in to see how 
 ye's was a gittin' along. 
 
 John. And I'm sure we are very glad to see yon, granny. 
 Take this seat, {places chair) Our furniture isn't grand, as you 
 ^viil see. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ay, my b'ys, there's many paple like ye's that have 
 to git along with shabby furniture. 
 
 Dick. Well, we v/111 soon have to occupy a larger room, and 
 then we vAW have no furniture but the lamp posts and door 
 steps ; and for pictures on the wall we will have to look upon 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 117 
 
 the stars. They will twinkle beautifully on cold nights. Oh, 
 won't we be happy ! 
 
 Mrs. M. What d'ye mane, my b'y ? Is ould Smith goin' to 
 turn ye's out av' house and home ? 
 
 Dick. Yes, he was here this evening, and he said that we 
 would have to pay up in two days or step out. Now, we'd pre- 
 fer to stay here rather than step out ; but as I have but fifty 
 cents, and John has but one dollar, I don't see how it is possi- 
 ble for us to stay. 
 
 Mrs. M. The ould rascal ! It is very onhandy to be poor, 
 but it must be a tirrible thing to be rich and grasping. Well, 
 1^7 1^'ys, I was jist a thinkin' that mebbe ye's wud be gittin' into 
 diffikilty av that kind, fur I knowed that Smith had been hero, 
 an' I jist stepped in to tell ye's that if ye naded ony help about 
 payin' the rint, I could assist ye's some. 
 
 Dick. You ! 
 
 John. You, Mrs. Mulravey ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Yg seem to be considerably astonished. Yis ; I am 
 only an ould apple- woman, but I have a little money laid u^d. 
 Not very much, I know, but I kin help ye's pay the rint. 
 
 Dick. Oh, Mrs. Mulravey, we will thank you so much ! 
 
 John. But I don't know as we should take it. It may be a 
 long time before we can replace it. 
 
 Mrs. M. I'll trust ye's. Ye are good b'ys, and I have no 
 fears, {rises and hands money) Here's twilve dollars — pay the 
 rint and buy something to eat. Good-bye now ; I may come in 
 to-morrow, {going.) 
 
 John. Oh, Mrs. Mulravey, we thank you for your assistance. 
 
 Mrs. M. No thanks. It's all right, my b'ys. Good-bye. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Mulravey. 
 
 Scene II. — One year is supposed to have elapsed. Mrs. Mul- 
 ravey discovered seated in a chair, unable to rise. 
 
 Mrs. M. Alack a day ! This is a sad wurruld. I ' suppose 
 I'll have to give up intirely and go to the poor-house. I 
 thought I had money enough to kape me the rest of me days, 
 but it is all gone now, an' I have scarcely enough food in my 
 house to kape me alive until the-morrow. {knock at the door) 
 
118 rrvEscoTT's tlain dialogues. 
 
 Who can be comin' now ? I suppose it is the landlord come to 
 turn me out. Come in. 
 
 Enter John Dufficks. 
 
 John {going up and taking Mrs. MuLRAVEY's7ia?i(?). How 
 do you do, Mrs. Mulravey ? Don't you know me ? 
 
 Mrs. If. No— yis— I declare it is John Dufficks. 
 
 Jo7m, I see you have not forgotten me, and I have not for- 
 gotten you. Tou seem to be unwell. 
 
 3Irs. M. Alas, yis ! I'm done now — clane, intirely gone — 
 and ixpecting soon to go the poor-house. 
 
 John. Mrs. Mulravey, you shall never go there. I am afraid 
 I have stayed away too long, but I did not suppose you were in 
 need. I have been out of the city for nearly a year. 
 
 Mrs. M. I did git along w^ell enough ontil a few wakes ago, 
 wdiin my nephew Frederick Env f;-ot all my money and ran 
 away with it. I had enough laid .p to live comfortably on the 
 rist of my days, but it is all gone novv% and I am intirely des- 
 titute. 
 
 John. You shall not want for anything. I have got a nice 
 situation, and can make money enough to keep both of us if 
 we do not live extravagantly. 
 
 Mrs. M. Bless, ye, my b'y. Ye are a noble lad. But I can't 
 ixpect ye to kape me. 
 
 John. But I intend to keep you anyhow. You did me a 
 favor once, and I haven't quite forgotten it. You received the 
 money, I suppose, after I left the city ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Yis ; but it all wint the same way. Fred Ray got it 
 all. {knock at door) Bless me ! Another visitor. Will ye 
 open the door, John ? (John opens door. ) 
 
 JJnter Dick Jones. • 
 
 John. Hello, Dick ! Is it you ? 
 
 Dick. My eyes ! if it isn't John Dufficks ! {thei/ shake hands) 
 Why, I thought you were so very much disgusted vvdtli the 
 city you would never return. 
 
 John, And I thought the same of vou. But I returned to 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 119 
 
 see our old friend Mrs. Mulravey, and it appears that I have 
 come in the nick of time. 
 
 Dick {advancing and taking Mrs. Mulrayey's hand). I am 
 glad to see you, IMrs. MulraYcy, but sorry to find that you are 
 ill. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ye's are both good b'ys to reniimber me. May ye's 
 always be prosperous and happy. 
 
 John. Dick, Mrs. Mulravey has met vritli a loss. Her 
 nephev/ has taken her money and made himself scarce. 
 
 Dick. Indeed ! The young rascal ! Well, Mrs. Mulravey, 
 I have obtained a good situation, and I can assist you some. 
 You once paid the rent for John and me — now we can pay the 
 rent for you, and glad to do it, besides, aren't v/e, John ? 
 
 John. Yes. ''One good turn deserves another." (Jokn a?2cZ 
 Dick stand on each side of Mrs. Mulrayey. ) 
 
 Mrs. M. Noble b'ys ! May God bless ye's for your kindness 
 to The Old Apple Woman. 
 
 curtain. 
 
 SOAITDAL m THE BSAIK. 
 
 BLANCHE B. BEEBE. 
 
 CHAEAGTERS. 
 Emma. Sue. Lizzie. Fan. Aunt Harding. 
 
 Emma {is alone^ she yawns, throws aside her icork, and ex- 
 claims). Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! How lonesome I am ! I do wish 
 the girls w^ould come soon, it's so dull since the Fair, and I'm 
 dying to hear some news ! I suppose Aunt Harding would lec- 
 ture me soundly if she heard me say the like. There's tho 
 bell ! They are coming now. 
 
 Enter Sue and Lizzie. Emma runs to greet them. 
 
 Oh, I am delighted to see you ! Why did you not come 
 sooner ! I havo been almost ready to perish with ennui. Let 
 me have your hats. 
 
120 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Lizzie. I don't know as it is liardly wortli while for the time 
 we will stay ; Sue, what do you say ? 
 
 Sue. Yes, Lizzie, let us stay a little while. You know it has 
 been an age since we've been here. I have a fancy handker- 
 chief to hem, and I heard you say you had your tatting collar 
 in your pocket. 
 
 Emma. Oh, that will be just the thing I Stay all the after- 
 noon with me ! Mamma went out to make some calls and I am 
 alone — we will have just the coziest kind of a time I What's 
 the news? It's 5i? dull ! I wished at dinner that some one's 
 house would catch a-fire, and ma scolded me awfully for being 
 so wicked. 
 
 Sue. Why were you not at the party last evening ? 
 
 Emma. I did not feel well, and mamma v/ould not hear to 
 my going. It was such a disappointment ! Who was there ? 
 How vv-as every one dressed ? Tell me all about it. 
 
 Sue. Well, first, Lizzie and I were there, then there were the 
 Tracys, and the Cannons, Miss Williams and Mr, Holland, Mr. 
 and Mrs. St. John, and Mrs. St. John's sister, 
 
 Emma. Why, I did not know they were home from their tour, 
 
 Liz. Yes ; and Mrs. St. John was dressed so handsomely. 
 
 Emma. I wonder if she is in debt for her beautiful clothes ? 
 
 Sue. I'm sure 1 don't know. Then there v/as a ^l\\ Furgison 
 with them, and Mrs. St. John told Mr. Lee that he is quite a 
 catch, wealthy and handsome. 
 
 Emma. Struck He, I suppose. That's the way people come 
 by fortunes now-a-days. 
 
 Liz. Emma Gather, you are forever turning up your nose at 
 people ! What's the difference how one comes by a fortune, 
 so he has it ? 
 
 Emma. Yes ; and you go in ecstasies over a man if he has a 
 little money and a mustache, and pronounce him distinguished 
 looking ! Oh ! 
 
 Sue. Now, Emma, you are too bad. Indeed, Mr. Furgison 
 has a splendid set of vvdiiskers, and father was speaking of him 
 to-day, and he said he was talented, beside belonging to one of 
 the oldest and wealthiest families in Virginia. Lm going to 
 pitch in for him'. 
 
PEESOOTT's L'LAIN dialogue^^. 121 
 
 Emma. Success to you ; so lie lias good sense and is not one 
 of the shoddies, and his handkerchief is not scented with coal 
 oil, he will do. Oh ! there goes the bell ! I wonder who is 
 coming ! {goes and returns with Fanxie. ) 
 
 Sue. Ill bet it's Fan Butts. You know she said she was 
 coming. 
 
 Emma. It's Fan, girls. She has come to stay all the after- 
 noon, too ! Give me your things, and take this chair. 
 
 Liz. Why, you dear girl, how d'ye ! Take this fan. 
 
 Sue. How did you enjoy the party last evening ? 
 
 Fan. Tip-top ! Supper was splendid, wasn't it ? Didn't the 
 Dumfreys try to put on style f 
 
 Liz. Did you get acquainted with that Miss Bitner ? 
 
 Fan. Yes, I noticed Morris trying to shine around her. 
 Don't he go ahead of any one you ever saw to flirt. Every 
 strange young lady that comes to the city he must be her gal- 
 lant ! He is so conceity, too. 
 
 Sue. They say he is abominably stingy, but has good habits. 
 
 Fan. [ironically). Yes, so are the habits of most young gents ! 
 
 Liz. He came honestly by his stinginess. His father was 
 so before him. Why, girls, pa says the wig old Mr. Morris 
 wears is one his brother, who has been dead ten years, used 
 to wear. After he died Morris took it to save buying a new one. 
 
 Emma. I do wonder if it is true ! I suppose the old gentle- 
 man was buried in his bald head 
 
 Fan. Oh, Emma ! 
 
 Emma. Was Grace at the party ? 
 
 Sue. Yes, and don't you think Captain Blair was her escort I 
 I was perfectly surprised ! 
 
 Emma. Well ! I am astonished ! I thought he was not 
 countenanced in society as all. I suppose, then, Grace will not 
 discard him. Just like her, though. She said to me one day 
 when I was giving her his pedigree, that she thought he vv^as 
 naturally good, that there was something line about him, and 
 that he tried to do what right, and so on. Bah ! She is too 
 smart for him ! 
 
 Sue. Smart ! I say she's a milksoi^ ! / never heard of her 
 doing anything wonderful ! 
 
122 ^ prescott's plain DiALoarES. 
 
 Liz. Why, Sue, liow dare you express yourself so about an 
 authoress ! She writes beautifully ! She has written one or 
 two effusions for the Repository, and the editor of one of the 
 JLiveniie i:)eriodicals hails her contributions with delight, I've 
 h3ard. 
 
 8ae. Bah ? I've read her spoutings ! / can write as well as 
 SAC any day. She is just a shallow little girl, and believes 
 h 3rself illustrious 
 
 Liz. Now, girls, I won't hear another word ! You all know 
 she paints well and sings sweetly 
 
 Emma. Daubs brightly and screams loudly, you mean ; 
 her voice, instead of being ''sweet as a nightingale's" is 
 strong as — onions ! 
 
 Fan. Well, gals, let me tell you i\\e,johe on her. 
 
 Girls. Oh, yes ! The joke ! tell us ! tell us ! 
 
 Fan. Well, if you will promise not to tell on me. I 
 wouldn't have it come to their ears that I told it for anything ! 
 
 Girls. We all promise ! 
 
 Fan. Never to tell on me ? 
 
 Girls. Never ! 
 
 Fan. Well, last week some young ladies sent Captain Blair 
 a 6ar of soap to wash Grace's neck and ears ! 
 
 Emma. Not so loud ! Aunt Harding will surely hear ! {the 
 girls laugli). 
 
 Sue. Now, Fan, you don't mean to say that's true ? 
 
 Fan. Of course, it's true ! 
 
 Liz. Well, it's too bad ! Grace is careless, but not so bad as 
 that. 
 
 Emma. I say it's good I 
 
 Sue. Who were the young ladies ? 
 
 Fan. Oh, I mustn't tell that ! I wonder if that 
 
 Emma. That makes me think of Miss Orton. Have you 
 heard the report on her ? 
 
 Girls. No ! no ! do tell us ! 
 
 Emma. I thought every one knew it ! The other evening 
 she was standing at the gate, where she boards, talking with 
 Bob Brandon, and he kissed her ! It was bright moonlight, 
 and some folks across the street saw them. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 123 
 
 Fan. Ob. ! tliat is liorrible ! 
 
 Sue. WliYj lie is the hardest case in town ! I would not be- 
 lieve she would speak to him. 
 
 Liz. Only think ! He plays billiards and drinks, and is a 
 gambler, too ! 
 
 Fan. But, girls, do you believe it ? 
 
 Liz. I do. I never could bear her anyhow ! 
 
 8ue. 1 believe it ! 
 
 Fan. 1 don't ; for Miss Cassel is very intimate with her, and 
 she told me that this Bob Brandon goes with Miss Thomas, 
 who lives the very next door to Miss Orton, and you know 
 a mistake might be made easily ; besides, I heard her say not 
 long since, that Miss Orton only knew Brandon by sight. 
 
 Emma. Where there is smoke there is fire. 
 
 Liz. Speaking of Miss Cassell — ma was there to tea last 
 week, and she said that she never sat down to such a table iii 
 her life. She could hardly find enough to satisfy her appetite ! 
 besides, they had no napkins nor individual salts; both of 
 which are awful. 
 
 Emma. S'pose we all go there to tea some afternoon ? 
 
 Fan. Oh, girls, I have a capital idea ! It just struck me ! 
 Let's form an inquisitive club ! 
 
 Girls. Inquisitive club ! What's that ? Something new ? 
 
 Fan. You see, I just thought of it. When I was in Law- 
 rence last summer, the girls had such a club. 
 
 Emma. Not so loud. Aunt Harding will surely hear ! 
 
 Fan. Who cares for auntie ! {in a lower tone) We met once 
 a week at one of the girl's houses. Xo gentlemen were ad- 
 mitted, so tliey gave it the name of scandal circle — all of s])ite 
 you know, and we had the most fun at those meetings ever you 
 heard of. 
 
 Emma. But what did you do ? * 
 
 Fan. Why, every member w^as a committee of one to find 
 out all she could about everybody's business. We were posted 
 on everything that was going on. We knew all the reports in 
 circulation ; what girls w^ere engaged, and who were not ; we 
 knew who everybody corresponded w^ith, how much every one 
 was in debt — no one was spared from the minister's wife down. 
 
124 pbescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 We dissected every one, and tlie girl tliat could give tlie most 
 information in tlie most comical manner, was the best fellow, 
 and every one wlio failed paid a fine, 
 
 Liz. Tliat would be gay ! But I don't tliink ma would ap^ 
 prove of it. 
 
 Sue. That's Lizzie for you, afraid of ma ! 
 
 Emma. Don't let ma know anything about it. 
 
 Fan. No, you little goose, that's the fun of it. But the best 
 part was our practical jokes ! We played some of the richest 
 ones, I must tell you. 
 
 Enter Aunt Harding, an old-fasJiioned old icoman, with cap 
 and spectacles on, rushes in with her knitting, etc., "oery 
 much excited. 
 
 Aunt Harding. Well, gals, if I ever ! I didn't mean to hear 
 what you said but I couldn't help it ! {girls look at each other 
 scared) Miss Emily, what do you s'pose your ma would say 
 if she'd a 'lieerd you talking 'bout folks as you've bin a' doin' 
 this arternoon ? Say ! 
 
 Emma. Don't, auntie ! Do be still, we were only in fun. 
 
 Auntie. I wont be still. .1 tell you, you're all given over to 
 the wrath to come if you don't mend your ways. 
 
 Emma {aside). I knew auntie would hear us ; what will I 
 do? 
 
 Auntie. I heerd what ye was a' sayin' about the party, 'bout 
 what folks had on, an' this one an' that one an t'other, 'bout one 
 feller bein' stingy, an' 'bout Miss Lane, an' the Lord knows 
 she's smarter than any of ye — Miss Cassel's mar didn't have 
 enough fur {fuming to Lizzie) your mar to eat, did she ? I 
 think she must have an aioful stomach. 
 
 Emma. Auntie, please don't. 
 
 Auntie. I icont please, {turns to Fan) but when ye come to 
 talk as ye did 'bout an inquisitive club I could stan' it no long- 
 er ! Findin' out other folks' business, medlin' things that ye 
 are — I think ye'd better be to hum mendin' the holes in yer 
 stockin's or helpin' yer mar's wash dishes ! ThaVs what 1 
 thinks on't ! Bissectin' the poor creeturs, too ! oh, my, what 
 on airtli ye comin' to ! Even the minister's family ! Inquisitive 
 
PRESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGUES. 125 
 
 club ! Wlien I was a gal what vrould folks say to us if we 
 liad done the lilce o' this ! I'll tell your par, I will, Emeline 
 Gather. t's bad enough for ole wimmin' folks to ta.lk, but I'll 
 declare on it, if ye can't beat 'em all ! 
 
 Emma. Oh, auntie, do please be still — girls, never mind. 
 
 Fan. Don't mind us. Emma, we deserve it all. 
 
 Auntie. Desarve it all an' more too. I should think the men 
 folks icould call it scandal circle. I'd advise ye to form a young 
 ladies' female wimmin folks' prayer-meeting circle, instead of 
 scandalizing this way. 
 
 Sue. Yes, Emma, we have been talking about everybody 
 aicfully, but I'm sure /meant no harm. 
 
 Liz. Xor I. I am sorry that I forgot the Grolden Rule for 
 an instant. 
 
 Fan. And the Inquisitive Club ! It icas lots of fun, but 
 when I turn it round and think of it as Aunt Harding does, it 
 is ridiculous I Oh, I am ashamed to remember that I proposed 
 such a thing ! 
 
 Emma. Girls, I do believe we have been suffering this after- 
 noon with scandal on the brain. 
 
 Auntie. I guess so, too, gals. 
 
 Girls. Yes, scandal on the brain ! that must be what ails us, 
 and if the audience and Aunt Harding will forgive us, we 
 pledge ourselves {they join hands) hereafter to speak well of 
 our friends and say nothing of our enemies. 
 
 Auntie, ril forgive ye with all my heart, gals ; {steps in front 
 of the girls) I guess this is not the only Inquisitive club in the 
 world, nor these the only ones with "scandal on the 'brain/' 
 an' I would advise all persons to ''mind their own business." 
 if they don't want to catcli the orful disease ! 
 
 CUHTAIX. 
 
126 peescott's plain DiAioarEs. 
 
 EEMEMBEE BENSON. 
 
 ORANGE LEMON, PH. D. 
 FOR THREE MALES. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Old Benson, a farmer. Old Mr. Orover, a city merchant. 
 Godfrey, Ms son. 
 
 JEnter Godfrey and Old Benson. Old Benson carries a 
 
 plethoric old-fashioned carpet-hag , lohich he deposits on the 
 side of the room as he enters. Scene in parlor or library. 
 But little ''furniture " is necessary. 
 
 Godfrey. I say, old Beeswax, what do you want ? Are you 
 deaf as a liorse-block ? 
 
 Benson. Tlie house block? It is m this block, and this is 
 i\\Q house — number 404. I'm looking for Ashbel Grover. 
 Does he live here ? 
 
 God. That's the governor. What does the old chap want of 
 him ? (shouts) I say, what do you want with the governor ? 
 
 Ben. Want of a governor? Nothing, but to have him mind 
 his business and draw his salary. 
 
 God. Bless me, but your ears are solid, (shouts) What do you 
 want of father ? 
 
 Ben. Want farther ? Why, nothing ! I want to see Ashbel 
 Grover. Tell him an old friend has called to see him — a friend 
 from the country. 
 
 God. Why, this is a pretty kettle of fish. This old codger, 
 if he is an old friend, will probably stay some time, and the 
 governor Tl just split trying to talk with him, so ITl have to do 
 the talking, and go into bronchial consumption, (shouts) I'll 
 bring in the infant ! 
 
 Ben. Infant ! Young man, you mistake me • I came to see 
 Ashbel Grover, not an infant ! 
 
 God. Oh, all right ! Only Avax your ears with fresh oil, for 
 when two deaf old men get together there'll be broken glass. 
 
 [Exit 
 
pbescott's plain dialogues. 127 
 
 Bin. Odd ! Talking about the governor and an infant. 
 Litt/e weak in the head, I fear. 
 
 Re-enter Godfkey, accompanied ly Mr. Gkoyer. Benson 
 
 advances. 
 
 My name is Benson. I am a near neighbor to Pliny Green, 
 your own sister's husband, if so be you are Ashbel Grover. 
 
