PS 3501 .U275 A6 1893 J 'by o, ^- ,0^ \D *' .. s^ /V 0^ o''/.<'..^0. ,/^ 4 o ^ o s?^ 4"^ 'ay > c^ ^^o' < o o 'V .0 'J-O' 'b V 0^ ^^. o ^oV - ^ A- ^^0^ r-^c^ •4 o * .^^ ' .0' AT THE PICKET-LINE (^ lEiUtarg ©rama of tl}C ffitbtl War, in Ji&e acts BY JUSTIN ADAMS AUTHOR OF " T'RISS ; OR, BEYOND THE ROCKIES," " THE INFERNAL MACHINE,'^ "DAWN," "THE SUICIDE CLUB," "THE ENGINEER," "THE RAG-PICKER'S CHILD," "THE LIMIT OF THE LAW," " DOWN EAST," ETC. ' BOSTON UO^^)l CHARACTERS. C^^ ch^ CALEB HOLMES, a wayward son. ^ ^ ^%^^ ' ' ALBERT CHERRINGTON, a hero of the Rebellion. HARVEY CROSSCOMB, a man of schemes. ' SQUIRE HOLMES, rlieumaiic in body, but Roman i?t soul. HIRAM LUFKIN, a raw 7-ecruit in love and war. JERRY SLATER, a carnp-follower. SERGEANT O'STOUT, U. S. A. CAPT. HARFORD, afterwards Colonel, U. S. A. DUMPY, a soldier. DETECTIVE. SILVY HOLMES, sister, daughter, and sweetheart— faithful in all. LEONORA HARFORD, a Union spy. SAL, a campfollower. Copyright, 1893, by Walter H. Baker & Co. A II Rights Reserved. Notice. -The author of "At the Picket Line " reserves the right to perform the play m any part of the United States. This publication is for the benefit of such mana- gers or actors as may have been duly authorized by him to produce the drama. All other persons are hereby notified that any production of this play without due authority will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. To Amateurs. —The above notice does not apply to amateur dramatic clubs, which may perform the play without express permission. SCENE PLOT. Act I. Landscape in 4. Rustic fence or stone wall in 3, with opening c. Farm-house, L. 2 E. ; barn, k. ; stump, l. ; saw and saw-horse with beam on it, r. General air of neglect and dilapidation. Act II. Scene i. Landscape in 4, with set rock r. and l. 3 e. Scene ii. Lane or street in i. Scene hi. Tent or officer's headquarters in 3, backed by landscape '; flags, camp-stools, etc. Act III. Scene i. Rocky pass in 4, with run in 3. Scene ii. Dark wood in i. Scene hi. Same as Scene i, with dead bodies and debris. Act IV. Union camp in 4. " A " tent down r. ; tripod and fire up l. ; mossy bank down L. Act V. Kitchen in 3. Door l. f. ; window R. f; fireplace R. Table and chairs l. Scene backed by landscape in 4. PROPERTIES. Act I. Saw, saw-horse, and log. Cane for Squire. Grease for saw. Act II. Piece of string for Al. Guns for Dumpy and Hiram. Revolver (to fire), paper and pencil for O' Stout. Sword for Captain. Act III. Two pistols for Leonora. Gun for Caleb (to fire). Pocket-book for dying soldier. Knife for Sal. Act IV. Pipe and tobacco for O'Stout. Blanket to toss Hiram in. Large bottle, and small one for Caleb. Act V. Armful of firewood for Squire. Cane for Squire. Ring for Cherrington. COSTUMES. Modern and military. Changes as indicated. AT THE PICKET LINE. ACT I. Scene. — Landscape in 4. Rustic fence or stone wall in 3, with opening c. Farm-house^ L. 2E. ; barn,K.-^ stump, \..\ saw and saw-horse, with log, R. ; getter al air of neglect a?id dilapidation. {Enter Silvy, supporting Squire, r. u. e.) SiLVY. Easy ! Lean on me, pa. Here we are. {She seats him on stump, L.) There ! How does it feel now ? Squire. Not much better, Silvy ; perhaps it will limber up a bit after IVe rested awhile. Come, sit down, child ; you must be tired yourself. Silvy. Not a bit of it. Don't you know IVe got my gate post to finish ? Squire. No, Silvy, you must not ; you are not accustomed to hard work, and I suffer almost as much from seeing you overtax yourself as I do from this confounded rheumatism. Silvy. Overtax myself! Why, pa, it makes me strong, and what we need about the place now is muscle. Just watch me. {Crosses to saw, r.) Squire. She's the best darter that ever lived. What would I do without her. Be careful, Silvy, and don't cut yourself. Silvy. I guess this saw needs a little grease. Yes, and it needs resetting, too — its teeth are looking ten different ways for Sunday. V\\ try a little grease. {Exit into house. ^ Squire. It's time Hiram was along with another load of hay. {Enter Hiram, r. u. e.) Hiram. Why, I thought I heerd Silvy's voice singing out as I came up the road. Wonder where she's gone to. Can't be milkin', 'cos there hain't nothin' on the farm to milk 'cept milkweed, and there's plenty o' that now since the Squire's been tuck with rheumatiz. Hullo ! somebody's been a sawin' for 'em. Wonder who 'twas. There ain't no men folks here but the Squire, and he's too lame. Wonder if Silvy's been a tryin' of it. Squire. Is that you, Hiram ? O AT THE PICKET LINE. Hiram. It's me, Squire ; I came up tew — tew — Squire. You come to see Silvy, didn't you ? Hiram. Well, partly, and I kinder wanted to have a talk with you, tew. You see, Squire, my ma and Marthy Ellen they're kinder 'posed to the idea of my workin' for you for