 Mr. Grover {to Godifrey). What does he say? 
 
 God. {shouts in father's ear). He says his name is Ashbel 
 Green, and that a man named Benson married his father's 
 sister, if so be your name is Pliny Grover. 
 
 Mr. G. God bless me, what does the man mean ? 
 
 God. {in his father's ear). I'll ask him. {in Benson's ear) 
 Father says there is no opening for a situation save on the 
 Nicaragua Canal, unless you want one hundred barrels prime 
 mess at one hundred and two, buyer sixty days, or five per cent 
 off for cheek. 
 
 Ben. God bless me, what is the matter? Are you crazy 
 young man ? I'm not in the pork trade. 
 
 God. Not crazy, oh, most noble Festus, but trying to solve a 
 problem in navigation. We're off soundings, you see. 
 
 Ben. Off soundings at sea ? 
 
 God. Certainly. Mr. Pliny Grover wants to know how Ben- 
 son came to marry Ashbel Green's wife's sister ? 
 
 Ben. Confound you ! You've made a pretty mess of it ! 
 Who said anything about Pliny Grover and Ashbel Benson ? 
 or Benson's marrying anybody's wife's sister ? 
 
 God. All right. I'll see. {in his father's ear) He says that 
 Nebuchadnezzar's wife's sister is not married to Pliny Grover. 
 
 Mr. G. Pliny Grover ! Who the dogs is Pliny Grover ? 
 
 God. I'll see. {in Benson's ear) He wants to know if Pliny 
 Grover married Nebuchadnezzar's wife's sister, what relation is 
 Benson to him ? 
 
 Ben. Oh, did I ever ! Nebuchadnezzar's wife's sister ! AVhy 
 you idiot, you've got things so infernally mixed, I don't see 
 how I'm to get 'em straight again. Now, sir, you ask him the 
 plain question — ''Do you know Benson ?" 
 
128 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 God. Certainly, sir, certainly, (in his father's ear) Do you 
 know Beans and Son ? 
 
 Mr. G. Beans and Son ? Let me see. Why, no. There is 
 Bean and Jason, and Bean Brothers, but I don't know such a 
 firm as Beans and Son. 
 
 God. {to Ben). He says Beans and Son Vv^ent out of business 
 a year ago. Too much pork, you see, and not enough beans. 
 
 Ben. {excited). Another mistake ! Why, you're as deaf as 
 your father. Here, stand aside and I'll speak for myself, {to 
 Mr. Gboyer) Do you know Benson ? 
 
 Mr. G. Oh, yes, very w^ell. But, brother Ben has two sons — 
 which one do you mean ? The one that suspended ? 
 
 Ben. {to Godfrey). I don't hear. What does he say ? 
 
 God. He says Ben's son w^as hung last week. 
 
 Ben. You lie, you scamp ! No member of the family was 
 ever hung. He couldn't have said that. Stand aside. I'll 
 speak to him again, {to Mr. Groyer, speaking veri/ slowly) 
 Do — y-o-u — k -n-o-w — B-e-n-s-o-n ? 
 
 Mr. G. Certainly I do — both of them. Promising men, 
 though one did have to assign, last week. 
 
 Be?i. Sign what ? I shall get mad pretty soon. Mr. Grover, 
 I again repeat, {very loud) Do you know Benson ? 
 
 Mr. G. Confound Benson ! Who's Benson ? What has Ben- 
 son got to do ^vith this interview ? Why don't you come to 
 business, sir ? W^hat do you want ? 
 
 Ben. Oh, give me patience ! What is it he says ? I catch 
 only part of his words. 
 
 God. {in Benson's ear). He was quoting Hamlet's soliloquy — 
 *' To be or not to be." 
 
 Ben. Hamlet's soliloquy? Is he moonstruck? Now, look 
 here, young man ; I came here to see Ashbel Grover. 
 
 God. Well, there he is, look at him. 
 
 Ben. To make inquiries for his sister, and to deliver some 
 things she sent ; but, hang me, if xishbel Grover isn't crazy, 
 and you ain't a scamp or an idiot, then my name isn't Benson. 
 
 Mr. G. What is he saying, and why don't he make his busi- 
 ness known ? 
 
 God. {in father' s ear). He says Hamlet's a humbug, and if he 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 129 
 
 wasn't crazy then lie Avas a fool, and if he wasn't a fool then 
 his name wasn't Benson. 
 
 Mr. G. Extraordinary! Why, the old josey is crazy, sure 
 enough — crazy as a bedbug. 
 
 God. {to Benson). He remarks that Joseph was the right 
 kind of stuff — cosey as a bed- rug. 
 
 Ben. Joseph ! What next ? First Xebuchadnezzar, then 
 Hamlet, and now Joseph. Why didn't you tell me he was de- 
 mented and have saved all this trouble? I've yelled myself 
 hoarse. 
 
 Mr. G. What is it ? 
 
 God. {in his father's ear). He has a yellow horse he'd like to 
 sell. 
 
 Mr. G. A yellow horse ? What under heavens do I want of 
 a yellow horse ! Turn the old fool out ! What did you call 
 me out for ? I've talked myself tired and sore. 
 
 Ben. W^hat does he say ? 
 
 God. That he has hired a store. 
 
 Ben. Hired a store ? For Joseph, I suppose. But, enough 
 of this. Here are the things Mrs. Pliny Green ^ent. Take 
 them, and much good may they do the old luny. {opens carpet- 
 hag and empties out on floor a whole lot of stuff.) 
 
 Mr. G. {excited). Why, the old scamp — what does he mean ? 
 Start him, or I'll break every bone in his body ! 
 
 God. {liolding father back). He is going. Don't get excited 
 over a bag of doughnuts. 
 
 Mr. G. Doughnuts in my house ? I'll doughnuts him. {goes 
 for Benson.) 
 
 Be7i. {holding open lag, and with right hand draicing out 
 doughnuts, icith lohich he pelts Mr. Grover and Godfrey as 
 he retires to exit). With Mrs. Pliny Green's compliments and 
 the kind regards of Benson, and may Ashbel Grover go to the 
 Home of the Demented w^here he belongs. [Exit. 
 
 Mr. G. W^hy, the unconscionable old ruffian — what did in- 
 duce him ever to come in here ? 
 
 God. To sell his yellow horse, I suppose. 
 
 Mr. G. W"hy, bless me ! {picks up several little packages from 
 the pile on the floor) What's this? Why, things from Hetty — 
 
130 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Mrs. Green ! Holloa tliere, there's some mistake here ! Stop 
 him, Godfrey ! Stop Benson. (Godfkey goes to exit, hut is 
 received with another round of doughnuts.) 
 
 Ben. {outside). Nebuchadnezzar's wife's sister ! Good-bye, 
 sonny ! Eemember Benson ! 
 
 Mr. G. {opening note, reads). Dear Aslibel, I send by our 
 neighbor, Benson, a few things just to remind you of the dear 
 old farm, and a lot of the doughnuts that always used to be 
 your favorite. I hope you'll enjoy them. Be kind to neigh- 
 bor Benson, and show him what hospitality you can for the 
 sake of your sister. Hattie." A pretty mess we've made 
 of it ! 
 
 God. A pretty mess he's made of it, I should say, with his 
 doughnuts. 
 
 Mr. G. But, I don't understand how it all happened — such 
 singular mistakes all round. 
 
 God. Nor I either ! {shouts) He was a trifle hard of hearing, 
 and you, {roars) you know, are just a little the same way, and 
 that's the cause of the misunderstanding. If it hadn't been 
 for me it might have been worse, {gathers up doughnuts and 
 stuffs them in his pockets) You go and write to Aunt Hattie, 
 father, and explain how it happened. 
 
 Mr. G. Yes, of course ; but, hang me if I know myself just 
 what was the matter. \^Exit. 
 
 God. {shouts). And remember Benson. [Exit. 
 
 AUNT EUNICE'S EXPEEIMENTS. 
 
 MKS. ALICE R. FERRY. 
 FOR NUMEROUS CHARACTERS — CHIEFLY FEMALES. 
 
 Enter Aunt Eunice, knitting in hand. 
 
 Aunt Eunice. Well, now we'll see what comes on it. I said 
 as how it warn't jest the Christian thing to giv' the money 
 away in a chunk to that Relief Society, without knowin' where 
 it went, nor ef it warn't spent on payin' carriage hire fur its 
 officers to go round to see their poor relations in. And Jenny, 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 131 
 
 she said 'twas better that way than to be pestered and bothered 
 with spendin' it yourself on the poor. I said it warn't so, and 
 she said, then, that I might jest try it myself and see if I could 
 do better than the Relief Society, so I told her I Vv-ould ; and 
 she has gin me one hundred dollars to see how it works, an' so 
 I went out yiste'd'y and told three or four poor wimmen I met 
 to come this mornin', and bring along with 'em any poor soul 
 who was in great need and I'd help them a little ; so now 
 I'll show Jenny how much better it is to dispense your own 
 charity. I told Bridget to let 'em in as they come. If I don't 
 make that hundred dollars do a heap of good then my guess 
 isn't worth a cent's worth of peppermint. 
 
 Enter 1st Pook Woman. 
 
 1st Poor Woman. Dear lady, I heard of your dear kind offer 
 to help the deserving poor, from my next room neighbor, Mrs. 
 Mason, who requested me to speak a good word for her as well 
 as for myself, and so I will. I'm a widow woman, Mrs. Wil- 
 son, with only a son for my support. He has had no work for 
 some time, and we are both reduced to great straits. We have 
 no food in the room, no coal, and no money to pay our month's 
 rent. To-morrow we will be turned on the street, and the 
 good Lord only knows what will become of us. {cries.) 
 
 Aunt E. (sympatlutically). That is all bad enough. How 
 much is your rent, you poor critter ? 
 
 1st P. W. Four dollars, ma'am. 
 
 Aiuit E. And for coal and food as much more, I s'pose? 
 
 1st P. W. It will buy a quarter of a ton of coal and food for 
 a week, if we eat but once a day. 
 
 Aunt E. Here's ten dollars. Take it and use it very care- 
 fully to make it go as far as possible. Money's money, you 
 know, now-a-days. 
 
 1st P. W. Certainly, I will, and God bless you, ma'am. And 
 for my poor neighbor, Mrs. Mason, she has six children to sup- 
 port, and her husband is out of work, and they are almost 
 starving to death, and will be turned out if they don't pay 
 their rent — can you find it in your heart to relieve them ? 
 
132 PEESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGUES. 
 
 Aunt E. Sad case. Here's ten dollars for lier if you will be 
 honest, and see tliat she gets it. 
 
 1st P. W. Bless you, ma'am, the poor never cheat one an- 
 other. They share what they've got. I'll see that she gets it, 
 and we'll remember you in our prayers. [Exit. 
 
 Aunt E. Poor souls ! What misery some folks do know, to 
 be sure ! 
 
 Enter 2nd Poor Woman. 
 
 2nd Poor Woman. Is it yerself that's axed the desarving 
 poor to come for help ? I'm yer subject. 
 
 Aunt E. What is your case, my good woman ? 
 
 2nd P. W. Me case, is it ? Well, it's a sorry case I've got. 
 It's a husband that drinks ivery drop ov whisky he can buy or 
 stale, an' v/hin he's out of whisky he bates me jist to kape his 
 spirits up. I've no dudds to me back, no shoes to me fate, nor 
 comb to me hid, nor anything to ate, nor a fri'nd in the 
 woruld as will break Pat's hid for me, nor pay my rint ; so 
 that's me case, ma'am, as sure as me name is Macfadden. 
 
 Aunt E. And if I give you five dollars, what use will you 
 make of it ? 
 
 2nd P. W. What use is it wid five dollars ? Wooroh — wor- 
 roh — it'll last a wake, sure, if spint circumspictly. 
 
 Aunt E. Well, here it is — five dollars. See that you make 
 a good use of it. 
 
 2nd P. W. Ah, the Lord bless ye, an' pour blessin's down 
 your back like oil, an' make yer ould days be like owld 
 whiskey — all the swater, an' may ye see a hundred years to a 
 day. [Exit. 
 
 Aunt E. A rough creature, certainly, but an honest one, I 
 dare say. 
 
 Enter Ragged Girl. 
 
 Pagged Girl. Oh, \m.^s\xs— -please, missus — give me a dollar 
 to save my little brother. He is very sick, and we can't buy 
 him medicine, or wine, or food. Oh, missus do help us ! 
 
 Aunt E. Why, child, a dollar will do no good. 
 
 Bagged G. Yes, it will — a dollar is a hundred cents ! 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 133 
 
 Aunt E. Yes, but tliat is a small sum for medicines, food 
 and wine. 
 
 Bagged G. It'll do for a little wliile. Perhaps it will make 
 him well. Oh, ma'am, don't refuse ! 
 
 Aunt E. Here are five dollars, child. Will you see that it is 
 well spent ? 
 
 Ragged G. Oh, wont I ! It'll make us so happy. [Exit. 
 
 Aunt E. Oh, Jenny ought to see this! She loses all the 
 pleasure of doing good in letting others give away her money. 
 
 Enter now, one after another, a croicd of applicants of all ages 
 and conditions, nudging and crowding and quarre 
 
 Bless my soul, what brought you all here ? Why, what a 
 rabble ! {they crowd closely around her, and surround her.) 
 
 Voices. *' Madam, give me a dollar for bread ! " ''Give me 
 a quarter ; I am starving!" ''My father is dead, and no 
 coffin ! " " Oh, for God's sake save my child from begging 
 in the streets !" " Madam, I once was rich, now I'm suffering 
 for the very necessities of life ! " 
 
 Aunt E. Oh, what shall I do with this crowd ? Bridget — 
 Bridget ! 
 
 Enter Bridget, with a broom in her hand. 
 
 Oh, Bridget, these people are like ravenous wolves. What 
 shall I do ? 
 
 Bridget. Out wid 'em, to be sure ! {swings broomstick) Out 
 wid ye, ye rag-bags — ye walking scarecrows — ye buzzards ! 
 Out, I say, or be me sowl I'll have every one ov ye in the 
 station-house in a jiffy. I've winked at a p'liceman, an' he's 
 waitin' to be called in. Out, I say, or in he comes ! {croicd 
 rushes out) Bad luck to the day ye lost your fortius, ye vaga- 
 bones ! There, missis, they've gone. Have ye had enough ov 
 almsgiving on a society scale ? Shall I let in another isiction 
 ov the desarvin' poor ? j^.bout three hundred more are out in 
 the street waitin' their turn. The nixt crowd '11 knock ye 
 down an' sit on yer corpus. As it's all the same to ye, we'll 
 dispense wid the funeral to-day. 
 
 Aunt E. And dispense the money in some other way. Why, 
 
134 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 this is liorrible ! Who would have thought that misery could 
 assume such shapes ! I'm glad Jenny wasn't here to see it. 
 
 Brid. Me mistress, Mrs. Jenny, knows 'em better as your- 
 self, so she does ; and never gives from the house, for ivery 
 dollar ye gives brings tin vagabones to the door ; an' so there's 
 only wan way, an' that is to put your money in the hands ov 
 them as can discriminate better'n you can, not knowin' the 
 cases at all — at all. An' what did ye give the fust owld rip as* 
 came in ? 
 
 Aunt E. Why, she, poor thing, was in great straits — an 
 American woman — likely to be turned out in the street — so I 
 gave her ten dollars. 
 
 Brid. Tin dollars ! Tin mistakes that was. 
 
 Aunt E. How so ? 
 
 Brid. Why, she was an old imposther. The p'liceman will 
 tell ye that the owld rounder has been up afore coort many a 
 time fur all kinds ov tricks. 
 
 Aunt E. Is it possible ? Why, she looked and acted so hon- 
 est. Oh, dear, I gave her another ten dollars for another poor 
 woman, a next-room neighbor with six children. 
 
 Brid. Wid six whiskey bottles — that's about it. She'll be 
 on a drunk for a week, now, wid that twinty dollars. What 
 did ye give the Irisher ? 
 
 Aunt E. Five dollars for 
 
 Brid. Fur Tistaments fur the haythen, perhaps ? She'll 
 buy them, missus, an' to-night she and Pat '11 make Cherry 
 street howl wid their spiritual ifforts. 
 
 Aunt E. Is it possible I have been so deceived ? 
 
 Brid. Av course it is ! What did ye give the rag'muffin 
 girrul wid the sick brother ? 
 
 Aunt E. Five dollars. That was a real case of suffering. 
 She asked only for a dollar, poor thing. 
 
 Brid. Divil a poor thing at all ! She gets many a dollar a 
 day be that same sick brother who isn't her brother at all, at 
 all, an' isn't sick, for he's her father who puts the money in 
 bank, an' kapes it too, an' the p'liceman will tell ye that 
 same. 
 
 Aunt E. Oh, I am an old fool, don't know enough about city 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 135 
 
 human nature to last me all night. Dear, dear, but won't 
 Jenny have the laugh or cry on me ! I'll just call myself a bad 
 bargain and go back to the farm where we make all tramps 
 work for what they have and every poor person is known to be 
 poor before we give. [Exit. 
 
 Brid. A good soul, but oh, so green ! An' now to clane the 
 house after that dirthy pack ! Pogh ! How they smilt, to be 
 sure ! It's the last experiment av Aunt Eunice, I take it. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 OHILDEEN OP A HUNDEED TEAES AGO. 
 
 EillLT S. OAKEY. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Thankful Whitmore. Patty Powell. 
 
 Faith Powell. Abigail Baelow. 
 
 Betsy Fairbanks. Hannah Dearborn. 
 
 Mehitable Garrett. Hope Seabury. 
 
 Te:mperance Mills. Sally Harden, 
 
 and others. 
 
 Scene. — A school-room in a J^eio England ullage. Inter- 
 mission. 
 
 Thankful. Patty Powell, do you really think there will be 
 war? 
 
 Patty. I don't know, Thankful. Father says it looks very 
 much like it. And if there is, he and Timothy will have to 
 go. They '' will return victorious, or return no more." 
 
 Faith. How can you talk so, Patty ! 
 
 Pat. ^Miy, you wouldn't have them return any other way, 
 would you ? Timothy says we are sure to win, because we are 
 in the right. 
 
 Faith. Does the right always win ? 
 
 Pat. Of course it does. 
 
 Faith. Then what made the Greeks kill Socrates, as we 
 learned in ancient history yesterday ? 
 
 Pat. Oh, it always wins in the end, I mean. 
 
136 j>eescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Thank. But Socrates didn't win in the end. 
 
 Faith. As if tliat was tlie last of him ! 
 
 Pat. However, the Americans will. Father says *' the con- 
 test maybe severe, but the end will be glorious." I am sure I'd 
 rather have anybody I cared for killed, than to have him give 
 up when he is in the right. 
 
 Faith. So had I, but I cannot bear to talk about it. 
 
 Abigail {icho has been writing). There, that's done. 
 
 Thank. What's your copy, Abigail? 
 
 Abi. '' On Morning Wings, how active springs the Mind." 
 
 Faith. I should like to work that on my sampler. 
 
 Betsy. You have taken a great deal of pains. 
 
 Abi. A thing well done is twice done, and a thing half done 
 isn't done at all. 
 
 Bet. Here comes Hannah Dearborn, with the new scholar. 
 She's Hannah's cousin, and she's come all the way from Phil- 
 adelphia. But you ought to hear her talk. 
 
 Abi. Hush ! She's a Quakeress. 
 
 Han. Thankful, this is my cousin, Mehitable Garrett, from 
 Philadelphia. Mehitable, this is Thankful Whitmore. 
 
 Mehitable . How does thee do. Thankful ? 
 
 Hail. This is Patty Powell, and this is Faith Powell. I be- 
 lieve you know the others. 
 
 Meh. I am glad to see thee, Patty, and thee. Faith. 
 
 Faith. Hannah has often spoken to me of you. 
 
 Pat. I should like to know how Philadelphia looks. It is so 
 far off, we don't very often see any one from there. 
 
 Meh. It is ''a faire green town," and we have many pleasant 
 orchards, and much fruit. 
 
 Thank. But now you are at such a distance, you cannot hear 
 from your friends very often. 
 
 Meh. Oh, doesn't thee know there is to be a mail now twice 
 as often ? So I can write a letter and get an answer in three 
 weeks, instead of in six. 
 
 Pat. That is fine. How many improvements there are in 
 travelling now ! 
 
 Faith. If we go on improving so, perhaps in a hundred years 
 from now people will get letters every day or two. 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 137 
 
 Pat. You said that the other day, and Aunt Polly told you 
 that children should be seen and not heard. 
 
 Bet. That is what grandmother always says. But the other 
 day she made a mistake and said, ' ' Children should be heard 
 and not seen ; " and what does my little brother Hezekiah do 
 but get inside our new clock and make a great noise. Grand- 
 mother made him stand in the corner for half an hour. 
 
 Meh. Has thee a clock, then ? That is another of the great 
 improvements. 
 
 Abi. And I heard of still another this morning. Hope Sea- 
 bury, what was that about the flying machine ? 
 
 Hope. The flying machine is a fast coach, which has made 
 the journey from New York to Philadelphia in two days. 
 
 Bemral Voices. In two days ? 
 
 Hope. Yes, and from Philadelphia to Baltimore in five days. 
 
 Fat. Who can beat that ? 
 