nothing, and leaving father to do all the work to home 'cept the chores. Squire. Well, Hiram, Til pay you just as soon as I can. You know how tight run I am since this consarned rheumatiz took hold on me. I promised you ten dollars if you'd do my hay in' for me, and I calkerlate to be able to pay you. Hiram. Yes, but ma says if you'd halve it — give me five now, and t'other five when the rest on it's in — why 'twould kinder — kinder — Squire. Well, Hiram, I can't do it. Money's been so scarce, 'specially since the war broke out. If my boy Caleb was only here to help me — Hiram. Do you s'pose he's gone to the war ? Squire. I don't know, Hiram. I shouldn't be s'prised. He was always wild as a two-year-old, you know; in fact, his wildness caused our fallin' out. That's the reason we split. Hiram. That Avas a bad day for you. Squire. Squire. No, it warn't ; not half as bad as the day Al Cher- rington left me. He was more a son to me than my own. But I wouldn't forgive Caleb if he crawled to me on his hands and knees. That's the kind of a father I am. Silvy {inside). Pa ! where's the grease ? Squire. There, do you hear that ? That's all I live for. If 'twan't for her, I'd just as lieve go. Hiram. You're not the only one, Squire, that's living for her sake. I kinder hanker that way myself. Silvy {i7iside). Pa ! where's the grease ? Squire. What grease, Silvy ? Silvy. The grease for the saw. Squire. In the pantry on the shelf. Well, Hiram, if you can wait a day or so, mebbe by that time I can give you the money. Neighbor Crosscomb's gone down to Boston on business, and I asked him to call on my brother-in-law and see if he'd loan me some money. We haven't been friends since I married his sister thirty years ago, and he may refuse ; but if you can't wait till then — why, we'll have to stop hayin'. Hiram. Well, Squire, it all depends on Silvy. Squire. How's that. Hi. Hiram. Well, if she'll only say one word. Squire, I'll do all the hayin' for both of you. Squire. O ho ! one word, eh ? Well, mebbe you'd better ask her to speak that word. Silvy ! Silvy. Well ! Hiram. Not now. Squire. Squire. Why not ? AT THE PICKET LINE. 7 Hiram. 'Cos I feel kinder skeered — kinder like puttin' it off. Squire {aside). I hope you will feel like puttin' it off till the hayin's done. SiLVY {inside). What did you want, pa ? Squire. Did you find the grease 1 SiLVY {inside). Yes ; but it was all one cake. Hiram {aside). Just like me. SiLVY {inside). But it's soft now. Squire. Just like you, too, Hiram. SiLVY {eiiterins;) . It's all right now. Hullo, Hi! Hiram. Hullo, Silvy. Kinder looks as though we were gomg to have a spell o' weather. Silvy. Shouldn't be s'prised, Hi. Squire {aside). Guess Pll go in and give that word a chance. Hiram, I wish you'd hurry that word up a bit. That cloud out there looks pesky threatnin' for hay. {Exit into house.) Silvy {struggling with saw). It just seems to me as though this saw's wood, and the wood's iron. I don't see how the men folks do this, unless it's the beer they drink that helps 'em. Hiram. Let me help you, Silvy. Silvy. No, I won't. I said I'd make this gate post myself, and I'll do it if I raise that blister as big as a hen's Qgg. Hiram. You never let me do anything for you, Silvy. Silvy. 'Cos you never want to unless you git paid for it. I heard you talking to pa, and I know what you were talking about, too. Hiram. Did you? Well, Silvy, I know I don't 'mount to much, but if you'll just say one little word, I'll jump right over the moon for you. Silvy. Will you? Well, you just wait till the moon's full, and I'll give you a trial. Hiram. Couldn't you say it now, Silvy? Silvy. Yes, I will, and I'll spell it, too, g-i-t o-u-t — git out. Hiram. Well, that ain't zactly the word! expected, so I guess I'll wait till the moon's full. {Exit.) Silvy. That's number five Tve said that to. The other four went to the war, but he won't. He's too much of a coward. I wonder if pa's lying down. I must fix his bed for him. {Exit, and enter Caleb, l. u. e.) Caleb. Poor little sister, what a life of sacrifice is hers, and what a contrast to mine. Yet, vagabond as I am, the memory of her love often calls me back to honor and to manhood. Shall I make myself known to her? Perhaps I'd better not, for were she to receive me coldly, I'd carry away more bitter memories than ever. Well, I can help her a trifle at least. {Saws wood; enter Silvy.) Silvy. Here ! you needn't think you're going to get paid for that. Caleb {aside). The same sw^eet voice. Silvy. You'd better make tracks out o' here. My father keeps a gun loaded for tramps. 