 Faith. The birds can beat it, and perhaps in a hundred years 
 from now people can go a mile in ten minutes. 
 
 Pat. Fie, child, with your hundred years from now ! A mile 
 in ten minutes ! That would be impossible. 
 
 Faith. Why so ? The world will be always improving. I 
 see it plainly. 
 
 Pat. Aunt Polly says you always think you can see what no 
 one else can. 
 
 Faith. That's because I'm Faith. 
 
 Meh. Hannah, what does thee do after intermission ? 
 
 Han. Those of us who have finished our ciphering can take 
 our needlework. We have all done but Deliverance Dummer. 
 She never is ready. 
 
 Thank. Pity there isn't a flying machine to do ciphering. 
 
 Hail. 1 am knitting a pair of stockings. See, I spun that 
 yarn myself. 
 
 Pat. It is good yarn. I have a cambric handkerchief to 
 hemstitch. 
 
 Bet. And I a checked apron to hem. Where's my house- 
 Vrdfe? 
 
 Abi. There it is, under your English Reader. You should 
 have a place for everything and everything in its place. 
 
138 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Bet. As you do, Miss Prim. Temperance Mills, what are 
 you going to do ? 
 
 Temperance. I liave some patchwork. 
 
 Faith. And I my sampler. It's the trial of my life. 
 
 Bet. Isn't that sampler done yet? I finished mine long 
 ago. 
 
 Pat. No ; she'd rather read by the hour. She has read all 
 *' Montgomery's Poems," and the " Rising Glory of America/' 
 and the *•' Memoirs of Sidney Bidulph," and the ''Pilgrim's 
 Progress " and the '' Hosannahs of Children," and everything. 
 
 Tern. The " Hosannahs of Children " is our Sabba'day book. 
 But last Sabba'day I read in the '' Dissenting Gentleman's 
 Answer." 
 
 Thank. Answer to what ? 
 
 Tern. I don't know. I didn't quite understand it. 
 
 Meh. I like to read in the Pennsylvania Magazine. Does 
 thee ever see it, Thankful ? 
 
 Thank. No ; but we take the Boston Gazette. 
 
 Bet. What have you there, Patty ? 
 
 Pat. It is a button brother Timothy brought me from Con- 
 cord. It has the motto, '' Union and Liberty in all America." 
 
 Sally {who has just come in). That's a rebel button. 
 
 Several Voices. Fie, Sally ! A Tory ! A Tory ! 
 
 Sally. God save the King. 
 
 Pat. God save the King, and the Continental Congress. 
 
 Sal. I wish I was a man. 
 
 Pat, I wish I was a man, too, and you'd have to fight nie. 
 
 Sal. If you were men, you might all be hanged for rebels. 
 
 Thank. Then we'd be martyrs for liberty. 
 
 Master. Not so loud, children. [Exit Sally. 
 
 Hope. I declare, I hope there will be war, and she'll find out 
 who's right. 
 
 Meh. Thee shouldn't say that. All war is wrong. 
 
 Ihank. What, all war wrong? 
 
 Meh. Yea ; we must forgive our enemies. 
 
 Pat. Beat 'em first, and forgive 'em afterwards. 
 
 Meh. We must love our enemies, and do good to them that 
 hate us. Hasn't thee read that in the good Book ? 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 139 
 
 Pat. But if it came to tliis — to give up the right, or to fight 
 for it, which would you do ? 
 
 Meh. I would do neither. I would try to make other people 
 see the right, too. 
 
 Pat. But suppose you couldu't ; and suppose you must kill 
 or be killed ? 
 
 j\Ieh. Then I w^ould die for the right, as some of my people 
 have done ; but I would not fight, because I think it is wrong. 
 They might burn me at the stake, if they would. It is glorious 
 to be a martyr. 
 
 Thank. Isn't she right, after all? 
 
 Faith. This is the way it looks to me : We must not fight for 
 ourselves, because we are angry ; but we may for a good cause, 
 for our country, for the rights of a whole nation. 
 
 Hope. 
 
 " While Freedom's cause her anxious breast alarms, 
 She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms." 
 
 That is, Columbia ; not Faith Powell. 
 
 Ahi. Intermission is over ; the master is turning the hour- 
 .glass. 
 
 Han. Hush. Here comes the minister. Now we must all 
 stand up. 
 
 A EOSE AND A THOEN. 
 
 MRS. LOUISE E. V. BOYD. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 John Thorn. Rose, his wife. 
 
 Peggy, his icife's sister. Aunt Jane. 
 
 Scene. — Tidy room. Rose discovered sitting, very neatly 
 
 dressed. 
 
 Rose. Peggy ! Peggy ! Come here ! 
 
 Peggy. What now ? 
 
 Pose. John will be here in a few minutes ; bring in the lamp ; 
 and hurry, Peggy, you are too slow for anything ! 
 
 Peggy, {moving slowly to the door). I'll bring the lamp, but I 
 
140 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 don't feel like breaking my neck for Johnny Tliorn ! {goes out.) 
 Rose {following her to the door). Peggy, I wish you would 
 speak a little more respectful of my husband. There are very 
 few men like him. 
 
 Enter John. 
 
 John. Hey, hey ! Here it is again ; no light, Rose. I want 
 a light ; I want it this minute, and I wont wait for it, either. 
 
 Rose {quietly). Peggy is getting one. 
 
 John {sarcastically). Ah, is she ? Your sister is bringing a 
 light, is she? Then I shall look for it sometime next week, 
 for she's no akin to chain lightning. 
 
 Rose. I wish, John, you would speak more kindly of my 
 sister. She don't, I know, rush about like some folks, slash- 
 ing and breaking, {a sound of hrealdng glass in the kitchen, 
 and cries of " 0\\\ oh !" from Peggy. Rose rushes to the 
 door) My good lamp ! Oh, my good lamp ! 
 
 John. You careless, good for nothing 
 
 Rose {turning to John). Johnny Thorn, I'm surprised at 
 you. Careless, indeed ! Peggy is not careless ! Good for 
 nothing, indeed, and your own wife's own sister ! 
 
 John {furiously). A light ! my kingdom for a light ! I'll go out 
 and give that piece of blundering slowness a bit of my mind ! 
 I will so ! {he rushes out, and Peggy slips in unseen hy him.) 
 
 Rose. Oh, Peggy, I can't stand this ; that's the third lamp 
 since Christmas. 
 
 Peggy. I say it isn't, and, besides^ I'm glad it's broken, just 
 to plague that ]3recious bird of paradise, that husband of yours, 
 the stingy monster. 
 
 Rose. Stingy ! Are you beside yourself, girl ? Johnny 
 Thorn stingy ! My dear husband stingy ! He's as generous 
 as a mortal can be. 
 
 Peggy. And so sweet tempered. 
 
 Rose. Yes, he is sweet tempered. No saint could put up 
 with you ; you're a blundering, aggravating creature. 
 
 Here John comes in with a large potato holloiced, into which is 
 stuck a tallow candle. As he strides in, Peggy again slips 
 out unseen hy him. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 141 
 
 JoJm. That cliarming sister of yours couldn't be found, Mrs. 
 Tliorn. I miss her presence extremely, she's so ornamental. 
 
 Bose. Johnny Thorn, do you want to drive me distracted ? 
 A pretty row to make about a paltry lamp. I wish you'd try 
 and be pleasant to poor Peggy, she's such an estimable girl. 
 
 John {setting the potato on a stand in the centre of the room 
 and eyeing it complacently). There now is my candle-stick, and 
 from henceforth I'll have no other sort. What do you think ' 
 of that, my dear madam ? 
 
 Rose {raising her hands). Lovely, lovely ; so unique, so 
 chaste, so new, and so durable, {walking around- the stand) 
 Lovely from all points of view, and the light is truly '' grand, 
 gloomy and peculiar." Mr. Thorn, I'll tell you what, I'll carry 
 your idea out now. I intend to have hollowed out pumpkins 
 for wash-bowls and pitchers ; I'll scoop out a few turnips for 
 coffee cups ; I'll have a dug out beet for a preserve dish, and 
 to-morrovv^ morning, your honor, I'll give you your buckwheat 
 cakes off cabbage leaves. 
 
 John {who is by this time reading his newspaper, says, looking 
 up). It's very cold out doors, to-night, which makes it seem 
 more pleasant within. 
 
 Bose. Rather hot. {taking up a stocking and beginning to darn.) 
 
 Peggy comes in and takes a seat in the corner with her knitting. 
 
 Bose. Mr. Thorn, do read to me. I never get time to read 
 for myself. I may just sit and darn, and darn, and darn, and 
 hear nothing. 
 
 John. You say I read through my nose, and you can't bear 
 it. 
 
 Bose. Well, I say it again ; you do read through your nose. \ 
 
 John. No, no ; you said I read too fast, that was it. i 
 
 Bose. Oh, what matter what it was ! Do read. 
 
 John {reading). ''An exchange gives us this horrible account 
 of a mad dog " 
 
 Bose. John, John, are you going to kill me ? You know I 
 can't endure tales of horror. 
 
 Peggy. 1 wanted to hear that. 
 
M2 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 John. Well, Peggy, I'd like to gratify you, but 
 
 Rose. You'll gratify me by keeping still, if you can't read 
 something interesting. 
 
 JoJin. Ha, ba, lia ! Here it is. ''A certain pbilosopber gives 
 as a reason why women have no beards, that they never could 
 have held their tongues long enough to be shaved. " Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Rose. That is wonderful, truly wonderful. Why, Johnny 
 Thorn, that precious item has been in the papers ever since I 
 can remember, and has likely been a staple paragraph for the 
 last hundred years. A pretty philosopher he must have been 
 that said all that to himself. I wonder who darned his stock- 
 ings for him ! I wonder how long he lived after he said that. 
 For my part, I wonder how anybody can laugh at such nonsense. 
 I'd no more laugh at that, Johnny Thorn, than I'd laugh at 
 our old cat's meow. 
 
 Peggy. I thought it was funny. 
 
 Hose. Oh, Peggy, be still. I want John to lay aside that 
 paper and talk to me. John, tell me something, do now, while 
 I darn your dear old pair of stockings. 
 
 John. Did you hear about Mrs. Brown and her daughter 
 starting for a drive, and the horses dashing down Green street 
 before they were caught, and nobody hurt ? 
 
 Pk^ose. Oh, no ! I never heard a w^ord of it ; do tell all 
 about it. 
 
 Jolm. That's all. 
 
 Pose. Johnny Thorn, you are the most provoking man alive. 
 I hate to have everything all in a breath. 
 
 Peggy. Now, that's just what I like in John's stories, he 
 doesn't keep one in suspense. 
 
 Pose. Peggy, hush ! If it was not for me, you'd just have 
 John puSed up with conceit. {Jiere John, snuffing the candle 
 with Ms fingers hums them ; Peggy giggles.) 
 
 John. I believe I've some grease on my hands ; I'll go and 
 wash them, {goes out.) 
 
 Peggy. I'm glad he's likely to get enough of his tallow can- 
 dle ; it did me good to see him burn his fingers. There's an- 
 other lamp out there. If he would have behaved himself, I'd 
 have brought it in. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 143 
 
 Rose. Then go and get it this instant. I intend my husband 
 to be comfortable. Peggy, if you had a husband, you would 
 knovv^ something of a wife's feelings. 
 
 P^ggy- Very likely ; but before Fd have a husband like 
 yours, rd be an old maid forever, {goes for the lamp.) 
 
 John {^passing her at the door). What is your amiable sister 
 saying about being an old maid ? 
 
 Rose. She has decided to be one. 
 
 John. Yes, five years ago. 
 
 Rose. John, my sister is only twenty-five and a half years of 
 age^ and, sir, she has had the very best of offers, the very best. 
 (John whistles as Peggy comes in with the lamp.) 
 
 Rose (adjusting the lamp on the table). John, dear, do tell us 
 how it was about those old relics out at Grant's farm ? 
 
 John {leaning hack in his chair). Well, last Wednesday, three 
 men (and I think their names were Robert Williams, James 
 Johnson and Josiah Higgins), with hats, and coats, and trou- 
 sers, and boots on, started out early in the morning, w^ith 
 shovels on their shoulders, and began to dig a cellar. First, 
 one man put in his shovel and took up a shovel- full of earth, 
 and then another man put in his shovel and took up another 
 shovel-full of earth, and then another man put in his shovel — 
 {while he repeats this over some ten times more, Rose watches 
 him intently, and throws her stocking in one direction, her hall 
 in another, and then exclaims) John, Johnny Thorn, Mr. Thorn, 
 what do you mean ? Will you never stop ? 
 
 John. You complain of my making my stories too short, so I 
 thought I'd give you all the particulars ; and it will take me 
 some time to get all this earth away, for it was not till the 
 cellar 
 
 Rose {springing to her feet). Keep your particulars to your- 
 self. I don't like to be made fun of ; I don't think it's kind. 
 {begins to cry.) 
 
 P^gyy- Neither do I. ^ ; 
 
 Rose. Peggy, go to bed. 
 
 Enter Aunt Jane, an old lady, in shawl and bonnet. 
 Aunt Jane. Stay, Peggy. How are you, Peggy? And, 
 
144 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 dear Rose, liow are you ? And, Jolm, bless you, how are you ? 
 {shaking hands all round) You wrote me sucli glowing descrip- 
 tions of your love for eacli otlier, and your domestic felicity, 
 tliat I came to see it, I've overheard all you have said this 
 evening, and so I have been writing it down as a drama, and 
 I'll have some of our smart school boys and girls act it the 
 next exhibition, and let you see how you look. There may be 
 others like yourselves that it will benefit. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 THE TWO PEIENDS. 
 
 AMEEICA ACKRON. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Tom, a schoolboy. Harry, his friend. 
 
 James Trueman, son of his eviployer, late from college. 
 
 Scene I. — A milage street. Tom and Harry meet, one loell 
 dressed, the other shabbily. 
 
 Harry. Good-morning, Tom. Going to school to-day ? 
 
 Tom. No, Harry ; pa is sick and I cannot go any more. 
 
 Harry. What ! never ? 
 
 Tom. M^ school days are over, I fear. I did so hope I could 
 continue this session, but ma says it's impossible — I must work 
 to support the family. 
 
 Harry. Too bad, Tom. We will miss you so ; our teacher, 
 ; too, will miss you sadly. Where will you work ? 
 ' Tom. On Mr. Trueman's farm. 
 
 Harry. That old curmudgeon. It's a mile to his farm, and, 
 work as you may, you can't please ; better come to school and 
 get the prize. 
 
 Tom. I cannot, (sighs) But, Harry, I will be at home every 
 evening ; I can study, you know. 
 
 Harry. Oh, yes, youll be a ripe scholar, no doubt, with your 
 little brothers crying around . 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 145 
 
 Tom {after a pause)- If somebody would only teach me. 
 
 Harry. I believe our teacher is too busy to teach around 
 after school hours. 
 
 Tom. I did not mean him — if some of the boys would study 
 with me 
 
 Harry. I would like to help you, Tom, but I have so many 
 engagements. Maybe Bill Smith would study with you. Ill 
 mention it to him. {turns away.) 
 
 Tom. Oh, no ; don't tell anybody. 
 
 Harry {comes lack). Well, I wont. I'll be your friend, Tom, 
 through thick and thin. If you want a favor come to me. 
 Good-bye, Tom. Good luck to you. {goes off muttering that's 
 the icay father talks to poor people.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 Scene II.— Tom alone in Mr. Trueman's library reading. 
 Enter James. 
 
 James. Tom, you appear to be devoted to books. I hope 
 you are not reading anything trashy, {looks over his shoulder, 
 steps hack surprised) Is it possible that you read Latin ? 
 
 Tom.. A little, sir. I have not much time for study. 
 
 James {seats himself). Any other boy would say no time for 
 study. But how do you get on by yourself ? 
 
 Tom, Very slowly, but ma says, as I am learning so many 
 things I must not expect to get on fast. 
 
 James. You are not perplexing yourself with too many 
 studies, I hope ? 
 
 Tom. Oh, no ; Algebra is my principal study ; but she says 
 I am learning patience, diligence, and self-reliance, beside 
 learning to reason widely and think deeply ; these are learned 
 without being studies, and my teacher said the last day I was 
 at school, that the nation needed thinkers. 
 
 James. Very true ; I wish there were more such mothers in 
 the land. Tom, could you not stay vv'ith us every night ? 
 
 Tom. Don't know, sir ; believe pa would let me, now he is 
 well. 
 
146 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 James. Get his consent and I will teach you from six till 
 nine every evening. 
 
 I'om. Thank you, Mr. Trueman ; 1 can never thank you 
 enough. But you must only give me a few lessons, then I 
 can get on better ; it will be such dull, tiresome work, that I 
 cannot allow my best friend to be more imposed upon. 
 
 James. You will confer a favor by becoming my pupil. I 
 still prosecute my studies, but only occasionally, and I want to 
 learn of you those other things that are not studies. Please 
 see your father to-morrow. 
 
 Tom. I will ; thank you, sir. (jpicks up his hat) Good-night, 
 sir. [Exit. 
 
 James. Good-night, Tom. {looks after him) I will follow his 
 bright example and do my whole duty better in future. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 THE IMPS OF THE TEUNE-EOOM. 
 
 MRS. MARK P. 
 FOR TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THREE ELDER GIRLS. 
 
 Trunk-room. Trunks and boxes, etc., around. Enter Addie 
 and Kitty, of six to nine years of age. 
 
 Addie. Let's see, Kit, what '11 we do? Mamma's gone out, 
 papa's down to the store, aunty's got one of her crazy head- 
 aches and gone distracted to bed, and the girls are both down- 
 stairs. 
 
 Kitty. Just have a good time rummaging, Addie. I do so like 
 to rummage ! It's such fun to see all the things, and to put 'em 
 on to see how they look. 
 
 Addie. Yes, mamma and aunty have lots o' things put away 
 in their trunks that they never wear. 
 
 Kitty. Oh, Id. so like to see 'em ! 
 
 Addie. So'd I. Here's a great big old trunk that mamma 
 says was grandma's. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 147 
 
 Kitty. Dear old grandma is dead now. I wonder why people 
 get old and wrinkled and then die ? Do you suppose I'll ever 
 be old and wrinkled ? 
 
 Addle. Oh, that'll be horrid ! Our pretty hair to become 
 thin and gray ; our smooth cheeks to get all wrinkled ; our 
 mouths to seem this way, {draws in lips like a toothless old 
 tcoman) and our voices to be shaky and squeaky ! 
 
 Kitty. That's just the way everything does : they are young 
 and very sweet at first, then they grow up bigger and stronger ; 
 then they begin to change and grow coarser, and after awhile 
 seem tired with living ; then they get old and shaky and die 
 just 'cause they can't live any longer. 
 
 Addle. It's queer. Why couldn't we be always young? 
 {goes to big trunk and opens it.) 
 
 Kitty. Why ? Because if we didn't grow old and get out of 
 the way, there wouldn't be any room for the people that keep 
 coming. 
 
 Addle {dragging tilings out of trunk). Oh, Kit, isn't this 
 funny ? — this queer old cap ! {holds up old lady's cap) Put it 
 on. (Kitty puts it on) And, see here — what queer gloves ! 
 {holds up a pair of long sleeve gloves which Kitty takes and 
 draws on her arms) And this funny, funny cape, {takes out big 
 old fashioned cape trimmed with wide fringe, etc.) Kit, it's beauti- 
 ful ! Put it on. {Kitty puts on cape) Ha ! ha ! Heres grand- 
 ma's specs ! {holds up a pair of large spectacles) Put 'em on, 
 Kit. (Kitty puts them on) Ha ! ha ! You look like the old 
 woman who lived in a shoe, only you haven't got any hump on 
 your back nor any cane to lean on and wallop the children, 
 with. 
 
 Kitty {poiriting in trunk). Oh, Addie — what's that ? 
 
 Addie {dragging out big old-fashioned scuttle-bonnet). Why, 
 bless me, it's a bonnet ! Who ever saw such a thing? Ha ! ha ! 
 It's big as that balloon the man went up in. Put it on. Kit. 
 (Kitty puts bonnet on over the cap) Ha ! ha ! It's just killing ! 
 (Kitty xcalks around the stage, ichile Addie digs away in trunk) 
 Oh, kit ! 
 
 Kitty {drawing near trunk). What is it ? 
 
 Addie, Why, just see ; it's a suit of clothes — of man's 
 
lis PEESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGUES. 
 
 clotlies, I do declare! {drags out old-fashioned hat, waistcoat 
 long -tailed coat.) 
 
 Kitty. Why, it must have been grandpa's suit. 
 
 Addle. I guess so ; but whoever saw sucli clotlies ! {proceeds 
 to put them on. Kitty helps) There, how do I look ? 
 
 Kitty. Ha ! ha ! It's the funniest old case I ever saw ! How 
 could grandma ever permit grandpa to dress so ! 
 
 Addie. Why, you goose, grandma's clothes are just as funny. 
 Let's promenade and imagine ourselves a young fellow and his 
 sweetheart, one hundred years ago ! {making how to Kitty) 
 May I have the felicitous honor of seeing you home from 
 Divine service. Miss Scinthy Deborah Williams ? 
 