8 AT THE PICKET LINE. Caleb {aside). I cannot resist. {Aloud.) Silvy ! SiLVY. Is it Caleb? Yes, Caleb — my brother. Caleb. Not too loud, Silvy, father may hear us. Silvy. No, Caleb, father's asleep. But why not let him hear us 1 Why not come to him and ask forgiveness ? Caleb. Forgiveness for what? What have I done? Must I crawl when an old man is testy, even tho' he is my father ? I but asserted my rights in our quarrel two years ago. Must I play sec- ond fiddle to a waif he chose to foster as his son, and have a foundling held up before me as a model ? Silvy. Don't, Caleb, don't say that^of poor Al. Caleb. Well, little sister, you are right in that. It was no fault of Al's, and if left alone by father 1 could have loved Albert as a brother. Silvy. Could you, Caleb — I am so glad. Caleb. Are you? And why? Silvy. . Because — because some day he may be your brother. Caleb. Oho ! Well, little sister, if this hand were mine to be- stow, I truly think I could not give it to a better man. Silvy. But you have not told me of yourself. Caleb. Well, there is little to tell. You know my roving dis- position ; it has led me over a good part of the world these past two years. Silvy. I hope it has not led you into evil. Caleb. I cannot lay claim to being a saint, but this I can say — I have used the world much better than the world has used me. Squire {inside). Silvy — is that Mr. Crosscomb? Silvy. No, pa, it's — {Qmj^v, interposes) not Mr. Crosscomb. Caleb. I must go. I will remain in the neighborhood a few days, and see vou again. Silvy. Caleb, do let me tell him you're here. Caleb. No; not a word. Silvy. Let me give him a hint. Caleb. No, Silvy, you must not, but this you may do : you may speak of me often to him, tell him what a help I would be in his in- firmity, and perhaps he may relent. Now, darling, good-by. {Kisses her a?id exit.) Silvy. Poor brother, he does not know that pa has forbidden me to even mention his name. {Enter Crosscomb, l. u. e.) Crosscomb. How do, Silvy. Silvy. Oh, is it you, Mr. Crosscomb? Crosscomb. Yes, Silvy, just from Boston. Ain't you glad to see me? Silvy. Oh, yes, I'm awful glad. Pa's in the sitting-room. {Aside.) Hateful old thing, Crosscomb. Where be you going, Silvy? AT THE PICKET LINE. 9 SiLVY. Pm going to lock up the hen-house. {Exit r. i e.) Crosscomb. That's a he, for there are no hens there to need locking up. She's avoiding me, the little minx, but it won't be for long — it won't be for long. {Enter Albert Cherrington, l. u. E.) What do I see .-* Is that you, Cherrington ? Albert. Why, Mr. Crosscomb, how are you ^. You look younger than you did three years ago. Crosscomb. I feel it, too. But what brings you here ? Albert. Well, I had a few days to myself, so I thought I'd look up Mr. Holmes. He was very kind to me as a lad, you know. Besides, I want to acquaint him with a piece of good news. Crosscomb. Good news is always welcome. Albert. I imagine this will be to him. As I came through Boston I heard that his brother-in-law, Mr. Worthington, died intestate, and they are looking for the heirs. Crosscomb {aside). This young hound knows it then, and may ruin all. I must see the Squire first and prepare the way. {Aloud.) It must be a mistake, for I just came from Boston and left Mr. Worthington in good health. Albert. 'Twas merely a rumor. I'm sorry, however, it isn't true. Crosscomb. Well, I came to see the Squire too, and as mine's business and yours is pleasure, you don't mind giving me first turn, I dare say. Albert. Certainly not. You go in, and I'll take a stroll around. Doesn't look much like farming, this, from the looks of the yard. Crosscomb. Melvin Holmes always was a man for muck — specially in the wrong place. Muck's money in the right place, but that's not at a man's door. Well, take your stroll, Cherring- ton, mebbe we'll meet again afore I go. {Exit in house.) Albert. What can it mean, this aspect of poverty, where evervthing looks so neglected and bare ? {Efiter Silw, r. i e.) What, Silvy ! SiLVY. What, Albert is it you? {Embrace.) Don't kiss me, some one may be looking. Albert. Let them look and envy me. {Kisses her.) Why, Silvy, what a woman you've grown to be.^ How you have changed. Silvy. So has everything else since you went away. Albert I see they have, and I fear you are the only one that's changed for the better. Tell me — what is the matter ? Where are all the farm-hands ? Silvy. All gone. We've given up keeping men, and it's a good thing, too. 