 Kitty {making old-fashioned courtesy). If it pleases thee, 
 Aminidab Jehoakim Mather, {takes his projecting elbow with the 
 rigid hand. They promenade, keeping their bodies wide apart.) 
 
 Addie. Dost thou enjoy the occasion, Scinthy Deborah ? 
 
 Kitty. As the crow enjoyeth the young corn, Aminidab Je- 
 hoakim. 
 
 Addie. Art thou going to have cold baked squash and besins 
 for dinner, Scinthy Deborah ? 
 
 Kitty. Please thee, yea, Jehoakim Mather. 
 
 Addie. Dost thou look forward to the coming of the winter 
 v/ith apprehension or delight, Scinthy Deborah Williams ? 
 
 Kitty. How can I tell? If the winter bringeth thee to the 
 fireside, to eat apples and crack nuts, it hath no apprehension- 
 of evil for me ; if thee tarriest by the way, at the home of 
 Patience Reminder Weeks, then I shall wish the winter were 
 too cold for the young men to be abroad at night. 
 
 Addie. By the wherefore I am to be impressed that thou 
 preferrest thy humble servant to other men ? 
 
 Kitty. Yea, even so, Aminidab. 
 
 Addie. Give us yer hand on it, old gal ! Yer a trump ! 
 Now, fer a reg'lar hoe-down on ther occasion. Go in ! {they 
 dance — Addie cutting the ''pigeon-wing'' and Kitty, with 
 arms akimbo, bobbing around as stiff as a broom) Whoop ! 
 Arrah, there, an' what's the matther wid yer j'ints ? They're 
 rusty on the hinges. Ah, yer ould — that's what's the matther. 
 So we'll suspind. {they stop dancing.) 
 
' 
 
 pkescott's plain dialogues. 149 
 
 Kitty. Ad, what's in the other trunk ? 
 
 Addie. That's aunty's trunk. Oh, wouldn't she be wrothy 
 if she knew we children had touched her things ? 
 
 Kitty. Then don't let us touch them. 
 
 Addie. Pooh ! I'm going to see what's in that trunk if she 
 puts me on bread and molasses for a week, {jproceeds to other 
 trunk, still dressed in grandpa's clothes. Kitty follows and 
 looks on. Opening the trunk, Addle begins to fling out things. 
 First an immense chignon, which Kitty holds up and lays on 
 chair. Then follow a set of false teeth, a great big hoopskirt, a 
 jaunty little hat, a shawl or cloak, etc., and utrious lows, sashes 
 and trinkets) A regular old maid's shop. Did vou ever see 
 such an assortment ! "WTiy, here is everything aunty has worn 
 for fifty years, I do believe. Set 'em up, Kit, for inspection. 
 Let's play shop. 
 
 [The chair should be one prepared for the occasion — an old-fashioned high 
 back, with narrow seat and high legs. This they proceed to rig up in the 
 aunt's clothes. A stick lashed to the back of the chair and projecting about 
 six inches above it receives the hat. This stick already has been covered 
 around with white cloth to represent a head. The hoopskirt is thro^vn 
 over the chair back ; the shawl or cloak put on, etc. A little skill and con- 
 trivance can make a very funny imitation or lay figure. While all is being 
 done, the girls throw out of the trunk everj'thing else in it, in search of va- 
 rious articles wanted, and, not finding any shoes, Addie draws out of big 
 trunk a pair of old-fashioned, long top boots or low shoes v-ith great buckles 
 on them, wl>ich are placed on floor before the lay figure for its feet.] 
 
 Kitty. There, that is a splendid sign ! It'll draw custom. 
 
 Addie. It'll make a Fejee howl. It's frightful ! It's aunty's 
 apparition. I've murder in my heart, comrade, {runs to big 
 trunk and hauls from it a sioord and a cane. Hands cane to 
 Kitty) Now, comrade, for the death dance ! {they begin to cir- 
 cle around figure, AnjyiE^ swinging sword above her head, and 
 whooping as she thrusts sword at figure ; Kitty sicinging cane 
 around and imitating pig, or dog, or caterwauling. In midst 
 of proceedings enter Ar:JsT.) 
 
 Aunt. Bless my soul, what's this ? (Kitty bobs down behind 
 chair, but Addie shouts icith draicn sword.) 
 
 Addie. A ghost — a wraith — a spook ! Whoop ! she dies ! 
 {rushes at Aunt. Auxt shrieks and disap>pears) Now's our 
 time, Kit, to get out of this. Aunt'll rouse the house down 
 
150 tRESCOTT's PLAIN DIALOGUES. 
 
 Stairs and they'll all be up here after us. Hurry ! Off with 
 your duds ! {they strip off old clothes, and cram all hastily in 
 the trunk, 'l he lay figure is dissected in a hurry, and all the 
 Aunt's things gathered up in a 7necss, crammed in her trunk 
 and stamped on ly Addie to get them in. The lids are then 
 closed, the chair pushed up against wall, and the room looks as 
 usual) Now. Kit, run for your life ! 
 
 Mtty. Where'U we go, Ad ? 
 
 Addie. Down to the store. Papa'U stand by us. He likes 
 
 fun ! Out with you ! [Exeunt. 
 
 [A side exit, if none exists, can be extemporized behind a screen, behind 
 which the girls can disappear.] 
 
 Noise uithout. Voices : '* I'm afraid ! " "You fool, go ahead ! " 
 etc. Enter Aunt, followed by Nancy, the cook, armed icith 
 a rolling-pen and skillet, and Ellen, the upstairs girl, 
 armed icith broom and dust-brush. 
 
 Aunt {in surprise). Why, bless me ! 
 
 Nancy. Is it here they was ? 
 
 Aunt. Yes, two as strange creatures as ever I put my 
 eyes on. 
 
 Ellen. Not a soul is here. You've been dreaming. Miss 
 Jane. 
 
 Au7it. How dare you ! As if my eyes could deceive me ! 
 
 Nancy {aside to Ellen). Jim-jams ! 
 
 Ellen. Well, you see, no one is here. All is just as I left it ; 
 this very morning I set the room to rights. 
 
 Nancy {aside to Ellen). Too much strong tay ! 
 
 Aunt {pressing forehead icith hand). Two imps, all dressed 
 in clothes of the olden time, armed with sword and gun. One 
 disappeared through the floor, but the other made at me with 
 drawn sword and shrieked, " She dies ! " and I rushed down- 
 stairs. 
 
 Nancy {aside to Ellen). Wake in her upper story, ye mind. 
 
 Ellen. There'll be some explanation of it, I dare say, Miss 
 Jane. There's nothing to do now but go down stairs again. 
 
 Aunt. Where are the children ? 
 
 Ellen. At school, of course. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 151 
 
 Aunt {putting hand on 7ier forehead again). Is it possible 
 I've been deceiving myself ? 
 
 Ellen. Crazy headache, you know, Miss Jane. 
 
 Nancy. And strong tay, Miss, that 'u'd a' knocked the sivm 
 senses out av a body. 
 
 Aunt. And cerebral excitement, superinduced by too much 
 thought over the doings of that spirit medium, last night. 
 
 JSTancy. That's it? The me jams I We calls it megrims m 
 the ould country. A very common disease, especially wid the 
 min ; ef it's very bad it's the jim-jams. 
 
 Au7it. Ellen, you may call the doctor. [Exeunt. 
 
 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 AN INTERNATIONAL AFFAIE. 
 
 HARRY H. GUSHING. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Terence O'Brien, a dispenser of clams. 
 
 Abijah Squashvine, a cute son of Vermont. 
 
 Jacob Saeurphiz, a belligerent Teuton. 
 
 Alexis Fevre, a perplexed, hut polite native of la belle France. 
 
 Bridget O'Brien, ruler of the roost. 
 
 Scene. — A street. 
 Enter Bridget and Terence O'Brien. 
 
 Terence. Och, be aisy now, darlint ! Don't I tell yees the 
 b'y don't be wid me all the day ! How would I be boddenn' 
 meself with the lookin' afther him and me peddlin' clams all 
 the mornin', which I only sold a bushel, the quarther of that, 
 too, was cabbages. , 
 
 Bridget. Ye're an unfalin' wretch, Teddy O'Brien, an I say 
 it to yer face. Just yees wait till I ketch ye aslape o,> the 
 doorstep wid a broomstick in me fist. Me, which might have 
 married Patrick O'Flanagan. what drives a ash cart an its 
 onite iUigant he is wid his foine horse and long whiskers, an 
 
152 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 not be workin' tlie bones out of me flesli for a rascally clam- 
 peddler. 
 
 Ter. An' why didn't ye say so tin years ago, Bridget, an' 
 save me a dale of tlirouble ? 
 
 Brid. Tlirouble ! Tliat's it, ye lazy gossoon ! Throuble ! 
 An' me starvin' meself to kape ye in whiskey and praties. It's 
 a shmall bit of throuble ye take fur yer chil'ren wid one of 
 'em sthrayin', the polacemen don't know where and he ain't 
 sartain. A foine lad is my Hugh, which took intirely afther 
 his mother, an' not a bit afther his lazy old dad. An' it's loike 
 enough he slid out of the house afther yees, Teddy, while yees 
 was sellin' yer clams, an' at this very moment he may be lyin' 
 drownded dead on the top of the say. Ye're a baste, Teddy 
 O'Brien ! Why don't yees roon about and look for the darlint, 
 and not be standin' starin' there loike a sthuck pig ? 
 
 Ter. Arrali, now, didn't yees tell me would I stay wid yees, 
 an' how will I be lookin' round ? 
 
 Brid. Och, ye good-for-nothin' ! Is it only one thing at a 
 time ye can be doin' ? Go long wid yees, an' ax the first man 
 ye mate if he's put eyes on our b'y ; if ye don't see the first 
 man, ax the nixt one. Git along now. 
 
 Ter. Yis, Bridget ; ye're betther minded, I belave. [Exit. 
 
 Brid. Oh, wurrah, wurrah ! Sorra's the day I lose my 
 Hugh, the little pest ! As lovely a child for his age as ye iver 
 saw. Loike enough he's been roond over wid the say or 
 drowned by the stame cars — the murtherin' things — an' me his 
 own mother niver near him to console him with a batin'. 
 
 JSnter Abijah Squashyine. 
 
 Brid. Oh, sur, have ye seen the loikes of a b'y, which he is 
 shmall for his size, an' a foine bright spakin' eye loike his 
 mother's ? Shure an' he's strayed away somewhere, an' most 
 disthracted I am. 
 
 ANjcoh. Wall, I dun'no. What kind of a chap was he? 
 Kinder small like, p'raps, with punkin hair and freckles? 
 Shouldn't wonder. 
 
 Brid. Yis ; oh, yis ! But his hair is jist like the lafe of a 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 153 
 
 rid cabbage, wliicli I can't deny is very beautclitif ul, an' his 
 face is as bright as the top of the mornin' whin it's washed. 
 Oh, where have yees seen him ? Relave a mother's suspense, 
 an' lave me get at him wid a stick, 
 
 Adi. Shouldn't wonder naow ef his jacket was considerable 
 tore and kinder the v/uss for wear, 
 
 Brid. So it was 1 So it was ! But a very good jacket it 
 were, an' cost me sivinty-five cints, for which I owes Mrs. 
 Maloney to this very day, which hit me in the eye wid a pratie, 
 an' '11 have to wait for the money. Shure, it was a good jacket, 
 wid a slit in the side made by the pig, whin the b'y was full of 
 his foon and poked his eye wid a stick. The blessin' of heaven 
 upon ye, where is he ? 
 
 AM. Wall, I calc'late I can't tell ye. 
 
 JBi'td. Arrah ! Go along wid yer palverin', decavin' a dacint 
 woman starvin' for a sight of her b'y ! But say, misther, will 
 yees have the koindness to ax the first man ye sees, and be a 
 comfort to a poor fatherless mother in her throuble ? 
 
 Abi, Yes, ma'am I I guess yer can call on Bijie Squashvine 
 when yer want help. I'll hunt fur yer young 'un ef I lose a 
 day's mo win'. 
 
 Brid. Thank yer, sur, an' may ye live to kick the man that 
 thramples on yer grave ! \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Terence O'Brien. 
 
 Ter. Tell me, misther, have yees seen a schmall bit of a b'y 
 lookin' kinder as if he didn't live where he do now, which ye 
 will know him by his not lookin' a bit loike me, but more like 
 his mother ? 
 
 AM. Sho ! Yeou don't say ! ^Vhat yeou lost a young 'un 
 tew ! Wall, I had kinder an idee of askin' ye abeout a stray 
 brat myself. 
 
 Ter. Whist ! An' have yees lost a childer too ? Ah, wur- 
 rah, musha, it's a hard summer for children ! 
 
 AM. No ; I ain't lost one of my youngsters ; I ain't got none 
 to lose ; I was just lookin' abeout, careless like, for some 'un 
 who had. What kind of a lookin' chap is your'n? Red- 
 headed, with his phiz kivered with freckles ? 
 
154: pbescott's plain bialooues. 
 
 Ter. The very same. 
 
 Abi. Guess lie had a jacket purty far gone, didn't he ? 
 
 Ter. So he did. 
 
 Abi. Party small for his age ? 
 
 Ter. Yis ; he's young for his years ; but where is he? Say ! 
 Let me take him home by the ear, an' prevint the old woman 
 from doin' the same to me. 
 
 AM. I hain't seen him. 
 
 T'er. Bad luck to ye ! What do yees be raisin' the hopes of 
 a poor clam-peddler, wid a scoldin' wife, wid the loikes of that ? 
 Have iaarcy on me poor back, and jist help me to look for him, 
 will yees ? 
 
 Abi. Guess I can look for tew young 'uns well's one. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Enter Alexis Fevke. 
 
 Ter. Plase, sur, will ye have the koindness to inform me 
 whether have yees put yer eyes on the loikes of a lost b'y, an' 
 if yees don't, where was he ? 
 
 Alexis. Pardon, Monsieur, je ne vous comprend pas. 
 
 Ter. What's that ye're sayin' ? Pa 1 Yis ; I'm his dad, if 
 that's what ye mane. 
 
 Ale. Excuse, sare, my meestake. I have not pareceive dat 
 it is you who speak ze English. 
 
 Ter. Faix an' would yees have me talk Greek ? 
 
 Ale. Nan, non, Monsieur, je demande 'dotre pardon. 
 
 Ter. Pa Dong ? Whist, man ! My name's Pa O'Brien, if ye 
 plaze, Terence O'Brien. But have yees seen a child wanderin' 
 round, lost loike ? 
 
 Ale. Tin Enfant ! Perdu ! No, sare, I regret it much, but 
 I have not ze good fortune. 
 
 Ter. Well, thin, would ye do a poor, motherless father the 
 favor of axin' the parsons ye mate whether they have come 
 acrost him ? 
 
 Ale. Parsons ? You mean ze priest, I suppose ? 
 
 Ter. The praste ? No ; what would yees be afther throu- 
 bling the praste for ? Ax the men, the women, an' the chil- 
 dren, but don't be bodderin' the praste. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 155 
 
 . Ale. Oui ; lesfeinmes,les hommes, etles enfants. Treslien. 
 Ter. Begorra, lie's a ppa-ley voo, sliure enougli ! [Exit. 
 
 Enter Bridget O'Brien. 
 
 Brid. Oh, sur, will ye give a poor, lone, lorn, forsaken wo- 
 man tlie loan of ver liand ? 
 
 Ale. Madame, my hand, my head and my heart are at your 
 service. 
 
 Brid. Draw it mild, if ye plase ; yer hand's enough. But 
 tell me, honey, have ye seen my poor lost b'y, which I ain't set 
 eyes on since five o'clock this blissed mornin', and nivir ex- 
 pect to agin till the day af ther yesterday ? 
 
 Ale. Ah, madame, and is it that you too have lost uri petit 
 enfant — a little child ? 
 
 Brid, Do yees think I'm lyin' to ye ? 
 
 Ale. No, madame, no ; it would be impossible ; but you 
 are in trouble ; you have some grand afiiiction ? 
 
 Brid. No ; it's only a bit of a could in me head. Tell me, 
 wiM yees, have ye seen me b'y, the pride of his mother's heart, 
 w^hich he broke in paces intirely, by stalin' away loike a thafe, 
 the ungrateful little bag-o' -bones ? A foine lad, wid hair the 
 color of rid cabbage, eyes of the same, which I would say blue, 
 loike milkman's milk ; an' his little overcoat made out of his 
 dad's old vest, which the same he don't wear, it being summer- 
 time, an' his face a little the worse for freckles, but he had an 
 illigant new jacket, save a rip in the side and the buttons 
 gone ; have ye seen him ? 
 
 Ale. No, madame ; I am greatly sorrowful, but I have not. 
 
 Brid. Well, thin, will ye kape the two eyes of ye open an' 
 ask about him as ye go ? 
 
 Ale. Madame, I have but two eyes ; they are yours, command! 
 me. I 
 
 Brid. An' what would I be commandin' the loikes of ye for ? 
 No, sir ; I'll save that for Teddy, bad luck to the man, lazin' 
 at home, an' me wearin' the skin off me hands walkin' about 
 lookin' for me lost child. Boo-hoo ! \_Exit. 
 
 Ale. del ! Ver strange country ! I have only meet two 
 persons dis mornin' and dey bot' lose dere children. 
 
156 PKESCOTT*S PliAIN DIALOGUES. 
 
 Enter Abu ah Squashvine. 
 
 AH. Say, 'Square 
 
 Ale. Tell me, sare, I beg ten tousand pardons. Proceed. 
 
 Abi. Wall, I was just abeout to remark, liave you seen 
 
 Ale. I was about to remark, also, bave you seen 
 
 AM. Tew children 
 
 Ale. Two children ! 
 
 Abi. Just yeou look a-here naow, 'Square, what be you 
 mimicking so much for ? 
 
 Ale. Oh, no, monsieur, Yous avez tort. You meestake. I 
 demand your pardon. Oblige me to proceed. 
 
 Abi. Shan't dew nothin' of the kind ; shall go on myself. 
 Have yeou seen tew youngsters, red-headed, freckled-faced, 
 with torn jackets, lookin' lost like ! 
 
 Ale. Merci ! Taq very same interrogation which I would put 
 to you. I am myself in quest of two children, wit' hair ze 
 color of ze — of ze — lemon, faces some tarnished by ze sun, coat 
 — frock torn 
 
 Abi. See here, stranger, s'posin' we quit ; we can hunt for 
 four red-headed young 'un's well as two ; yeou take one trail 
 and I'll take the other. It's gettin' excitin'. [Exit. 
 
 Ale. Sacre-re! What a day for children ! \^Exit. 
 
 Enter Jacob Saeubphiz, holding on to Ms nose. 
 
 Jacob. I should yust like to dake hold mit dose child, who 
 blastered me in der nose mit a paked apple ; I would make 
 her walk mit de stairs down up the street mit a pig cane-stick. 
 I yust gomes out to makes a little walk mit mineselves all 
 alone together and I don't likes it. 
 
 Enter Bbidget O'Brien. 
 
 Brid. Is it ye, sur, can tell me where will I find me lost b'y, 
 the pride of me heart, wid his merry blue eyes an' one of thim 
 sore wid a black in' bottle, hair the color of rid cabbage, an' 
 illigant curls wid a nice jacket on, some tore ! 
 
 Jacob. I guess not somedimes ; but yust as I toorned the cor- 
 ner house round mit der grocery sdore on der oder side, I felt, 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 157 
 
 oh my, what von dinks ? A children hit me on der paked 
 apple mit her nose. 
 
 Brid. Go long wid ver foolin'. [Exit indignantly. 
 
 Enter Terexce O'Brien. 
 
 Terence. Musha, musha ! What will I do ? Oh, sur, help 
 a poor lone man, wid the fear of the broomstick in his eye, an' 
 jist give me a hist. 
 
 Jacob. Eh ? WTiat's him you say ? What's der madder mit 
 you anytimes ? You have some cholicera, don't it ? 
 
 Ter. I wish I was ; but it's a dale worse. Tell me, have yees 
 come acrost a poor, little wanderin' redheaded freckled b'y, 
 wid his jacket tore, an' blue eyes wid the buttons gone ? 
 
 Jacob. I dinks I don't get oop early in der morning enough. 
 No, my friend ; I don't seen your vreckled childer, and 1 don't 
 vants do some more ; I have met one der morning, and he beesh 
 quite too much. I yust like to gatch holt mit her ! 
 
 {Exit Terence. 
 
 Enter Abijah Squashyine. 
 
 Abijah. Wall, this business 's gettin' monotonous, but I said 
 I would, and I will. Hallo, 'Square ! 
 
 Jacob. Hallo yourself, somedimes, so it wash ! 
 
 Abi. Teou ha'n't seen four young 'uns, four boys, with 
 carrot-colored hair, watery-blue eyes, yeller teeth, spotted com- 
 plected, with torn jackets on and no boots, wanderin' abeout, 
 miserlaneous-like, three of 'em huntin' for dads and the fourth 
 for a mother, have yer ? 
 
 Jacob. What you dalking apout ? 
 
 Abi. I say, yeou ha'n't seen four lads, with freckled hair, 
 blue teeth 
 
 Jacob. You don't make some foolishness mit me if you dries ; 
 you petter get away somewheres, or I will kick you in der 
 nose mit mine fist. 
 
 Abi. No yer don't ; my name's Abijah Squash vine, and yeou 
 don't hit Bije if he knovrs it. 
 
 Jacob. I guess I dinks petter of him. 
 
158 pbescott's plain btalogues. 
 
 AM. That's right. Yeou ha'n't seen them children ? 
 
 Jacob. Nein. 
 
 AH. Nine ! Jerusha ! No ! I'm ®nly responsible for four. 
 
 Jacob. I dells you, I don't have seen them, and I don't 
 vants to. 
 
 Abi. Wall, I wouldn't. Keep clear of the ring ; I wish I 
 was quit on't. [Exit. 
 
 Jacob. Blitzen I What a bad blace for der children ! I guess 
 I petter hold on mit mine own selves ; folks gets lost uit; so 
 much uneasiness. I might stray afay somewheres and gouldn't 
 find mineself . 
 
 Enter Alexis Fevbe. 
 
 Ale. Is it necessary for me to spend ze remainder of my 
 life in ze recovery of lost children? Ah! Voila I Un gen- 
 tilhomme ! I will ask of him, and perhaps he will entangle ze 
 mystery. Sare ! Monsieur ! I appear to you to give me ze aid 
 in ze most sad affair. Six little — petits — children 
 
 Jacob. Wash der man grazy ? What you dalking apout ? 
 
 Ale. Six little children ! Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! Oh, mon- 
 sieur 
 
 Jacob. Stop ; 1 don't like dese nonsense. 
 
 Ale. But, monsieur ! Six little children wiz ze hair of ze 
 color azure, ze face like ze cabbage, ze jacket ze pride of ze 
 mozer's heart 
 
 Jacob. You dinks you keep me standing here to make foon 
 mit me ? You petter dake some cares, or I strike you mit my 
 foots. I haf enough of der children quite. 
 
 Ale. But monsieur, six little, small, tiny children 
 
 Jacob. I don't gare for seventy-eleven childrens ; I got sick 
 mit der childrens ; I peen asked apout some less than one dozen 
 of childrens since I stand here. 
 
 Ale. But, sare, have pity on ze six 
 
 Jacob. You shuts oop, or you gets so mad mit me as what I 
 wants to put your eye in my hand. 
 
 Ale. But, monsieur 
 
 Jacob. I can't stand on him some longer, (about to strike Mm.) 
 
 Enter Abijaii Squashvine. 
 
presgott's plajn dialogues. 159 
 
 AM. Hold on, 'Square ! What's the matter here ? 
 
 Jacob. Madder ! Too much madder 1 Do I gome to this 
 goundry to be killed mit childrens ? I stand here five minutes, 
 and four beoples bodder me apout twelve children, dis man 
 vants six of dem, 
 
 AM. I'll take tew off his hands ; he can't help it, he's iu the 
 ring, tew. But say, you ha'n't seen tew 
 
 Jacob. Donner und Blitzen ! Nein ! I don't seen less dan 
 no childrens at all ; I beesh blind in both eyes, and in der nose 
 since der morning. 
 
 Enter Bridget O'Brien. 
 
 Brid. Oh, gintlemin, have ye seen — faix I belave I've seen 
 ye all, so I have ! 
 
 Jacob. Dake der woman afay ! Dake her afay ! 
 Brid. Begorra, what ails the man ? 
 
 Enter Terence O'Brien. 
 
 Teddy, ye rascal, why don't yees be lookin' fur the chile an* 
 not be gaddin' about wid yer hands in yer pockets ? , 
 
 Ter. Bridget, darlint, Mary Maloney says, would I tell yees 
 if ye don't take yer b'y out of her ould garret, she'll break 
 ivery hoop in the ould wash-tub ye lint her last Monday. 
 
 Brid. Oh, wurrah, musha 1 What a stoopid I were ! Shure, 
 I locked the b'y in there this mornin' 'arly an' forgot all about 
 it. Teddy, ye dunce, go on wid yer clam peddlin', an' don't 
 stand there grinnin' loike a monkey. 
 
 AM. Say, was yeou tew huntin' after the same young 'un ? 
 
 Brid. Shure, sir, his b'y's my b'y. I'm Bridget O'Brien, an' 
 this is Teddy O'Brien, my old man. Make a bow, Teddy, ye 
 ijit. 
 
 AM. I calc'late I see day light ; the next time yeou lose your 
 children, yeou'd better hunt for them in company, (to Alexis) 
 Found your tew young 'uns, 'Square ? 
 
 Ale. Ah, monsier, it was ze children of Madame De Brine 
 dat I look for. But your errand ? Is it accomplished ? 
 
 AM. Wall, I feel small, but I'll own up ; it was young O'Brien 
 I was lookin' fur myself. 
 
160 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Ale. I am very glad it is all settled. 
 
 AM. Feller-citizens ! Bije Squasli vine's goin' to adjourn. 
 
 Jacob. It must liaf been der yoong O'Prien who blasted me 
 in der nose. I will liit her out of der window if I gets liolt 
 mit bim ! 
 
 Brid. Teddy, come away wid yer ; I want to spake to yer 
 sariously. Begorra, won't I wake tbe tv/o of yees wbin I get 
 borne. 
 
 T67\ Sbe wants to spake wid tbe broomstick. 
 
 Jacob. I guess somebody gets good deal greater more fooled 
 dan Jacob Sauerpbiz ; wbat you dinks ? [Exit all. 
 
 TIT POE TAT. 
 
 FKANK S. FINN. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mr Birch. Edwin Fales. 
 
 Adam Barton. George Hunter. 
 
 Charles Danvers. Isaac Jones. 
 Other Boys. 
 
 The scene is supposed to represent the interior of a boarding- 
 school. All the characters discovered with the exception of 
 Adam Barton and Mr. Birch. 
 
 Charles. Well, boys, wbat's up ! I never knew so mucli 
 stagnation in my life. I sliall really die of ennui ere tbe day is 
 out. Ob, for some kind of a lark to drive away tbis dull 
 monotony of scbool-boy life. 
 
 Edwin. Let's rig up in gbostly attire and frigbten tbe cook, 
 and fill our pockets full of tbe eatables sbe is preparing. 
 
 Char. Too fatiguing, my dear fellow ; besides tbe gbost busi- 
 ness is stale and flat. To use a mercantile expression — '' Gbosts 
 are gone in. 
 
 George. Let's get up some amateur tbeatricals and bring out 
 Macbetb. 
 
 Char. Amateur tbeatricals are insipid unless we bave girls 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 161 
 
 to play tlie female characters, and an audience to listen to us. 
 Besides, I don't believe in amateur theatricals. 
 
 Isaac, Why, Charles, some of the greatest minds and noblest 
 souls were amateur players. 
 
 Ghas. Be so kind as to put an end to that kind of talk. You 
 are wasting eloquence on unappreciative ears. Stuff it into some 
 composition or introduce it into a valedictory. 
 
 Edio. Couldn't we rob an apple orchard ? 
 
 Char. Decidedly criminal and not to be countenanced. 
 
 Edw. You didn't feel quite so squeamish about eating the 
 peaches we hooked from Crimson's orchard last fall. 
 
 Char. The case was different. I was afraid the peaches 
 would spoil. 
 
 Edw. No one need fear that so long as you were near. 
 
 Geo. Ah, boys, the merriest lark of all is just this. A new 
 teacher and a new scholar are to arrive to-day. Now if the 
 scholar only comes first we can quiz him to our heart's content. 
 
 Edw. That will not be hard, especially as he comes from the 
 country. 
 
 Chas. Comes from the country, does he ? No doubt his hair 
 will be filled with straw ; he will wear cowhide boots, with his 
 pants tucked into them, and be as green as one of his own 
 cucumbers. 
 
 Isaac. Why, Charley, some of the greatest minds were and 
 are farmers. Think of 
 
 Chas. Can't do it, Ike. It's a bore to think. But, about 
 this new and verdant scholar, George ; what's the pro- 
 gramme ? 
 
 Geo. As you are the oldest, and Mr. Birch is away, you might 
 make him believe you are the teacher. Fill your speeches 
 with hard words, and give him such deep questions that he 
 vail fall back amazed from the attack, and be glad to sink into 
 the ground, or crawl into a knothole and drag the hole in after 
 him. 
 
 Char. A very nice proceeding, truly. We will let him see 
 that we are not to be considered in the same rank as country 
 clods. 
 
 Isaac. That's true in some respect, for I have known some 
 
162 peescott's plain DiALoairES. 
 
 country boys who knew more than many a city lad. Doesn't 
 the adage say, ''Honor and shame from no condition rise." 
 
 Char. Ike, you are too moral and too prosy to live. You 
 ought to be a cherub and have wings growing out of your 
 shoulders. Fact is, you are too good for this mundane sphere 
 of ours. Your compositions are good, I'll acknowledge, but 
 when you cease to write about '* True sphere of humanity," 
 and such like preaching, and write such good stories as 
 *' Timon Acorn," I shall think there is something in you. 
 
 Edw. Oh, doesn't " Timon Acorn " know what he is saying ? 
 Doesn't he write jolly good stories about hunting and trap- 
 ping? 
 
 Isaac. Yes, he does indeed, and there is nothing hurtful in 
 his writings. I have heard he is only seventeen, 
 
 Geo. Hallo, boys ! here comes the new scholar, and he is 
 dressed as nice as any one of us. There is no hay sticking out 
 of his hair ; he doesn't wear cowhide boots, and his pants are 
 not tucked into them. 
 
 Char. Nevertheless, he comes from the country and must 
 be green. 
 
 Enter i^ dam. 
 
 Char, {to Adam). I suppose you are the new scholar, but I 
 want you to distinctly understand that we are city gentlemen, 
 born and bred in the great metropolis, and there is a vast differ- 
 ence in our caste. Our superiority must, of course, be dis- 
 cernible at a glance, and you should pay us that respect due to 
 our rank and station of life, never for once forgetting that you 
 must never put yourself on a level with us. 
 
 Adam. Pshaw ! What a long-winded feller you be for speech- 
 making. Reckon you might be some kin to the feller what 
 writ a dictionary, by the long words you use. Ye ain't got no 
 more sich speeches, have ye, lyin' round loose ? 
 
 Char. All new scholars must be examined by me previous 
 to entering our temple of education. 
 
 Adam. Go ahead with the catechism, and don't use too many 
 hard words, 'coz you might come to grief, same as Bill Barton 
 did down to Scragg's Crossing. He wanted to pronounce the 
 
PRESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGUES. 163 
 
 word Sennacherib, but lie only got half through it when his 
 upper jaw gave way, and he's now the homeliest critter out of 
 jail, or in jail either, for that matter. Come to look at you 
 close, too, you don't look anyway unlike Bill arter his jaw gi'n 
 out. (poys laugh.) 
 
 Char. No irrelevant jesting, young man. We must to busi- 
 ness and see how far you are advanced. 
 
 Adam. Shoot ahead and don't stop to make up faces. You 
 ain't got no beauty to spare, (hoys laugh.) 
 
 Char. In the first place, who was Sophocles I 
 
 Adam. In the first place I s'pose he was a baby — most folks 
 generally is. Maybe he might have been your grandfather. 
 
 Char. Sophocles was a gentleman and a scholar. 
 
 Adam. Then I expect he wasn't no relation to you. 
 
 Ljhar. {aside to toys). See how I'll stuff him. {to Adam) He 
 lived in a tub, and used to go out in the day-time with alighted 
 lantern trying to discover an honest man. 
 
 Adam. I suppose he couldn't have been looking for you, 
 then. 
 
 Char. Plague take your unsophisticated head ; this w^as long 
 before my time. 
 
 Adam. All honest men were before your time, I guess. 
 
 Isaac {aside). Country people are not so green as you think 
 for, are they, Charley ? 
 
 Char, {aside). Wait awhile. I have not done with him yet. 
 {direct) Maybe you can tell us more about agriculture, so you 
 may please inform your classmates what sized cabbages you 
 raised this year. 
 
 Adam. Some of them were as big as your head, but a heap 
 more in them. 
 
 Isaac {aside). He had you there, hadn't he, Charley ? 
 
 vhar. I rather guess not. 
 
 Adam. On with your questions, if you are not spun out 
 already. 
 
 Char. I see you must be questioned on simpler subjects. 
 
 Adam. Such as you can understand yourself, most likely. 
 Char. Of course you must be conversant with the history of 
 your own country, and can tell me where the Pilgims landed ? 
 
164: pbescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Adam. On their feet, most likely, {hoys laugh heartily.) 
 
 Geo. That isn't such a bad answer, after all. 
 
 Adain. Perhaps they landed at Plymouth church. I've 
 heard there's a good many people do go there when they're 
 adrift and don't know where else to go. 
 
 Geo. Didn't you ever read Mrs. Hemans' exquisite poem on 
 the landing of the Pilgrims ? 
 
 Adam. Who did you say quizzed it ? Was it this fellow you 
 call Charles ? He seems to be quizzing folks generally. 
 
 Edw. I know how it begins : 
 
 '• The boy stood on the burning deck.'" 
 
 Geo. Get out ! It begins : 
 
 " You'd scarce expect one of my age." 
 
 Cliar. Quit that nonsense. Hear me : 
 
 " The pilgrim fathers ! Where are they ? " 
 
 Adam. I give that conundrum up. All hope is that they are 
 happy and have enough to eat. Were they any relation to the 
 Pilgrim's Progress ? 
 
 Char. How shamefully your education has been neglected. 
 Let us see what you know about natural history. For instance, 
 what are the chief animals of America ? 
 
 Adam. I should judge that apes and monkeys are, by the 
 manner they put on airs. 
 
 Isaac. You ought to own up, Charley, that you are getting 
 the worst of this fun. 
 
 Adam. If I have said anything to hurt the young man's 
 feelings I am willing to apologize. But I thought he didn't 
 seem to have any feelings, or at least he seemed to imagine 
 others had none. 
 
 Enter Mr. Birch. 
 
 Mr. Birch. Ah, my dear friend Adam, I am glad you have 
 arrived and mixed with the boys. I suppose, by this time, 
 
 they knov/ you i3retty well. 
 
 Adam. I scarcely think they do so. They — at least some of 
 them — seem to imagine that, because I come from the country, 
 I know nothing beyond turnips and squuslies. 
 
 Mr. B. I shall just undeceive them concerning that matter. 
 
presoott's plain dialogues. 165 
 
 Boys, allow me to introduce you to your new teaclier, Adam 
 Barton, (boys look surprised.) 
 
 Char. Why, we took him for a new pupil. 
 
 Mr. B. You were not so very wrong there, for he is to be a 
 teacher in all the branches except German, and in that he will 
 be my pupil. If you have treated him with any disrespect you 
 ought to be ashamed of yourselves. You have always told me 
 how much you admired him before you ever saw him. 
 
 Geo. Why how could that be ? 
 
 Mr. B. You have known him better under the nom de plume 
 of ''Timon Acorn." 
 
 Char. Well, we must acknowledge we have been taken in. 
 We have had the games of '' Tit for Tat '' and a " Roland for 
 an Oliver " played upon us. If Mr. Barton is willing to for- 
 give us, I, for one, will humbly make apology. 
 
 Geo. And I. 
 
 Other Boys. So say we, all of us. (Adam shakes hands all 
 around.) 
 
 Adam. Of course I accept your apology. But I must tell 
 Charles that he was a little mistaken when he said it was 
 Sophocles who went hunting after honest men by lantern- 
 light. 
 
 Char. Oh, that was merely some of my joking. Of course 
 I knew all the while that it was Damocles. 
 
 Adam. I am inclined to think Damocles was not addicted to 
 that practice. 
 
 Char, A slip of my tongue. I meant to have said Demos- 
 thenes. 
 
 Adam. Make another slip and make it Diogenes and you will 
 be right. 
 
 Isaac {aside). Charley doesn't know quite as much as he 
 thought he did. 
 
 Adam. Come, boys, I want you to look upon me in the light 
 of a friend as well as a teacher. I am not going to bore you 
 with a moral concerning this morning's incident. When I 
 came, I perceived that you took me for an ignoramus, and ac- 
 cordingly humored you in that supposition. We will now for- 
 give and forget, and strive — in the future — to live in the bonds 
 of friendship and concord. 
 
166 . peescott's plain diaiogxjes. 
 
 THE MTSTEEIOUS " G. G." 
 
 PRANK S. FINN. 
 FOR TWO FEMALES AND ONE MALE. 
 
 CHARACTFRS. 
 
 The Mysterious '' Gf. G." 
 
 Mrs. Bangles, a lodging-house keeper. 
 
 Miss Pingrey, a milliner. 
 
 The scene represents a neatly -furnished apartment. Mrs. 
 Bangles discovered sewing. 
 
 Mrs. Bangles. Well, little did I think when John Bangles 
 offered me his heart and hand and all of his fortune that things 
 would turn out as they have done. If I'd a known that he was 
 a going to spend that fortune in drink, and leave me a discon- 
 solate widder to mourn his departur, I don't know as I'd have 
 let him led me to the altar — ^which wasn't an altar at all, for 
 we stood in front of the mahogany table in the best room 
 where Squire Green tied the nuptial noose. If it hadn't been 
 for father's help I'd never had been able to bury John, nor set 
 up a house with lodgings for single gentlemen on a limited 
 scale, nor advertise for lodgers, nor have an obituaritorial no- 
 tice in the paper with '' Man wants but little here below." I 
 wanted to put an epithet on John's tombstone — something 
 about his placid cheek ; but, father thought it would cost too 
 much, and I wasn't certain about the ''placid," though father 
 said he had '' cheek" enough for anything, {knock at the door. 
 Mrs. Bangles opens and ushers in Mr. Gaskins, icho carries 
 a> large valise, on which the initials G. G. are printed conspicu- 
 ously.) 
 
 Mr. Gaskins. My dear madam, I saw your advertisement, 
 and as I am about to remain in town for a fortnight, I came to 
 make inquiries concerning the lodgings. 
 
 Mrs. B. I have a very fine front room, clean, airy, and com- 
 fortable, which you can have for $4.50 per week. Would you 
 like to see it ? 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 167 
 
 Mr. G. I take your word for it tliat it is all it claims to be. 
 You may consider me to be your lodger for the fortnight. 
 
 3f?'S. B. You look tired, sir. Will you sit down and rest ? 
 
 M}\ G. I am tired. Thank you, I will sit down. But, as to 
 rest I know not if I shall have any more in this world. 
 
 Mrs. B. Are you in trouble, sir ? 
 
 Mr. G. Trouble, eh ? Why do you ask ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Seeing as how you was dressed in black I thought 
 you might be in mourning for a beloved pardner. It's awful 
 to lose a life mate. I have lost mine. I was under the im- 
 pression you was a widower, sir, and being a widower you 
 might s}Tnpathize with the feelings of a widow. 
 
 G. G. Well, I'm not a widower, madam ; I never have been 
 one. I am a bachelor — have been one all my life, and expect 
 to continue to be one until I marry, and I don't know when that 
 will be. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah, well ! Folks isn't all accustomed to think 
 alike in this world, {aside) I'll bet he's a minister, so I'll con- 
 verse accordingly, {aloud) Misfortune is the lot of man. We'd 
 ought to sorrow for the ills we do. It's comf ortin' to know 
 that, when a beloved pardner dies, the one he leaves behind is 
 at peace, or the other is at peace. Well, mayhap they arc both 
 at peace. Ah ! When we see so many folks passing away 
 their time in frivolous amusement, and gallivanting around to 
 concerts and plays, it almost makes one shudder in one's bones 
 and sing a memento mori. Reckon you're a minister ? 
 
 G. G. Xo, madam, I am not a minister. The world may all 
 be a fleeting show, but it seems a good one, and I think the 
 audience get their money's worth. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside). He talks about sJiows. I guess he's a play- 
 actor, {aloud) Well, I do admire a good show. When I lived 
 in Boston I used to go to the play two or three times a week. 
 I think it is a very good way to spend one's time, and one can 
 learn a good deal from a good play. 
 
 G. G. Shows your good sense, madam. 
 
 Mrs. B. Are you a play-actor, sir ? 
 
 G. G. No, madam, I am not. What and who I am you will 
 one day know ; at present it matters not. You have lodgings 
 
168 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 to let ; I liave hired them. If you desire references I can fur- 
 nish them. 
 
 Mrs. B. Laws, sir, I wouldn't think of wanting them ! 
 You talk and act like a gentleman, and that is quite sufl5.cient. 
 
 G. G. Do you desire payment in advance ? 
 
 Mrs. B. No, sir. It will do at any time. 
 