'Twould be a shame to keep a lot of men about the place when pa's got a grown-up girl. Albert. But who does the milking and so forth ? Silvy. I do — at least, I shall. We're not keeping cows now. Oh, I love to work. It's so much nicer than going to school. lO AT THE PICKET LINE. Albert. Silvy, you can't cheat me. YouVe going to cry. SiLVY. Tm not. It's because I pinched myself with that saw. Albert. What were you doing with that saw ? Silvy. I was making a new gate post. Don't look at me in that way, or I shall cry. Albert. Silvy, I will look at you. I want you to answer me truthfully. Your father is my best friend. To him I owe every- thing, for he reared me as his own son, and if he is in trouble, I claim the right to know of it, and share it with him. Why didn't you mention this in your letters ? Silvy. I was waiting for things to mend. Poor father! I don't understand it. As soon as you left, everything seemed to go upside down. Pa was taken sick, the harvest was the worst ever known, and we had to sell all the stock for a song. Albert. Good Heavens ! this means ruin. But v/here is your brother Caleb ? Silvy, He was here a few moments since. Don't let pa hear his name. They quarrelled two years ago, and pa won't allow his name mentioned in the house. Albert. Silvy, do you know why I have come here to-day? Silvy. No — why ? Albert. To ask your father if he'll let me be his son in- deed. He'll want one now that Caleb has gone. I have done well these three years in New York, and I think I could be not only a good husband to you, but a great help to him. Silvy. And if he says yes, I suppose you'll marry me, whether I like it or not. Albert. Exactly ! You have no voice in the matter whatever. If he says yes, I shall go to Linfield to-morrow, purchase a ring, and shackle your little hand with it, as you long ago shackled my heart. Silvy. Well, I suppose Fll have to put up with it. Albert. And now, Silvy, which way did Caleb go ? Silvy. Down the road towards Holden. Albert. Let us see if we can overtake him ; perhaps by the time we return Mr. Crosscomb will have finished his business with your father and left him at liberty to decide our little matter. Silvy. Little matter ! I guess you'll find it'll be matter enough to keep your hands full. {Exit both R. u. e. ; enter Squire and Crosscomb, l.) Squire. Now, neighbor, what news? Crosscomb. Well, Squire, I've been to Boston for the first an last time. Never go to Boston. You'll drop more money there in a week than you'll git back out of a good crop in a bad year. Squire. Did you see the old man? There, you needn't tell me what he said. I know by your looks. Crosscomb. Well, I did it all for the best. Squire. When I first struck there I heard that he was dead, but it wasn't so, Squire — it wasn't so. * AT THE PICKET LINE. II Squire. Even if he was, I don't suppose it would benefit me. CrosscOxMB. But it might your children, for he was their uncle, and had none of his own. But no such good luck. There are a great many people by the name of Worthington. I looked him up. I spent half a dollar in finding him, which I did in a rotten old office on a rotten old wharf that you wouldn't put a pig in. I put the case to him just as if it was my own. " Old gentleman,''' says I, " there's honest Squire Holmes that married your sister, and is father to your own niece and nephew, that's come down to the bottom through sickness and the like of that, and here's you rollin' in your thousands that might pay off his honest debts and set him a-going agin with one stroke of your pen." Squire. I wish you'd told him that if 'twan't for Silvy's sake, afore I'd go beggin' of him, I'd see him in Jericho. Crosscomb. " Well," says he, " you tell Melvin Holmes that when he married my sister agin my will, he knew what to expect. Tell him," and these were his very words. Squire, " tell him to go to the devil, and here's five cents to pay the toll." Squire. Well, I suppose it's all up now. That was the last chance I hoped for to lift your mortgage. I haven't forgotten that the last quarter's interest falls due to-day, and that I'm three months in arrears, so I s'pose there's nothing left for me to do but hand you the keys of the house and go. Crosscomb. Why, I haven't foreclosed yet, and if I had, I wouldn't turn you out as if the house was afire. Where could you go ? Squire. I'll find the lee of a haystack somewhere for me and Silvy. I'll carry away just my stick, the clothes I stand in and the girl. She's mine, and no mortgage can touch her. Crosscomb. Come, come, Squire, hear me through. 'Tis true I can't afford to go without money or land. These war times are cruel hard. I can't, but I will. Squire. What ! you will ? Crosscomb. I can't afford to, but I will — that's what I say. I'll take Silvy instead of both of 'em. Squire. You'll take Silvy? You'll take my little girl? Crosscomb. Look here, neighbor ; perhaps it may look odd, but I'd rather have Silvy for a wife without a cent than any other girl with a thousand dollars. It may seem like a fool's whim, but it's mine. I've watched her grow up from the cradle, and ever since she's been knee high to a grasshopper I've said to myself — that's the gal for me. Squire. Bless my soul alive ! Does the girl know? Crosscomb. Wal, a gal isn't blind to a chap's sweetness on her, I suppose. Squire. Why, man, you're old enough to be her father. Crosscomb. Oh, no ! not so bad as that. A man's as old as he feels, and I'm one of the wiry ones. I'm tolerably well off, and could afford to keep a ^v'ife. Besides, it's bad for a gal to be mar- ried to a young tom-fool that don't know his own mind. I know mine. I love Silvy, and you'd better keep the land. 12 AT THE PICKET LINE. Squire. She's somewhere about the place. We'll see what she says to it. (^Calls.) Silvy! Crosscomb. I have your consent then? Squire. It all depends on Silvy. {Eftier Silvy ^w^/ Albert, r. u. e.) Silvy. Here I am, pa. Did you call? Albert. Squire, Pm glad to see you. Squire. Why, Albert, is it you? Albert. Yes, IVe come back again like a bad penny. I should have come straight to you, but as Mr. Crosscomb wanted to see you first, I've told Silvy what I came to tell you, and she has promised to become my wife, if you will accept me as a son. Squire. I'm afraid it can't be. Albert. Can't be, and why? Crosscomb {coughs). V\\ tell you why it can't be. Squire Holmes has just promised Silvy to another. Never mind who. Albert. Silvy, do you understand? Crosscomb. Young man, this is business, not sweet-hearting — she don't understand, but I do. She's got to save her father from ruination like a dutiful daughter, and she won't do it by marrying a struggling young clerk that's got to make his way in the world. Albert. Squire, I have asked Silvy and she has said yes, so who's the other man? I have a right to know, and from you. Crosscomb. It's enough for you to know, Mr. Cherrington, that Silvy will know her duty, and the Squire will keep his word. Albert. And has it come to this — that Silvy is to be sold like the cattle? By Heaven, it shall not be ! Crosscomb. It's hard lines for you, Cherrington, but if Silvy marries you, the Squire must lose this farm, that's mortgaged stick and stone over head and ears. No, no ! Silvy must marry money, and the Squire must keep the land. Albert. A mortgage, eh ? Everything is all right on that while the interest is paid. How much is due on that? Squire. Five hundred dollars and I can no more pay it than — Albert. But I can, and twice that sum if needed. What's mine, Squire, is yours. You shall have the money and redeem the land. Crosscomb. Too late ! too late ! He has given his word. Silvy. But I haven't, and as I am to be bid for, I'll choose my purchaser. I don't know who the other is, and I don't want to know, but I'm going to marry Albert. Firstly, for the land and money, but mostly because I love him. CURTAIN. SECOND PICTURE. Crosscomb {shaking hands with Albert) . I wish you joy, sir. AT THE PICKET LINE. IJ ACT II. Scene i. — Landscape in 4, with set rocks R. and l. 3 e. {Enter Crosscomb, r. u. e.) Crosscomb. Ah, these scamps of soldiers ! Thieves and rascals they are ! They call it foraging, stealing an honest man's corn. But they leave to-morrow for the South, and my good riddance goes with them. Humph! Here comes young Cherrington, happy as a lark. How nice I deceived them ! If they only knew the truth, that old Worthington is dead, and Silvy is an heiress, my chances would be small. Hang that young meddler, to turn up just-at the wrong time ! But never mind, the game's not up yet. He'll not marry her for a while, and when he returns to New York, I'll manage to keep him there if I have to dig his grave myself, the young puppy! {Enter Albert, l. u. e.) Ah, Mr. Cherrington, you look as bright as a' new dollar ! Albert. I feel so, too, and have good cause. I was just stand- ing on the top of the hill watching the new regiment drill, and I thought what a difference the future held for us. They, poor fel- lows, leave for the South to-morrow, many of them going to their death, while I — I am going to my life. Crosscomb. To your life ? Albert. Yes, to Silvy ; she's my life. Crosscomb. Humph! You're taking chances same as they are. Matrimony at its best resembles a battlefield. It's a toss-up which side is victorious. Only instead of bullets and shells, you'll use boot-jacks and frying-pans. Albert. Nonsense, Mr. Crosscomb ! Silvy and I will use arbi- tration instead of either. But I'm glad I found you, for I wanted a word with you. Crosscomb. Well, what's the word? Albert. Why, it's this. I am to be married in a fortnight. Now you were the first to wish us joy, and I thought — perhaps — well, I know your time is precious, but I want you to spare a morn- ing for once and be best man. Crosscomb. What, I ? Albert. If you wouldn't mind. I can't send to New York, and all the fellows I know about here have gone to the war. Besides, you've been such a friend to Silvy and her father, that I'd rather have you than any other man. Come, say yes. Crosscomb. Well then, I will. ^ Albert {shaking his hand). I knew you would, and some day V\\ do as mucli for you. Oh, I forgot, a best man must be a bach- elor. I say, Crosscomb, why