 G. G. Then all is arranged. I have to go to the village, but 
 will soon return. I will leave my valise in your care. Good- 
 day, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. B. Now, that's what I call a singular man. I never 
 thought to ask him his name. I wonder what those initials 
 " G . G. '' stand for on his valise ? Can't think of anything unless 
 its Goodness Gracious, and I never heard of any one being 
 christened by that name, {takes up newspaper and reads) " We 
 understand that one of the royal family of an Eastern mon- 
 archy is travelling in cog " — in cog f I never heard tell of that 
 place — '' In other words, he is travelling through this country 
 in disguise for the sake of studying our national character as it 
 is. He is said to be compiling a book, and will, no doubt, give 
 personal accounts of people he meets. He dislikes being asked 
 what his occupation is. His name, at least the one he as- 
 sumes, is George Garcelon. " Oh, my ! G. G. I'll wager he's 
 a-going to put me into a book and make a character of me. I 
 kind of wish I had on my best dress. The paper says he 
 doesn't like to be asked questions. That hits him to a T. One 
 of a royal family, too ! Who knows but he may take a fancy 
 to me and offer me his hand and heart ? Then I might be a 
 princess dowager, and by-and-by be seated on a gilt throne 
 with a dimunt crown upon my head and a scepter in my hand 
 like I've seen them in the theatres. I guess that would be 
 better than keeping a lodging-house. I alius did think I'd like 
 to live in furrin parts and have a little negro black boy to fol- 
 low me about. I have always thought I would like to be a mis- 
 sionary's wife so I could go abroad, but the missionary never 
 seemed to come along, so, I suppose, I'd best be content to be 
 a princess dowager. I wonder what the fashion of a bride is 
 over there ? I wonder if Miss Pingrey, our milliner out to the 
 corners, would know ? But who's this flying down the road 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 169 
 
 witli an open paper in lier hand ? Miss Pingrey herself, as 
 large as life ! She's heard of him ; she's seen him here ! 
 She's been wanting to get married ever since she opened her 
 shop, and she'll be trying to catch Mm I But, if she does, 
 she'll have to get up in the morning before I do. I suppose 
 he's awful rich, and Pingrey thinks she can have him for the 
 asking. I hate these females who are always angling after a 
 man, especially when he has money and is of a royal family. 
 
 Enter Miss Pingrey, Jmrriedly. 
 
 Miss Pingrey. Arethusa Bangles ! have you read the news ? 
 
 Mrs, B. Yes, Millicent Pingrey, I have ! 
 
 Miss P. Well, and what is your opinion of it ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I don't know as I am at all surprised. 
 
 Miss P. And you don't think it's a fearful thing for him to 
 be at large. 
 
 Mrs. B. To tell you the truth I do not. If people want to 
 travel in cog or in Europe, or anywhere else, let 'em do it, I 
 say. 
 
 Miss P. And you don't tremble ? 
 
 Mrs. B. What for ? Why should I tremble ? 
 
 Miss P. Suppose he should come to this village ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I suppose you think he would prove a great catch. 
 
 Miss P. He ought to be caught. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside). No doubt you'd like to have a hand in the 
 catching, {aloud) Well, Miss Pingrey, he has been to this vil- 
 lage — he has been to this house — he is going to remain here a 
 fortnight, and has taken lodging in this very house. 
 
 Miss P. Well, I am thunderstruck ! And you were willing 
 to give him lodgings when you knew who he was ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I didn't know until he was gone and I saw it in the 
 paper. I consider it quite an honor. 
 
 Miss P. Arethusa, you were brought up of pious parents, 
 and I've heard tell you went to Sunday school, and yet you con- 
 sider it an honor to harbor one who has the brand of Cain on 
 his brow, a fugitive from justice ! You must have meant 
 horror and not honor. 
 
 Mrs. B. I know you are a member of a temperence associ- 
 
170 prescott's plain DiALoarES. 
 
 ation, or I should be inclined to ask whether the doctor had 
 ordered you something stronger than bitters for medicine. I 
 cannot conceive what you are talking about. 
 
 Miss P. The same remark I was about to make to you. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, I am talking about an account I read in the 
 papers of a gentleman of a royal family, who is travelling 
 incog — that's French for the United States, my dear — and who 
 doesn't like to be asked questions, and who is making a book 
 about people he sees, and who goes under the name of George 
 Garcelon, and I've taken him in as a lodger. I tell you he 
 looked royal ! Just like some grand, self- benignant potentate. 
 Just the sort of man I believe I could love for himself alone. 
 That's what / mean. And now, please to tell me what you 
 mean ? 
 
 Miss P. Read that paragraph and it will show you ichat I 
 mean, {hands newspaper to Mrs. Bangles, pointing to a cer- 
 tain paragraph.) 
 
 Mrs. B {reading). *' An assassin at large ! There are rumors 
 .ifioat to the effect that Giles Gordon, the fiend in human shape, 
 who killed the servant maid where he was employed, has fled 
 to 'America, hoping, no doubt, to conceal his identity in some 
 obscure village, seek work with some worthy family, and then 
 repay their kindness by murdering some one. Let all persons 
 beware of harboring unknown personages ! Doubtless this is 
 the being whom many have supposed to be a foreign prince 
 travelling in disguise." Oh, Millicent ! What is to be did ? 
 I've been a-harboring an escaped criminal ! Will they take me 
 for his accomplice ? I feel cold shivers running down my back. 
 How I wish John Bangles was alive, for about an hour. 
 
 Miss P. It's perfectly, horribly awful. 
 
 Mrs. B. I thought he was a suspicious character when he 
 came. He had just such an eye as villains have, in picture 
 papers. He looked as if he wasn't no better than he hadn't 
 ought to be. And he'll come back and who knows but he'll 
 murder us ? and then we'll have our throats cut, and we'll have 
 our pictures in the illustrious papers, and never live to have 
 the satisfaction of seeing them ! I ask you again, what is to 
 be did? 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 171 
 
 Miss P. Let us barricade the door or throw boiling hot water 
 on him. I aint afraid to die, but I don't want to be murdered 
 to death ; besides, if I was to be murdered, I shouldn't get 
 Mrs. Waggles her bunnet done at the time promised, and she'd 
 never forgive me. 
 
 Mrs. B. Arethusa, if we wasn't born of industrious parents, 
 and were not ourselves members of temperance societies, I 
 think we might be excused were we to take a drop of comfort- 
 ing stuff if ,we only had a bottle of it here. 
 
 Miss P. But we haven't ; so we will have to keep our cour- 
 age up in some other manner. Let us think of the hero womoii 
 of the revolution. 
 
 Mrs. B. What good will our thinking of them do us ? 
 Miss P. Take pattern by them. 
 Mrs. B. Did you bring your patterns with you ? 
 Miss p. Your fear has taken away your sense. Our anccs^ 
 tral women, though the fashion of their clothes and bunnlts 
 icas abominable, ye must confess that their deeds were bravo. 
 Let us be brave as they. 
 
 Mrs. B. I am willing to try. That's his valise over there ; 
 see those awful letters '' G. G.," and to think how very near [ 
 came to being the wife of a murderer ! Let us throw it out 
 into the road. 
 
 Miss P. Wait a moment, my dear. Valor is the best part of 
 discretion. Let us see what the valise contains. 
 Mrs. B. How can we ? 
 
 Miss P. There's the key dangling to the handle. I feel as 
 bold as a lioness. I seem to possess the spirit of Andy Jack- 
 son, and I loill take the responsibility, {opens valise and takes 
 out a skull made of plaster of Paris.) 
 
 Mrs. B. Put it down. Put it down. That's the head of the 
 servant girl he murdered. Oh, that I should live to see the 
 day when murdered skulls were brought to my door ! 
 
 Miss P. This is proof positive of the murderer's guilt. If he 
 comes now, I will seize him by the collar and give him up to 
 the hands of an outrageous — or outraged justice. He shall 
 not escape me now. 
 
 Enter Mr. Gaskins. 
 
172 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 G. O. Hallo ! What are you two females about ? (the 
 women look up and see Gr. G. They gwe a desperate shriek and 
 rush to one corner of the stage. There they find an umhrella, 
 ichich they open and hold before them, peeping out from each 
 side as they speak.) 
 
 Miss P. Go away, you Cain-marked criminal ! 
 
 Mrs. B. If you please, Mr. Murderer, I've changed my mind 
 about taking you for a lodger. 
 
 G. G. What do you mean ? 
 
 Miss P. Think of the murdered servant maid and repent ! 
 
 Mrs. B. No wonder you said as how you didn't know as you 
 should get any more rest on this earth. 
 
 G. G. Is this an asylum for lunatics ? 
 
 Mrs. B. No, sir. It isn't ; and, what's more, it isn't a place 
 of refuge for escaped murderers ! 
 
 Miss P. Remove that skull from our hearthstone and de- 
 part from the abode of a benighted widow and a respectable 
 milliner who keeps the best assortment of goods this side of 
 Boston. 
 
 G. G. I'd have you to understand, women, that I can have you 
 taken up for defamation of character. 
 
 Miss P. And we'd have you to understand, sir, that we could 
 have you arrested for murder. Don't you talk about defamation 
 of character, sir. This is a moral village, and we don't allow 
 any swearing to be carried on. 
 
 G. G. Well, things have come to a pretty pass if Gaston 
 Gaskins, the celebrated phrenologist, is taken for a murderer. 
 That his skull — I mean his plaster-of Paris skull — should be a 
 supposed proof of guilt, is proof that fools are plenty. 
 
 Miss P. And isn't that the skull of a murdered servant-maid ? 
 
 G. G. No more than you are a sensible female. It is a plas- 
 ter cast. 
 
 Mrs. B. And ain't your name Giles Gordon, and ain't you a 
 fiend in human shape ? 
 
 G. G, No, I am not. I am a phrenologist who is going to 
 give lectures at the village hall, and that skull I use to illus- 
 trate the science of craniology — to show character by the shape 
 of the head and brain. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 173 
 
 Miss P. We can shut up the umbrella now, Aretliusa. It's 
 all a mistake. I've lieard tell of tliis gentleman. He was down 
 to Draggleburg, where my sister lives, and he felt of my sister's 
 head, and said there was lots in it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Are you quite sure we may venture to put down the 
 umbrella ? He says he's a phrenologist, and that may be 
 Italian for murder. 
 
 Miss P. {closing umorelln). Don't you know what a phrenol- > 
 ogist is, my dear ? 
 
 Mrs. B I confess I never heard tell of him. 
 
 Miss P. Well, a phrenologist is a person who punches folks* 
 heads to see if they have any brains. 
 
 G. G. {aside). I think I could tell that you have very little 
 brains without much ''punching." 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, sir, you know mistakes icill happen in the best 
 regulated families, and when one has a good reputation one 
 ought to be careful of it. I shall consider it a honor to have a 
 lecturer for a lodger. 
 
 G. G. I desired these rooms because I thought I should not 
 have my privacy disturbed. I thought I'd take my meals in 
 the village. I said I did not know as I should ,ever have rest 
 because my profession keeps me tramping around the country. 
 If you are satisfied I will bear no malice, {jncts hack skull in 
 valise) I am off again to advertise my exhibition, but will re- 
 turn before night. Don't pick me to pieces before I get back. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. B. Do you know, Millicent, that I don't know but I'd 
 like to be the wife of a phre-no — what you call him ? If I 
 ever marry again I shall buy my wedding outfit at your es- 
 tablishment. 
 
 Miss P. Do so, dear ! Come over and see my fall fashions 
 — they are just lovely ! {aside) If I don't have the headache 
 until she marries again, I'll never have to buy medicine for 
 that complaint, {aloud) Don't get m^arried, love, before yoU 
 let me know. 
 
 M?^s. B. Xo dear, I won't. I can never forget your bravery 
 in time of need, {aside) She's about as courageous as a goose. 
 {aloud) Call often, dear. 
 
174 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 'Miss P. Good-bye, love ! [Exit Miss Pingkey right hand 
 and Mrs. Bangles left. 
 
 THE POEOUPIKE TEMPER 
 
 CHARACTEES. 
 
 Mr. Bolingbroke. Mrs. Bolingbroke. 
 
 Mrs, Bolingbroke. I wish I knew wliat was tlie matter with 
 me this morning. Why do you keep the newspaper all to 
 yourself, my dear ? 
 
 Mr. Bolingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear ; I have fin- 
 ished it. 
 
 Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you 
 have done with it — I hate stale news. Is there anything in the 
 paper? for I cannot be at the trouble of hunting it. 
 
 Mr. B. Yes, my dear ; there are the marriages of two of 
 our friends. 
 
 Mrs. B. Who? who? 
 
 Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin, 
 John Nettleby. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby ! Lord ! But why did you tell me ? 
 
 Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the 
 paragraph one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the sur- 
 prise by being told. Well, whose was the other marriage ? 
 
 Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you ; I will leave you 
 the pleasure of the surprise. 
 
 Mrs. B. But you see I cannot find it. How provoking you 
 are, my dear ! Do pray tell it to me. 
 
 Mr. B. Our friend, Mr. Granby. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mr. Granby ? Dear ! Why did you not make me 
 guess ? I should have guessed him directly. But why do you 
 call him our friend ? I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor 
 ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you may remember, 
 the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no friend of 
 mine. 
 
peescott's plain dialogues. 175 
 
 Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear ; but I hope you will go 
 and see Mrs. Granby. 
 
 Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she ? 
 
 Mr. B. Miss Cooke. 
 
 Mrs. B. Cooke ? But there are so many Cookes ; can't you 
 distinguish her in some way ? Has she no Christian name ? 
 
 Mr. B. Emma, I think. Yes, Emma. 
 
 Mrs. B. Emma Cooke ! No ; it cannot be my friend, Emma 
 Cooke ; for I am sure she was cut out for an old maid. 
 
 Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife. 
 
 Mrs. B. Maybe so. I'm sure I'll never go to see her. Pray, 
 my dear, how came you to see so much of her ? 
 
 Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only saw 
 her two or three times before she was married. 
 
 Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could you decide that she was 
 cut out for a good wife ? I am sure you could not j udge of her 
 by seeing her only two or three times, and before she was 
 married. 
 
 Mr. B. Indeed, my love, that is a very just observation. 
 
 Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and thank 
 you for it, my dear. I must own I can bear anything better 
 than irony. 
 
 Mr. B. Irony ! my dear, I was perfectly in earnest. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, yes ; in earnest — so I perceive. I may na- 
 turally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick 
 enough ; I comprehend you too well. Yes, it is impossible to 
 judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess what sort of a 
 wife she will make. I presume you speak from experience ; 
 you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice. 
 
 Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this ? Upoii 
 my word, I meant no such thing. I really was not thinking of 
 you in the least. 
 
 Mrs. B. No, you never think of me now. I can easily be^ 
 lieve that you were not thinking of me, in the least. 
 
 Mr. B. But I said that, only to prove to you that I cquld not 
 be thinking ill of you, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of me, than 
 you did not think of me at all. 
 
176 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Mr. B. {laughing). Well, my dear, I will even think ill of 
 you, if that will please you. 
 
 Mrs. B. Do you laugh at me ? When it comes to this, I am 
 wretched indeed. Never man laughed at the woman he loved. 
 As long as you had the slightest remains of love for me, you 
 could not make me an object of derision ; ridicule and love 
 are incompatible ; absolutely incompatible. Well, I have done 
 my best, my very best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see 
 I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. 
 Granby ! 
 
 Mr. B. Happy, I hope sincerely, that she will be with my 
 friend ; but my happiness must depend on you, my love ; so, 
 for my sake, if not for your own, be composed, and do not 
 torment yourself with such fancies. 
 
 Mrs. B. I do wonder whether this Mrs. Granby is really that 
 Miss Emma Cooke. I'll go and see her directly ; see her I 
 must. 
 
 Mr. B. I am heartily glad of it, my dear ; for I am sure a 
 visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real pleasure. 
 
 Mrs. B. I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give him 
 pleasure, or you either, but to satisfy my own— curiosity. 
 
 CURTAIN, 
 
 THE SPEOTJLATOES. 
 
 EPES SARGENT. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 Mr. p. Green, Mr. Hobbs. 
 
 Hon. Crafty Fox. Mr. Griggs. 
 
 Mr Flighty. Mr. Saunders. 
 
 Mr. Mildman. Mr. Tibbetts. 
 
 Mr. Nobbs. a Policeman, 
 
 Enter Green, with a newspaper. 
 
 Green. Here is the newspaper, wet from the press. Now, 
 let me see if my advertisement is in. Ah ! here it is ! (reads) 
 '^A gentleman who has twenty thousand dollars lying idle 
 
pkescott's plain dialogues. 177 
 
 would like to receive propositions for the profitable investment 
 of that sum. Apply at his office, number nine Kite street, 
 between the hours of ten and twelve, A. M. Signed, P. Green." 
 All right. I think that will bring me some anssvers. {looks at 
 7iis icatcli) Xine o'clock. I may not expect any applicants for 
 an hour yet ; so I may as well take a stroll, {going.) 
 
 Enter Mr. Fox, icith a mcrp, rolled up under Ms arm. 
 
 Fox. Have I the honor of adressing Mr. P. Green ? 
 
 Green. That's my name. 
 
 Fo.!:. Seeing your advertisement in this morning's Journal, 
 I have taken the liberty of calling, although I believe I an- 
 ticipate the hour fixed. My numerous engagements must be 
 my apology. 
 
 Green. No matter, sir. Am happy to see you. 
 
 Fox, My name, sir, is Fox, and I am proprietor of the new 
 city of Foxopolis, of which you have probably heard. 
 
 Green. I regret to say, that, till this moment, I never knew 
 of such a place. Where does it lie ? 
 
 Fox {aside). Lie ? Lie ? Does he mean that as a sneer ? I 
 guess not. He looks too innocent, {speaking rapidly) Foxop- 
 olis, sir, so named after the Hon. Crafty Fox, late member of 
 Congress from Bubble County, is situated on the left bank of 
 the Washmuddy river, at its junction with the Little Corkscrew, 
 a charming stream, navigable (after a freshet) for small steam- 
 boats and rafts, and easily crossed, at all seasons, by wading. 
 Foxopolis is beautifully laid out with wide streets, radiating 
 from a central circle, around which the principal public build- 
 ings, including the bank, the court-house, the theatre, and the 
 jail, are grouped. An opera-house is projected, though .at 
 ' present the music of the frogs in the adjoining swamp renders 
 this superfluous. Xo more promising place for investment in 
 house lots can be found in all the wide West. The water ad- 
 vantages are very great. The best of water can be had by 
 digging only a few inches below the surface of the soil. The 
 site is remarkably healthy. The only diseases known are fever 
 and ague and typhus, and no one ever suffers long with tliem. 
 In short, to the emigrant,, to the capitalist, to the mechanic. 
 
178 prescott's plain dialogt:es. 
 
 we say, Go to Foxopolis ; and there is no danger of your ever 
 quitting the place. Such, sir, is the account to be published 
 in the new Gazetteer forthcoming from the press of Messrs. 
 Blowhard and Bragg, New York City. 
 
 Green. What is the population ? 
 
 Fox. The population at present, sir, is only two thousand. 
 (aside) Ahem ! including rattlesnakes and wolves, (aloud) But, 
 then, sir, you must recollect that the city is not yet a year old. 
 (unrolling the map) Here, sir, is a plan. There is the great 
 central square, where we shall either have a fountain or a 
 monument. Here are the principal business streets. Here is 
 a street which we thought of calling after the great Webster ; 
 but, sir, if you will buy three or four lots, we will call it Green 
 street. Here is a splendid lot, a hundred feet front by ninety 
 deep. 
 
 Green. What is the price of that lot? (pointing.) 
 
 Fox, That lot, sir, I refused five thousand dollars for, a 
 month ago ; but, as I am anxious to have it to say that a gen- 
 tleman of your rank and position has an interest in the city, 
 ^ will let you have it for four thousand, cash — providing, that 
 is, that the price is kept a secret between ourselves ; for I 
 wouldn't have it known that I was selling so low. 
 
 Green. It all looks well on paper. 
 
 Fox. Looks well on paper ! You should see it as it is — the 
 bustle, the enterprise, the movement — (aside) ahem ! Of peo- 
 ple going away, (aloud) To give you some idea, sir, of the 
 business of the place (giving him a newspaper)^ here is a copy 
 of the Foxopolis Ledger — (aside) published semi-occasionally — 
 ahem ! 
 • Green. Thank you. I will look it over at my leisure. 
 
 Enter Mr. Flighty, with a box of models, etc. 
 
 Flighty (to Green). Are you the gentleman whose adver- 
 tisement 
 
 Green. The same. Green is my name. 
 
 Fox (rolling up his map). Confound the fellow ! Here's a 
 competitor. 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 179 
 
 Fli. I tliink I have something to offer in the way of an in- 
 vestment for your twenty thousand dollars. I can admit you 
 to an interest in certain patent rights, the profits on which 
 promise to be enormous. 
 Fox. Hambug ! 
 
 Fli. {to Green). Who is that individual ? 
 Green. He is a stranger to me. Proceed with your business. 
 Fli. In the first place, I have discovered a process for ex- 
 tracting the best of gas for lighting purposes from water. 
 Green. From water ? 
 
 Fli. From pure water, sir ! Consider the saving. I am at 
 no expense for coal, tar, or resin. From water I get not only 
 my gas, but the fuel necessary for producing it. Water is 
 composed of hydrogen and oxygen ; our common gas, for 
 lighting, is composed of hydrogen and carbon. Find a cheap 
 substitute for the carbon, and you have the secret of my gas. 
 Fox. Gas ! 
 
 liii. {to Fox). I wish you would keep your observations to 
 yourself, sir. {to Green) I have formed a company for carry- 
 ing out my plans, and I can accommodate you with a hundred 
 shares at par. 
 
 Fox. Pah ! Pooh ! 
 Green. I am much obliged. 
 
 Fit. If you shouldn't wish to put your eggs all in one bas- 
 ket, I have here a new patent horseshoe. 
 Fox. Shoe ! Pshaw ! 
 
 Fli. {to Fox). Will you stop your impertinence ? {to Green) 
 Here is a model of my tubular underground despatch. You 
 exhaust the air from this pipe, and then send a letter from here 
 to New York by atmospheric pressure. This is bound to su- 
 percede all other modes of telegraphing, if I am any judge. 
 Fox. Judge ? Fudge ! 
 
 Fli. {to Fox). Allow me to say, sir, that I consider you no 
 gentleman. 
 
 Fox {handing Mm a card). This is my card, sir, if you have 
 any objections to make. 
 
 Fli. {reading the card). Fox, of Foxopolis ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Mr. Green, I can tell you something of Foxopolis. Allured by 
 
180 prescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 the advertisements of this gentleman, I went in search of Fox- 
 opolis, expecting to get a contract for lighting the city. Well, 
 sir, when I got there, Foxopolis was not to be seen. I felt for 
 it with a ten foot pole, but Foxopolis was not to be reached. 
 They told me if I would come during some dry spell in the 
 autumn, I might find the tops of the stakes that marked the 
 house lots of Foxopolis. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Fox {in a rage). It's a fabrication — a gross fabrication, Mr. 
 Green ! This man is an impostor. 
 
 Fli. Impostor in your teeth, Mr. Fox ! 
 
 Fox {shaking his fist). I'll have you arrested, sir, for slan- 
 der. You're a charlatan. 
 
 Fli. And you, sir, are a swindler. 
 
 Green. Nay, gentlemen, gentlemen ! {he holds hack Fox, who 
 pretends to struggle to get at Flighty.) 
 
 Fox. Only let me get at him ! 
 
 Fli. I defy you, sir ! 
 
 Fox. I shall do him a mischief, if you don't hold me I 
 
 Enter Pkofessor Mildman. 
 
 Mildman. Friends, friends, what is all this? Quarrelling? 
 Angry ? What is anger but a brief insanity? Ira furor hrevis 
 est. Let me exhort you to peace and forgiveness. What so 
 lovely as peace ? What so beautiful as forgiveness ? Why 
 should we be wrathful with our brother? Gentleness is 
 stronger than wrath. Peace is better than war. If my brother 
 offends me, I shall win him to justice by meekness rather 
 than by fury. Peace is precious. Peace is profitable. But 
 anger is beneath the dignity of a rational being. 
 
 Fox. I think I heard you make those same remarks at the 
 reform convention, last May. 
 
 Mild. Very likely, friend ; for they are the sentiments that 
 I always hope to utter with my tongue, and act out in my life. 
 
 Green. Who may you be, sir ? 
 
 Mild. I am Professor Mildman, projector of the non-resistant 
 college. Seeing your advertisement, I have come in the hope 
 of interesting you in the enterprise ; for, sir, it is not only to 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 181 
 
 your philanthropy, but to your acquisitiveness, that it will 
 commend itself. I can show you that it is one of the safest 
 possible investments ; that it will pay you twenty per cent, and 
 give you ample security for your principal. 
 
 Green. Are you a non-combatant ? 
 
 Mild. Something more than that, sir. I am a non-resistant, 
 professor of non-resistance, and lecturer on the same. I utterly 
 deny and repudiate the principle of force, not only in social 
 commerce, but in legislation. To meet hostility by hostility is 
 heathen, savage, unphilosophical. In the new college, sir, we 
 shall bring up all our young men to a practical recognition of 
 the great principle of non-resistance. We shall have them 
 regularly knocked down, in order that they may learn to keep 
 their temper under provocation. 
 
 Green. But where is the twenty per cent to come from? 
 
 Mild. Nothing more simple. In the United States we have 
 at least half a million non-resistants. Of this number, we 
 will suppose that a thousand youths every year are admitted 
 into the college. 
 
 Fox. Humbug ! 
 
 Mild. Who spoke ? 
 
 Fox. I took that liberty. 
 
 Mild. Very well, friend ; you are entitled to your opinion, 
 of course, {to Green) As I was saying, of these thousand 
 pupils we will suppose that eight hundred pay three hundred 
 dollars, and that two hundred 
 
 Fox. Impracticable, sir ! Impracticable ! 
 
 Mild. But, sir, hear me out. 
 
 Enter Mr. Nobbs. 
 
 Green {to Mildman). Excuse me one minute, while I attend 
 to this gentleman. (Mildman and Fox fall lack, and converse 
 in du77ib slioiD, in a very heated manner. Flighty rubs Ms 
 hands at seeing them.) 
 
 Nubhs. I'm in the horse business. I've seen your advertise- 
 ment, and I can tell you how to double your twenty thousand. 
 I've a horse that will lick Ethan Allen, Hiram Drew, and Flora 
 
182 PKESCOTT's plain DIALOCtUES. 
 
 Temple. I can arrange a bet so that we can be sure of winning. 
 Just put yourself in my 
 
 Enter Hobbs, Griggs, SAUNDEPtS, and Tibbets, with papers, 
 handbills, etc. They surround GtREEN. 
 
 Green. Not ten o'clock, and bow they come ! 
 
 Hohhs. Copper stocks are the thing. 
 
 Griggs. Plan of a new saw mill, sir. 
 
 Saunders. Gold mine in North Carolina. 
 
 Tibbets. Coal is the steady article. 
 
 Hobbs. Coj)per is rising. 
 
 Griggs. Lumber is always wanted. 
 
 Saunders. What can be surer than gold ? 
 
 Tibbets. How can you get along without fires ? (Mildman and 
 Fox hei^e come to blows.) 
 
 Fox. Stand oif, sir ! 
 
 Mild. Never in my life was I so insulted ? 
 
 Fox. Hands off ! 
 
 Mild, {seizing him by the collar, and shaking him). I'll teach 
 you, sir, to call me a fool ! 
 
 Fox. He'll choke me, gentlemen ! 
 
 Green. Sir, sir ! Gentlemen, gentlemen ! Mr. Professor . 
 
 Tibbets [rolling up his sleeves). Is this a free fight ? If so, 
 I'll put in. 
 
 JVobbs. Keep the peace, young man. 
 
 Tibbets. Yes, we'll conquer a peace, as old Taylor said. Take 
 that ! (strikes Nobbs. A general fight ensues.) 
 
 Green. Gentlemen ! Mr. Non-resistant ! Professor ! I beg 
 you ! Mr. Non-resistant ! {runs to side of stage, and shouts) 
 Police ! Police ! 
 
 Mild, {to Fox, ichoni he has thrown doicn). Kascal ! beg my 
 pardon ! 
 
 Fox. I won't ! 
 
 Mild. I'll break every bone in your body ! 
 
 Flighty {having mounted on a chair). Disperse, or you'll be 
 arrested. The police are coming. 
 
 {E<xeunt Flighty, Hobbb, Griggs, and Saunders. 
 
PKESCOTT'g PLAIN DIALOGUES. 183 
 
 Enter a Policeman. 
 
 Policeman. What's the row ? {seizes Mildman and Tibbets) 
 I think these be the stuffy ones. Come, my hearties ! 
 
 Mild, {struggling). Let me go ! 
 
 Police. Be easy, or I'll put on the bracelets. Come along ! 
 I summon the rest of you to come and testify. 
 
 Green. That gentleman is a non-resistant — a professor in the 
 non-resistant college. 
 
 Police. Can't help that. Come along, all of you. We'll 
 have this little affair attended to at once. The professor is 
 game, if he is a professor. 
 
 [Exeunt, Policeman, leading Green hy the collar , and the 
 rest following. 
 
 BE OOUETEOUS. 
 
 EPES SARGENT. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Edwin Rooke. CnAPtLEs Desmond. 
 
 Mr. Hawkins. 
 
 Enter Edwin and Charles, at opposite sides. 
 
 Edicin. Well, schoolfellow, I start for Philadelphia this 
 afternoon 
 
 Charles. You're in luck, Edwin. 
 
 Edw. That remains to be seen. I carry the best of letters i() 
 Mr. Hawkins, the head of the great house of Hawkins & Co. 
 
 Char. One of our merchant princes, I believe. 
 
 Edw. Rather an odd one, I am told ; eccentric, impulsive, 
 and all that. I don't like eccentric people. But I have never 
 seen old Hawkins yet, so I'll not prejudge him. 
 
 Char. He has an enviable reputation for integrity. His word 
 is as good as his bond. 
 
 Edw. So they say. My old man tried to make him commit 
 himself in my favor, but he wouldn't do it. He says he'll take 
 me if he likes me, not without. 
 
184 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Char. Whom do you mean by your old man ? 
 
 Edw. Tlie governor, to be sure — my father. Don't you call 
 yours the old man f 
 
 Kjhav. Never. I would not speak of him by any name less 
 dear or respectful than that of father. 
 
 Edw. Good boy ! You always were a prig, Desmond. At 
 school we used to call you Miss Nancy. 
 
 Char. Did I resent it ? 
 
 Edw. No ; but you knocked down Long Parkins, who first 
 gave you the nickname. 
 
 Char. Not for the nickname, however, but because there 
 was no other way of defending an old apple-stall woman, 
 whose little stock in trade he was trying to upset. 
 
 Edw. Long Parkins never called you Miss Nancy after that. 
 
 Char. I dare say not ; I certainly didn't mind it if he did. 
 
 Edw. You're a queer fellow, Desmond. Why don't you go 
 into a store V 
 
 Char. To be frank, I can't afford to go into one of these 
 large establishments, like that of Hawkins & Co. , where for 
 several years you get nothing in the way of salary, and are 
 expected to find yourself. 
 
 Edw. But they say, if old Hawkins takes a liking to a fellow, 
 he will do anything for him. I mean to get the blind side ox 
 him — humor him, you know, and then my promotion will be 
 rapid and sure. 
 
 Char. I fancy that the best way to win his regard will be to 
 show him that you are faithful and true — above all meanness 
 and disguise ; that you 
 
 Edii:}. Now, don't begin lecturing, old fellow ! Reserve those 
 remarks for your virgin discourse before the Mercantile Library 
 Association. I know just what you are going to say. Look 
 you, Desmond, when I get to be a member of the house of 
 Hawkins & Co., and drive my span of horses down Chestnut 
 street, perhaps I will— — 
 
 Enter Mr. Hawkins, with a toMp in his hand. 
 
 Hawkins. Excuse me for interrupting you, young gentlemen, 
 but shall you be standing here five minutes ? 
 
prescott's plain dialogues. 185 
 
 Edw. Siiall I be standing here ? Pray, wliat's that to you ? 
 
 Hawk. I thought, if you would be kind enough to keep an 
 eye on my horse yonder, I would do as much for you, if I ever 
 had a chance. 
 
 Edw. You would do as much for me ! Do you imagine, old 
 fellow, that I am likely to ever to call upon you to do anything 
 for me f 
 
 Hawk. There's no knowing. A mouse once served a lion, 
 you remember. But, if you are not going to be here, I will 
 get some one else to attend to my horse. 
 
 Edw. As I am waiting for an omnibus, I am likely to be here 
 five, six, ten minutes ; but I am no hostler, friend, and am not 
 accustomed to holding horses. 
 
 Hawk. Bless you, he needs no holding. I merely want you 
 to see that nobody steps into the chaise and drives off. 
 
 Edw. Leave us, leave us, my good man. 
 
 Char. Sir, I will look after your horse with pleasure. Do 
 not hurry yourself. I can wait ten minutes, if you wish it. 
 
 Haick. Much obliged, young gentleman. I shall not be long 
 absent. [Exit. 
 
 Edio. Why do you encourage such cattle ? 
 
 Char. The man made a civil request ; why shouldn't I oblige 
 him? 
 
 Edw. Couldn't you see, by the cut of his jib, that he was 
 no gentleman ? 
 
 Char. I looked at his features, not at his clothes. Besides, 
 had he been a hod- carrier, it would have been all the same — a 
 pleasure to me to do him a kindness. 
 
 Edw. Ah, Desmond, with such plebeian notions, you'll never 
 get on in the world ; you'll never rise to be a member of the 
 firm of Hawkins & Co. 
 
 Re-enter Hawkins. 
 
 Hawk. Hullo ! What's that about Hawkins & Co.? i 
 Edio. Really, my friend, I don't know what business it is of 
 
 yours. 
 Hawk. Don't be too sure of that. I live in Philadelphia, and 
 
 see old Hawkins every day. 
 
186 pkescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 Edio. Perhaps you are liis barber or his handcart man. 
 There, go, friend ! Your horse is getting impatient, and we 
 have had quite enough of your polished society. 
 
 Char. Speak for yourself, Mr. Rooke. I have found no fault 
 with the gentleman's society. 
 
 EdiD. The gentleman, indeed ! 
 
 Hawk, {to Charles). What was he saying about Hawkins 
 &Co.? 
 
 Char. Well, sir, you must know that Mr. Rooke, now 
 present, is about visiting Philadelphia with letters, which will, 
 no doubt, secure him a place in the counting-room of Haw- 
 kins & Co. 
 
 Hawk. Indeed ! Well, now, let me tell him that Hawkins is 
 a queer, capricious old fellow, and very uncertain — very. But, 
 go on. 
 
 Char. Because I consented to look after your horse, my friend 
 Rooke remarked, that, with such plebeian propensities, I could 
 never rise to be a member of the firm of Hawkins & Co. 
 
 Hawk. I'm not so sure of that. What's to prevent it? 
 
 Ed'W. Ha, ha, ha ! I think our new friend must be president 
 of a bank, at least. 
 
 Char, {to Hawkins). I fear you are disposed to amuse your- 
 self with me, sir. 
 
 Hawk. Not a bit of it ! What's to prevent your being a can- 
 didate for a place in the rich man's counting room ? 
 
 Char. Ah ! None of my keys will fit that opening. In the 
 first place, stranger, I want influence ; in the next place I want 
 means. 
 
 HaiDk. You shall want neither ; neither, I say ! I like your 
 looks. You've had a good education, eh ? Can write, cipher, 
 and keep books ? 
 
 Edw. Desmond can do all that, and a good deal more, old 
 fellow ; but what does it amount to, if he can't carry such 
 letters as that — and that — and that ? {shoicing letters.) 
 
 Hawk. Hawkins has bushels of just such every day. A word 
 from me would outweigh them all. 
 
 Edw. That's a likely story ! Why, Desmond, you really 
 look as if you believed him. But a drowning man will catch 
 
prescott's pijAin dialogues. 187 
 
 at razors. Don't you see lie is quizzing us ? Who are you, old 
 fellow ? 
 
 Hawk. Allow me to look once more at tliose letters ? 
 
 Edw. {lianding letters) Here ! look at tliem. 
 
 Hawk, {opening one). By your leave. 
 
 Edw. Hullo ! That letter was sealed. Don't you know 
 better than that — to break open a private letter ? 
 
 Hawk. It is a liberty I am in the habit of taking with all the 
 letters addressed to John Hawkins, {reads the letter.) 
 
 Edw. What do you mean by that ? 
 
 Char, {taking him aside). Be quiet, Edwin. ' If I am not 
 greatly mistaken, this is Mr. Hawkins himself. 
 
 Edio. Impossible ! Who would ever have dreamed of it ? 
 But it would be just like my luck. 
 
 Hawk, {putting letters into his pocket). Well, Mr. Edwin 
 Rooke, I can spare you the trouble and expense of making a 
 journey to Philadelphia. If the house of Hawkins & Co. 
 should ever need your services, you shall hear from me. 
 
 Edw. What, sir ! Are you Mr. Hawkins ? 
 
 Haick. So my friends call me, and so I have every reason to 
 believe. 
 
 Edw. Really, sir, if I had imagined such a thing, I would 
 have held your horse with pleasure. I hope you will pardon, 
 sir, any little want of civility I may have shown. Had I known 
 who you were 
 
 Hawk. Enough, Mr. Rooke. Courtesy, politeness, readiness 
 to oblige — extended not merely to the rich and well-dressed, 
 but to the poor and unfriended, these are essential in the house 
 of Hawkins & Co. Your insolence to myself I readily over- 
 look ; but I cannot, in justice to my partners, take into my 
 counting room a young man who has betrayed his character to 
 me, in advance, in so unfortunate a manner. It was not your^ 
 refusal to oblige me, but the manner of your refusal, that re- 
 vealed what I did not like. 
 
 Edw. My father, sir, has been depending on you giving me 
 a place. 
 
 HaiDk. I am sorry to disappoint him. Tell him I will duly 
 answer his letter, {to Charles) As for you, young man — Des- 
 
188 pbescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 mond, I think lie called you, will you oblige me by stepping 
 into my cliaise, and driving with me to my hotel ? 
 
 Char. I am at your orders, sir. But I hope you will for- 
 give my friend. He is an excellent accountant, and you can 
 easily cure him of his wrong notions. 
 
 Hawk. I fear not. Come, Mr. Desmond. Discourtesy 
 springs from a deeper root than a mere wrong notion — from a 
 bad heart. Good morning, Mr. Rooke. [Exit. 
 
 Char. Cheer up, Edwin. I will plead your cause with him. 
 Cheer up. [Exit, after Hawkins. 
 
 Edw. Was there ever such abominable luck ! How shall I 
 explain matters to the governor ? Who would have thought 
 that shabbily-dressed old fellow was the rich Mr. Hawkins ! 
 It's a kind of false pretence when a man worth a million goes 
 looking like a journeyman bricklayer. I find I must be careful 
 on whose toes I tread. [Exit. 
 
 MODEEN EDUCATION. 
 
 FOR THREE MALES AND ONE FEMALE. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 Damper. Templeton. Mrs. Templeton. Servant. 
 
 Enter Mr. Damper and Servant. 
 
 Damper. Is Mr. Templeton within ? 
 
 Ser'oant. I'll thank you for your name, sir. 
 
 Damp. Mr. Damper. 
 
 Ser'c. He is not, sir. 
 
 Damp. Pogh, pogh ! I'm his intimate friend. 
 
 Serv. Oh, no, sir, you'll pardon me. I keep a most accurate 
 list of my master's friends, {showing a list.) 
 
 Damp. Indeed ! a convenient sort of reference ; for, to know 
 friends, as times go, is no very easy matter. Hark you, fellow, 
 tell your master that Mr. Damper, from Lombard street, a 
 stranger to his present fashionable nomenclature, but one who 
 formerly was in his books, insists on seeing him instantly. 
 
PRESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGUES. 189 
 
 Serv. Sir, I sliall give in your name ; but making speeches is 
 not in my department. 
 
 Damp. Indeed ! then I presume you are what is called a fig- 
 ure piece, and hired by measure — (Servant hows) — six feet of 
 more accomplished assurance I never looked up to. 
 
 Sern. You are pleased to flatter. 
 
 Damp, But if the distance across your sholders was not in- 
 cluded in the estimate, here is a measure {sJioicing his cane) 
 which will in one moment ascertain it, unless you exactly obey 
 my orders. (Exit Servant) Bad memories, indeed, when 
 friends cannot be remembered without a book. When in Lon- 
 don, and in active life, he was above these modern fopperies. 
 But a young, gay wife sadly alters your middle-aged gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Enter Mr. Templeton omcI Servant. 
 
 Damp. Templeton ! I'm hearty glad to see you. 
 
 Templeton. What ! My old partner. Damper I welcome, 
 thrice welcome, my worthiest friend. 
 
 Damp, {to Servant). Do you hear that, puppy? his worthiest 
 friend ! book me this instant, or I'll cane you. {exit Servant) 
 You look tolerably hearty and cheerful — but 
 
 Tern. But ! oh, old Damper still, I see. When will you leave 
 your vile buts, and doubts, and perhapses ! 
 
 Damp. When my friend's conduct no longer requires them. 
 But, you are married again, I hear. 
 
 lem. Yes, I have tried it once more — but 
 
 Damp. But what, pray ? 
 
 Tern. I have got a wife who has had a perverted modern ed- 
 ucation ; for in our stylish manufactories of female attainments, 
 the Muses and Graces so struggle for precedency, that the un- 
 assuming domestic virtues are jostled into a corner ; and from 
 this telescope of fashion issues an abundant supply of female 
 poets, attitudinarians, philosophizing daughters, waltzing 
 wives, and infidel mothers. 
 
 Damp. The effects on Mrs. Templeton 
 
 Tern. Are an active taste for expense, with a decided aversion 
 to all the household duties ; and thus, while we abound in 
 economical theories, we are ruined by unthrifty practices. So 
 
190 peescott's plain dialogues. 
 
 that in Mrs. Templeton's room you may see tlie '' Lady's Best 
 Companion " entombed in tlie dust it aims to sweep away, and a 
 satirical spider lias drawn his web over the ' ' Complete House- 
 wife." But here she comes ; you shall see for yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Templeton {without). Pray don't tease me now ; tell 
 them all to be sure and come to-morrow, {enters) My dear Mr. 
 Templeton, you will be delighted with the guest your son Yin- 
 cent has introduced. Such commanding talents, such superior 
 taste ! He has found fault with everything he has seen, and 
 has pronounced the house and grounds so detestable, that I 
 can't endure the sight of them. 
 
 Tern. I ought to be much obliged to him. 
 