don't you follow my example and get a Silvy of your own? 1,4 AT THE PICKET LINE. Crosscomb. Perhaps I will some day. So youVe doing well there in the city, eh? Getting to be a rich man, are you? Albert. Well, I've got my foot on the ladder. Fancy my com- ing back as I did, just in the nick of time. It looks like Provi- dence, doesn't it? 1 wonder who the scoundrel was that wanted to buy my Silvy, I don't blame you for not mentioning his name, but I'd like you to tell him when you see him, before he tries to buy a girl at market again, to ask her if she wants to be sold. The cold-blooded brute ! It makes my blood boil ! For his own good, I hope I never shall learn his name, for I don't want to be bothered with having to lather a cur. But I'm off now to Linfield, and as I'm on " shanks' mare" I mustn't play by the wayside. Crosscomb. To Linfield? On business.?' Albert. Yes, and important business, too. I'm going to buy a ring. Crosscomb. A rincj ? Albert. Yes, the ring. Hullo ! here she comes now with the Squire. Just in time to measure her finger. j^ {Enter Silvy ««^ Squire, r. u. e.) Squire. A1, your legs are younger thas mine. Would you mind chasing them cows out of that pasture ? Silvy. Yes, we're poor enough now, and can't afford to pasture other people's critters. Crosscomb. Why, whose cows are they. Squire? I don't seem to recognize 'em ! Squire. Well, they're not mine, for it's a long day since my cows gave milk. Albert. Why, they must be yours. Squire. The bars are all up. How could they get in ? Crosscomb {aside). I see it all. That young spendthrift bought them cows himself. Albert. Why, Silvy, fancy a farmer's daughter not knowing her father's cows a hundred yards away. Silvy. A1. don't joke about them. Albert. Heaven forbid ! Cows are much too serious things to joke about. Silvy. A1 Cherrington, you bought those cows yourself. Albert. Take care, little girl, if you wrinkle your brows like that the cows may take fright, spread their wings, and fly away over the moon. You mind the milking, and never mind how things come. {Crosses.) Squire. Don't— don't be too good to us all. Don't ask me to thank you. Albert. I'll only ask you never to mention it again. But I want Silvy to receipt the bill. Silvy. How ? Albert, {kisses her). Thus! Squire {to Crosscomb). Come, neighbor, that receipt don't AT THE PICKET LINE. 1 5 need witnessing. Why, whafs the matter ? Come and take a look at the new live-stock. Crosscomb. No, Tm very busy this morning. Good-day. (ExU, R. I E.) Squire. Why, what's got into him? Mebbe it's 'cos he's prided himself on having the best cattle around here, and he's afraid mine '11 beat 'em. Ha ! ha ! ha ! He's jealous of my cattle ! {Aside.) It's well they don't know I mean two-legged cattle, and that it's themselves he's jealous of. {Exit, l. i e.) Albert. Now, Silvy, let me see your finger. No, not that one — the third of the left hand. Silvy. What do you want of it ? Albert. Only its measurement. {Measures with string.) Now, then, I'm off to Linfield to buy that ring. I'm in a fearful hurry to shackle you. Good-by ! I'll be back in twenty minutes. {Exit, R. 2 e.) Silvy. Go the short cut behind the church. I'll wait for you on the hill. {Exit, l. u. e.) ■ • '" {Enter Ca.'LEB, from rock, r.) Caleb. I've given 'em the slip again. If I can only keep shady til] to-morrow, I'm all right. They'll leave for the South without me, and I'll be two hundred dollars in pocket. I must get rid of this uniform and lay low. By Jove ! here they come again ! I must evaporate. {Hides.) ,..■■-- {Enter O'Stout, Hiram, and Dumpy, r. u. e.) O'Stout. Halt ! Right face ! Forward march ! {March down.) Halt I Was it this way, Dumpy? Dumpy. He was coming this way, sir, when I lost sight of him. Hiram. What kind of a looking chap was he? Dumpy. A tall, gawky-looking fellow. O'Stout. That doesn't answer the description. There's noth- ing said about his being tall, and, begorra, he's no gawk, for he knew enough to light out when he got the money. Hiram. Was there anything said about his being short? O'Stout. Divil a word was said aither way. Here, Dumpy, you look that way and I'll look this way. {They go np and Hiram practises ina7iual of arms .) Look at that bogtrotter ! I'll scare the divil within an inch of his life ! {Fires revolver ; Hiram drops gun a7id runs off, r. i e.) After him, Dumpy, and bring him back. {Exit Dumpy.) There's bravery for you ; the war won't last long if they're all like that fellow. {Re-enter Dumpy and Hiram.) Hiram. Is the battle over ? O'Stout. Where the divil were you running to? Hiram. I was practising a retreat. l6 AT THE PICKET LINE. O'Stout. a fine soldier you'll make ! Hiram. Well, I didn't 'list to be shot at. O'Stout. What did you enlist for.? Hiram. For thirteen dollars a month and found. O'Stout. And a nice time they'll have finding you. Hiram. I had another reason, tew. O'Stout. What is it ? Hiram. Well, I was kinder sweet on a gal — O'Stout. And she shook you ? Hiram. No, I shook her. O'Stout. What for ? Hiram. 'Cos she was sweet on another feller. O'Stout. What did you enlist for, Dumpy? Dumpy. I want to see the country. O'Stout. And what do you think I enlisted for ? Hiram. To get a pension. O'Stout. No ! Because I'm patriotic. Hiram. Most Pats are riotic. O'Stout. Come, now, let yez learn a thing or two. Attention ! Eyes right ! Hiram a7id Dumpy. My eyes are all right. O'Stout. Attention ! Carry humps ! Hiram. Who's she ? O'Stout. Who's who? Hiram. Carrie Humps. O'Stout. Attention! Right shoulder shift arms! {They ex- change gims.) What are you doin'? Both. Shifting arms. O'Stout. I'll shift yez into the guard-house ! Attention ! Pre- sent arms ! Both. Take 'em. O'Stout. What the divil are you doing now? Both. Presenting arms. O'Stout. I'll present yez wid the toe of my boot ! Attention ! Rest arms ! {They lie dowfi.) And what do you call that? Both. Resting arms. O'Stout. Get up out of that ! Bedad, I'll have a nice job getting yez ready for service. Now let yez try the song of the regiment. {Song and chorus introduced.^ Here ! Who's that waving a flag of truce on that hill ? Hiram. That's Silvy. O'Stout. And who's Silvy? Hiram. The gal I left behind me. O'Stout. Well, we must be looking up our bounty-jumper. Here, Hiram, you're well acquainted with the lay of the land about here, — you go that way, and we'll go this. Hiram. If I find him, can I try a shot at him? O'Stout. No; if you find him, march him to headquarters. Now, Dumpy, attention ! Left face ! Forward march ! AT THE PICKET LINE. 1 7 {^Exeunt O'Stout and Dumpy, l. 2 e., and Hiram, r. u. e. ; Enter Albert, r. i e.) Albert. Hullo ! There's a squad out searching for somebody. It must be a deserter. {Ente?- Caleb.) Caleb. Hullo, Al, is that you? Albert. Caleb, as I'm a sinner ! Caleb. Yes ; where's Silvy ? Albert. She's waiting on the hill for me. But what are you doing in that coat? Caleb. Oh, that's Uncle Sam's. I'm going to return it with my compliments. Albert. Why, do you belong to this recruiting regiment ? Caleb. I did ; but I've taken French leave. Albert. What do you mean? Caleb. I've discharged myself. This is no time for detail. A gentleman was drafted, and hired me as substitute. I enlisted, pocketed the two hundred, and skipped. Albert. You're a deserter, — a bounty-jumper ! Caleb. Exactly ; those are the technical terms. Albert. And do you think you are acting honorably? Caleb. Yes, honorably, but not sentimentally. I'd put on a Confederate uniform to-morrow for the same price. What to me is patriotism ! Merely a word which incites boys to risk their lives for others' gain, while those fellows in Washington pull their political wires and rake in the shekels over the dead soldier's body, and the shrewd stay-at-home cries, " Bravo ! " and out of the very nation's life-blood grabs a fortune at which posterity will point and cry, " Behold the self-made man ! " Albert. Well, Caleb, this is no time to argue politics. Here, drop this uniform behind these rocks. They'll scarcely look for them there. How comes it you haven't the regulation pants? Caleb. Shortage in supplies. Uncle Sam begins to feel the drain, and while some patriotic merchant haggles to get double the price, the poor soldier must go without his pants. Albert. Here, take my coat and hat. You'll be less conspic- uous. Caleb. Thanks, old fellow. I'll repay this service some day. Albert. Now what do you propose doing ? Going to your father ? Caleb. Not much. Two years ago he turned me adrift and left me to shift for myself. The row was all on your account, Al, but I don't blame you ; I blame him for his pig-headed ideas about a son's duty to a father. He never gave me half a chance. Albert. And how have you fared since? Caleb. Badly. I've tried everything under the sun but bank robbing, and I never had a good chance to try that. I'm always 1 8 AT THE PICKET LINE. getting into a scrape, and it's generally through a woman or a horse. I always get the blame for others' blunders. If I was on Crusoe's island, I'd be in somebody else's scrape. If ever I'm hanged it will be in somebody else's shoes. I can't drink a glass of beer but it makes somebody else drunk ; and if I went to this war I'd be hit with somebody else's bullet, and I'll bet a new hat St. Peter will mistake me, and throw me into somebody else's fire. Albert. Well, Caleb, I must try and do something for you. Now listen. Loitering here is dangerous. Go straight to the hotel at Holden. Register there as John Smith, and Silvy and I will call on you to-night. Caleb. A1, you're a brick. I'll follow your advice. You're only my foster brother now, but if what I