 Mrs. T. We've laid such delightful plans. The house is to 
 come down, the farm to be parked, and the meadows to be put 
 under water. Now, my love, youll have no trouble, but 
 
 Tern. The trouble of paying for it. 
 
 Mrs. T. Oh, but he says people of fashion never think of 
 that. So I shall give orders to begin. 
 
 Tern. When, my dear ? 
 
 Mrs. T. Oh, to-morrow. But, who is that old man? 
 
 Tern. My late partner. And I am happy to afford you the 
 gratification of making welcome my friend Damper. 
 
 Mrs. T. I have never seen his name on your list ; but my 
 man is shockingly inaccurate. Do you know, last winter, sir, 
 he told me I was quite intimate with Lady Paramount ; but on 
 making her a visit, the old Goth denied ever having heard of 
 me. But I must away. I've a thousand things to arrange for 
 to-morrow. I hope I may look forward, sir, to a long visit. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Damp. Rid your house of the new-comer immediately. Here 
 is another instance of the blessed effect of modern education, 
 which has armed every witling with the weapons of personal 
 satire. For now, cities are visited, tours are made, not to paint 
 the world's beauties, but to caricature its pitiable deformities : 
 not to cull the sweets of nature, but to collect the poisons of 
 defamation ; not to bestow instruction, but to purvey the in- 
 satiable appetite of slander, and teach the rising generation to 
 prey on garbage. [Exeunt. 
 
PEESCOTT S PLAIN DI.^LOGUES. 
 
 191 
 
 WE'LL HAVE TO MOETGAGE THE PAEM. 
 
 ERNEST G. PA-HNESTOCK. 
 FOR ONE MALE AND TWO FEMALES. 
 
 Father. I think you had better regard what I say, 
 And put all those trinkets and trifles away ; 
 This dressing and flirting and gadding about, 
 Will bring us to ruin, without any doubt. 
 For here are some bills that will have to be met — 
 I toil like a slave while you run me in debt. 
 I will not permit you to carry on so, 
 We can't raise the money, you very well know, 
 Unless we mortgage the farm. 
 
 Mother. Oh, yes ! it is always the case with the girls, 
 If wanted to work they are fixing their curls ; 
 Or building a steeple on top of the head, 
 Which takes them as long as for me to bake bread. 
 Their skirts are so handy for sweeping the floor, 
 'Tis folly for us to buy brooms any more, - 
 The best of their lives they will fritter away. 
 And should they get married their husbands will say. 
 We'll have to mortgage the farm. 
 
 Father. I came years ago, with my rifle in hand. 
 
 And cleared, for a home, a few acres of land. 
 And many a night did the glare in the sky 
 Proclaim to our cabin that danger was nigh. 
 The pride of my heart was the mother you see, 
 Who equally labored for you and for me, 
 And now, it seems hard, as we're passing away, 
 That you, by your folly, should force us to say, 
 We'll have to mortgage the farm. 
 
 Daugh. Now, father and mother, you know you are old. 
 
 We must have some fun, and there's no use to scold ; 
 
 It surely is better to be in the style. 
 
 Than look so peculiar that people must smile. 
 
192 
 
 PEESCOTT's plain DIAIiOGIJES. 
 
 We must be attractive, in order to find 
 Admirers that fully come up to our mind. 
 You're always complaining about our display. 
 It seems pretty certain, tliat do as we may. 
 We'll have to mortgage the farm. 
 
 Father. It will not be long 'till our race will be run, 
 Our trials be past and our labors be done ; 
 For here we have toiled, and may here be our grave, 
 Where dear ones repose and violets wave. 
 Oh, practice the precepts we taught you in youth. 
 Put on the adornments of meekness and truth. 
 The light of contentment will shine on our way. 
 And poverty never compel us to say. 
 We'll have to mortgage the farm. 
 
 DaugJi. Dear father, I see it as never before. 
 
 What folly and selfishness hold in their store ; 
 I'll venture no more in fashion's blind whirl. 
 But be once again your own dutiful girl. 
 And take sweet delight in labor that bears 
 Pleasure to parents to lighten their cares. 
 And in your old days be sure I shall be 
 The joy of a home unshadowed and free. 
 For we ne'Der shall mortgage the farm. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
J^ BOOK 
 
 That Every One Ought to Read, 
 
 AND MANY TO STUDY. 
 
 The ART of COURTSHIP. 
 
 SHOWING 
 
 HOW TO BE HAPPY, 
 
 AND 
 
 WHEN TO BE MARRIED. 
 
 Price 25 Cents, 
 
 This book gives full and accurate information upon everj^thing connected 
 with love-making. All about engagements— making, breaking and fulfilling 
 them ; all about weddings ; and all about laws and usages relating in any 
 way to the forms of marriage. 
 
 Every one who goes to Balls and Hops 
 NEEDS THIS BOOK. 
 
 "Bail-Room" Call Book. 
 
 Price 25 Cents. 
 
 Containing directions for correctly " calling " all the QUADRILLE 
 FIGURES, (LANCERS), etc. (new and old), as danced in Ball-Rooms and 
 Private Parties throughout the United States and Canada. 
 
 ■ Ck>pies of the above books sent to any address, postage paid, on receipt 
 of price. Address 
 
 CI.INTON T. DE WITT, Publisher, 
 
 No. 33 Rose Street, New York. 
 
r^^ 
 
 OET THE BEST ! OET THE BEST t 
 
 FORTUNE-TELLING BY CARDS; 
 
 OR, CARTOMANCY HADE EASY. 
 
 Beiitg- a Pictorial and Practical Explanatiou of the 
 Marvellous Ai't of Propltetic For tune-Tell in gr^ ^vbei e- 
 by, tliroug'ti »imple use of ordinary playiugr cards, any 
 person of common Intel ligrence, can srlean, Full, Per- 
 fect and £x:a0t K.no^rledg>e of the Past, the Present, 
 and the Future. As vrell as of every Secret in a Per*- 
 son's L.ife or Thoughts. The whole Clearly and Fully 
 set forth, so that every one can rea^ their o^wn For- 
 tune and that ot others. To Tvhich is added a Treatise 
 upon Chiromancy; or, the Art of Divinatien through 
 Reading- the Human Hand, and a full I>escription of 
 the Sacred Booh, off Thot, the Kgryptian Oracle of 
 Destiny. 
 
 BY MABAIVie CAM1I.I.E: 1.T: NORMANB. 
 
 THE MODERN SYBIL. 
 
 Illustrated by 1750 En^rayings. 
 
 If you buy a ^Fortune-Teller '^ at all, buy the above* 
 Por the following: reasons : IT TFACHfJs YOW TRVIiY 
 
 All about 
 
 — *' A certain Bloade Female," 
 —Agreeable Intelligence, 
 — a Dark Complexioned Woman, 
 —a Widow Seeking to Marry a^ln, 
 —a certain Fast Female, and her 
 
 designs, 
 — a certain Impi-oper Intrigue, 
 '—a certain Present of Jewelry, 
 —a Strange Lady that you are to 
 
 —a Declaration of Love from a Eich 
 
 Suitor, 
 — ^Disappointments, both in Lore 
 
 or Money Matters, 
 -—discord in the Family CSrcle, 
 — Good and Bad News, 
 —Journeys by Land or Water, 
 —Marriage, 
 
 — Mea of Tact and Cunning, 
 — Malignant Females, 
 — Money to be Received, 
 — Marriages to be broken ofl^ os 
 
 Offers refused, 
 — the Separation Ijetwe^i you and 
 
 a Widow, 
 
 All about 
 
 —the result of your Loving "not 
 
 Wisely, but too Well," 
 ^the Robbery of your Plate and 
 Jewels, 
 
 -— the results of that Divorce Suit, 
 
 — that splendid Set of Furs that 
 you hope for, 
 
 —the sex of the expected "Little 
 Treasure," 
 
 —the Lady that rode in ttie cars 
 with you, 
 
 —the Strange Gentleman that waa 
 so attentive to you at the ball, 
 
 — the Size ol your Expected Family, 
 
 — the Mone^ you exi^ect to be left 
 to you, 
 
 — whether your hopes will be Ful- 
 filled, 
 
 — your Title to that Estate, 
 
 —your joys, sorrows, anticipations, 
 regrets, gains, lossea. In short, 
 from this book you can learn 
 everything that ean be truly taught 
 by any person or book in Oie worldy 
 as to your fuiure fortune. 
 This book contains over 200 petges, bound in boards, with a splendid illu- 
 
 tfiinated ^iover. Price 60 Cents* 
 
 A handsome and durable editiOTi of this work, bound in cloth, elegantly 
 lettered In gilt. Price ..T5 Cents. 
 
 StS^ Copies of the above Book sent to any address in the United States •r 
 ^anadas^ postage free, on receipt of price. Address. 
 
 R. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 
 
 No« 33 R(^£ STRJQET, N. Y. 
 
 {Betwei » Jheane a$td Fponltfort ^rtetB,) 
 
THE HOME CIRCLE DELIGHTED. 
 
 THE BLACK ART; 
 
 OK, 
 
 MAGIC MADE EASY. 
 
 Containing a very full and complete description and plain explanation of all 
 kinds of Sleight-of-Haud Tricks and Conjuring by Cards and Coins— together 
 with wonderful experiments in Magnetism, Chemistry, Electricity and Pire- 
 works— so simplified as to be adapted for amusement in the Home Circle. 
 Price 10 Cents. 
 
 CONTENTS.— Tbicks with Cabds: Fully explaining and detailing 
 sixty-eight diiferent most wonderful triclis and extraordinary processes. 
 Experiments by Chemistry, etc. : Fire from water— A ghastly appearance 
 —Fire and wine bottle— The fiery flash— To boil a liquid without fire— To pro- 
 cure hydrogen gas— To copy writing with a flat-iron— To make fringe apj)ear 
 on a flame— To produce instantaneous combustion- Light upon ice— To make 
 paper fixe-proof— To melt lead in paper— To melt steel as easily as lead— A 
 light that burns for a year— Flame extinguished by gas— Tobacco-pipe cannon 
 —Detonating gas bombs— To wash the hands in molten lead— To make an 
 artificial earthquake— To produce fire from cane — To soften iron and steel — 
 To fill with smoke two apparently empty bottles — To make luminous writing 
 in the dark— To make reel fire— To make green fire— To make wine float on 
 water— To make colored water. Tkicks with Coins, etc , etc. 
 
 INSTRTJCTION AND AHTTSEMEHT COMBmED. 
 
 ■Jhe yW.OST pOMPLETE y^ORK OF ITS KIND EXTANT. 
 
 MA.COA.BE'S 
 
 ART0F?EraiL05UISM 
 
 AND 
 
 VOCAL ILLUSIONS, 
 
 ^th foil directions to learners how to acquire a Pleasing Vocalization ; 
 showing how to Begin and Pratice Marvellous Illustrations of Ventril- 
 oq^uism ; with Amusing Dialogues for Beginners, including the '* Eeper- 
 toire" of The English Railway Porter, as performed by FREDERIC 
 MACCABE, in his celebrated Mimical, Musical and Ventriloquial En- 
 tertainment, ''BEGONE, DULL CARE." PRICE 10 CENTS, 
 
 D9" Copies of the above Books sent to any address in tht xeorldf postage /rety 
 on receipt of price. Send Cash Orders to 
 
 R. M. BE V^TTT, Publisher, 33 Rose st., N. Y. 
 ^ ^uween Duane and Frankfort sts.) 
 
 1 
 
6KT Ta£ BEST! GET THE BEST!! 
 
 ra© aim of the author of " De Witt's Connecticut Cook Book *' has 
 been to strip the art oi cooking of all useless preparations, and all the un- 
 meaning jargon of the cuisine ; and to write in a plain, common-sense way, 
 giTing only directions that have been tried and not found wanting. Every 
 mocle oi Cooking and Preserving described in these pag-es are the results of 
 aiet«ial personal experience ; and have never failed to produce the best tasting 
 as well as the best looking dishes that can be placed on the table. Let any 
 homsewife follow the directions, and our word for it : Good digestion will 
 siwely ** wait on appetite." 
 
 DE WITT'S 
 
 Connecticut Cook Book, 
 
 AND HOUSEKEEPEE'S ASSISTANT. 
 
 Containing Plain and Economic Styles of Dressing and Cooking every kind 
 of Fish, Flesh, Fowl and Yegetable, in the most Healtnful and Inviting 
 Manner. With full Directions for Laying and Decorating the Table ; 
 Carving the Meat, and Serving the Vegetables and the Desert. To which 
 is added, a large number of Tried Receipts for Preserving, Canning, and 
 Curing all sorts of Vegetables and Fruits, so as to Retain their Original 
 Flavor and Appearance. 
 
 By MBS. M. OBB. 
 
 ABSTKACT OP OONTENTa 
 
 CooKiTfO Implbmbnts. 
 
 Soups. 
 
 Fish. 
 
 Shelii-Fish. 
 
 Sauoeb, 
 
 Meats. 
 
 Roasting and Baking. 
 
 Broiling and Fbyinq. 
 
 Stewing. 
 
 misobllaneous dzsbes of msat. 
 
 PiOKLK FOR Beef or Pobk. 
 
 Vegetables. 
 
 PlOKLBS. 
 
 Approximate Mkasurbs. 
 Bread, Biscuit, Rolls, btc 
 Yeast. 
 
 This Book contains over 200 pages, bound in boards, with a splendid 
 illuminated cover. Price «--•-- 50 Cents'^ 
 
 A handsome and durable edition of this work, bo.und in cloth, elegantly 
 let;^red in gilt. Price ------'- 75 Cents. 
 
 1^^ Copies of the above Book sent io any address in the United Stales or 
 CanadaSffree ©/ posta^/e^ on receipt of retail price, 
 
 Beod Cash Orders to R. M. DE WITT, 
 
 38 ROSE STREET, N. T. 
 
 Pies. 
 
 Puddings. 
 
 Cakes. 
 
 Custards, Creams, ei , 
 
 Jellies.— 18 Recipe*. 
 
 Preserving Fruits. 
 
 Coffee, Tea, etc. 
 
 Bevbkagbs. 
 
 Food and Drink for Invalib0. 
 
 Butter and Chebsk. 
 
 Miscellaneous Recipes.— More than 
 
 100, very valuable. 
 Useful Hints. 
 Useful Sanitary Rules. 
 Carving. 
 
An Everlasting Cornucopia of Fun! 
 
 VILiS. 
 
 Broad Grins from Young Africa ! Hnge Gnifaws from 
 Sable Age ! Wit from the Plantation ! 
 
 Wit from the Kitchen ! Fun Ashore ! Fun Afloat ! Jokes from High 
 and Low Life ! Woolly Complications, conducive to Loud Laughter ! 
 
 A Book full and tanning over with side-splitting fun '* pecooliar ^* to the 
 darkey^d race. 
 
 CHOCK FULL OF COLORED PHILOSOPHY ! 
 
 Illustrutecl \iritli One Hundred of tlie most CJoiiiic of all 
 Comic l>esig^n§ ever Kngraved on Wood. 
 
 B^* Buy at onck a copy of ^^ HIJACK JOKES FOR Bt.¥JE 
 
 DEVIL.S," containing a Thousand Comioalties, and near a Hundsbd 
 Humorous Wood Cuts. Price 25 Cents. 
 
 B^" Copies of the above Book sent to any address, post-paid, on rece-^ of 
 retail price. 
 
 EGBERT M. DE WITT, Publisher, 
 
 33 Rose Street^ {Between Duano and PrankfoH Sts., If, T.) 
 
DEWim"fOR(iET-MI-if"SOII{B« 
 
 This series of " Songsters " is superior tr- any published. Each of these 
 books is a real '* Singer's Library '• in itself. They are handsomely printed, 
 and strongly and prettily bound ; are of thQ most handy shape and size. 
 Each book contains about two hundred and ^ty songs. And the very flower 
 of the kind of songs to which it is allotted. Unusual care has been taken to 
 search for every real good old song, as well as to obtain every first-rate new 
 one. The most devoted lover of song can hardly recall a ballad that he will 
 not find here in all its integrity — not a word added, not a w^ -d omitted. But 
 not only is this series of books complete ; they are likewise of marvellous 
 cheapness. The Db Witt " Forget-Me-Not" Songsters are really, truly, 
 and unquestionably the hest and cheapest song books ever offered to the public. 
 
 Two Hundred and Fifty first-rate Songs-^tandsomely printed and 
 finely bound— for Forty Cents a Volume. 
 
 BE \% ITT'S IRISH FOROJBT-ME-NOT SO?fG«T£R. One 
 
 Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 250 Songs. Price 40 cents. 
 This volume is studded with gems of Irish song— includin|r the master- 
 pieces of Moore, Lever, Lover, and that glorious galaxy of ootyg writers 
 whose genius has flooded Ireland with m.etrieal glory. 
 
 DE WITT'S SENTIMENTAL, FORGET-ITIE-NOT SONG-^ 
 
 ster. One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 250 Songs. Price 40 cents. 
 A melange of truly beautiful Songs and Ballads. Every song that is tew- 
 fler, touching, pathetic, melting or full of hallowed memories will be found i> 
 this work. Songs that are linked to the loveliest tunes. 
 
 DE WITT'S COIUIC FORGET-ME-!NOT SONGSTER. One 
 
 Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 250 genuine Comic Songs. Price 40 cents. 
 Filled "chock full "of all the tip-top, truly jolly, quaintly droll, im- 
 mensely funny, rollicking, racy, genuine old-fashioned Comic Songs. Songs 
 to set a circus, a variety show, or a jovial dinner i>arty in an uproarious roar. 
 Hip, hip, hurrah. 
 
 BE W^ITT'S SERIO-COMIC FORGET-ME-NOT SONG- 
 
 ster. One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 250 Songs. Price 40 cents. 
 Among the two hundred aad fifty songs, will be found the chiefest ballads 
 warbled by beautiful blondes in burlesques, the favorites of the stars of 
 Opera BoufPe, besides lots of semi-sentimental songs, the delight of every 
 refined musical meeting. 
 
 S^" Copies of any of the above Books will be senty free ofpoetage^ ou receipt of 
 the retail price. 
 
 Send Cash Orders to K. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 
 
 No. 33 ROSE STREET, N. Y. 
 
 {Between Duane and Fra/t^fart Stre^.) 
 
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 }l;^citers, speakers, stories of city life, 
 
 c'^ ,k books, books of wild adventure, 
 
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 song books, de wih's acting plays, 
 
 sea stories, de wih's ethiopian plays, 
 
 meitlcal works, wigs, moustaches, beards, 
 
 tableau lights, de win's hand books, 
 
 ready reckoners, de wih's dime romances, 
 
 books on magic, de witt's champion novels. 
 
 And a thousand other things that we have not space to insert here, but which 
 will be found fully describ»ja in the Catalogue, and prices given. Mailed free 
 upon application to C'liuton T. Ue Witt, No 33 Rose Street, N. Y- 
 
 THE BLACK ABT; OK, MAGIC MADE EASY. Con- 
 taining a complete description of all kinds of Sleight-of -Hand Tricks and 
 Conjuring bj^ Coins, together with wonderful experiments in Magnetism, 
 Chemistry, Electricity and Fireworks, adapted for amusement in the Home 
 Circle. Price 10 Cents* 
 
 CHESS PLAYER'S INSTRUCTOR; or, GUIDE TO 
 
 Beginners. Containing all information necessary to a knowledge of the 
 game ; with diagrams of the movements of the pieces. By C. H. Stanley, 
 Chess Editor of Harper's Weekly. In boards, 50 cents ; cloth, gilt, T5 cents. 
 
 CHAD WICK'S AMERICAN CRICKET MANUAL. 
 
 Containing the Revised Laws of the Game, with an explanatory appendix 
 to each rule. In boards, 50 cents ; cloth, gilt, T 5 cents. 
 
 ELEMENTS OP DRAUGHTS; or, BEGINNER'S 
 
 SURE GUIDE. Containing a thorough exposition of every principle ; to- 
 gether with Model Games Illustrative of the Openings. Illustrated with 
 diagrams exhibiting critical positions. By I. D. J. Sweet. Draught Editor 
 of The New York Clipper, In boards, 50 cents ; cloth, giit, 75 cents. 
 
 THE ART OP SWIMMING. Being a Practical Trea- 
 tise upon this most useful Pastime, in which the Learner is surely taughi 
 how to Swim Backwards, Forwards, and Sideways, on and under water, as 
 well as to Dive, Leap, and Float. By Charles Weightman, the Man- 
 Fish. Price 30 Cents. 
 
 Dj3 WITT'S IRISH PORGET-ME-NOT SONGSTER. 
 One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 250 Songs. Price 50 Cents. 
 
 DE WITT'S SENTIMENTAL PORGET-ME-NOT SONG- 
 STER. One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. aSO Songs. Price 50 Cents. 
 
 DE WITT S COMIC PORGET-ME-NOT SONGSTER. 
 
 One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 250 genuine Comic Songs. Price 50 Cents. 
 
 Dl!) WITT'S SERIO-COMIC PORGET-ME-NOT SONG- 
 STER. One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. JJ50 Songs. Price 50 Cents. 
 
 Any of the above books sent postage paid, on receipt of price. Address 
 
 CLINTON T. DE WITT, Publisher, 
 
 3 a Rose Street. Ne\ir York.