hear is true, as Silvy's husband you'll be my brother indeed. I know you'll be good to her, Al. She's the best little girl in the world, and you're the best fellow. You're worthy of each other, and may God bless you both. (^Exit R. I E.) Albert. Poor Caleb ! If I can only patch up that quarrel, it will be the happiest moment of my life. {Enter O'Stout and Dumpy, l. 2 e.) O'Stout. Halt, ye divil ye, halt! Surround him, Dumpy! Ah, ye blackguard, it's here ye are after keeping us trudging about in the boiling sun. (Albert tm'ns away?) Aisy now — bedad, you'll not get away as aisy as you think. Albert. Why, whom do you take me for? O'Stout. Take you for — for private Caleb Holmes, to be sure ; and it strikes me you're rightly named, for you seem to like homes better than tents, Albert {aside). Worse and worse! Cale has enlisted under his own name. I must go with them ; it will give him more time to escape. Dumpy. Here's his uniform, sergeant ; I found it hidden there in the bushes. O'Stout. Aha! Look at that now. I knew it was him. You couldn't decave me, if you tuk off your shirt. Come, right face ! (Albert turns l.) Oho ! by me soul, you're a poltroon. It's plain to see you were never under my drilling orders. Round the other way. Now then — forward march. {All exeunt, R. 2 e.) Scene II. — Lajie or street in i. {Enter O'Stout, Albert and Dumpy, r. i e.) Albert. One moment, myfriend ! O'Stout. Halt ! Front face ! Albert. Now, Mr. — what is your name, please? O'Stout. My name is O'Stout, sir — Sergeant O'Stout. AT THE PICKET LINE. I9 Albert. Well, Mr. O'Stout — O^Stout. I said I was a sergeant ! Albert. Indeed, I congratulate you. Well, Mr. — O'Stout. Do you want to exasperate me ? I said I was a ser- geant, and if you call me out of my title again, it'll go hard wid you . Albert. Oh, you wish me to call you sergeant? Well, Ser- geant, this mistake will inconvenience me a great deal. There's a young lady awaiting my coming. O'Stout. And as the regiment leaves to-morrow she may be an old ladv before you come. Albert. Well, Mr. O'Stout — ■ O'Stout. I said I was a sergeant. Albert. Excuse me — well, Corporal — O'Stout. Sergeant ! Albert. Well, Colonel! (O'Stout //^^^^^) , if I prove that I am not Caleb Holmes, will vou release me? O'Stout. Well, I'll consider it, but v/here's the proofs? Albert {aside) . Confound it ! All my letters and papers are in my coat. The Squire must not know of this, or he'll never forgive Cale. O'Stout. Have you any friends who could swear to your identity ? Albert. I have, but they are all in New York. O'Stout. And before they could get here, we'll be in Dixie's land. Albert. Stay, — I have a friend — Mr. Crosscomb — a respect- able farmer. May I write him a short note. Corporal ? O'Stout. Sergeant ! Albert. General. {O^Stovt Jlattered.) May I write him a short note? O'Stout. You may write him a dozen ; but tell him to hurry up. {Gives him pencil and paper.) Dumpy, left face ! Bend your back. Now write. Albert {writing on Dumpy's back). "Dear Crosscomb: A blundering Irish soldier" — O'Stout. Here ! here ! Cross that out, or I'll not lave yo'i send it. Albert. I beg pardon. " A distinguished military gentleman has arrested me for a deserter. I'm mistaken for another man, and the worst of the blunder is that the regiment is bound for the South to-morrow. Come over to Linfield, pray, at any trouble, for which you may reckon on my gratitude. Ask for " — whom shall I tell him to ask for? O'Stout. For Captain Harford. Albert. " Ask for Captain Harford, and tell him that I am, yours most gratefully, Albert Cherrington." O'Stout. Dumpy, bend straight ag'in. Dumpy, I detail you to deliver that note. 20 AT THE PICKET LINE. Albert. The next house to the bridge. Ask for Harvey Crosscomb. Dumpy. Harvey Crosscomb. All right. (^Is about to exit when O'Stout coughs ', Dumpy turns and salutes him, then exit r. i e.) O^Stout. Left face! Forward march. {Exeunt both, l. i e.) Scene 3. — Tent or officer'' s headquarters in 3, backed by landscape ; flags, camp-stools, etc., about. (Captain Harford, O'Stout, Albert, d:«^ Soldiers discovered.^ Captain. Your report, Sergeant, and be quick. O'Stout. Caleb Holmes, sir, of Company B, enlisted yesterday and deserted to-day. Found skulking in the woods by me. Albert. Appearances are against me, sir, I must admit ; but neither have I enlisted, nor is my name Caleb Holmes. I am Albert Cherrington, a land-surveyor of New York. Captain. The devil you are. O'Stout. Jfs a wise recruit. Captain, that, knows his own name. Captain. Can you prove that you are not Caleb Holmes? Albert. Unfortunately my letters and papers were all in my coat. Captain. And where is your coat? O'Stout. Here, sir ; we found it not ten paces from where we found himself Captain. Young man, this looks bad for you. Albert. I know it, sir ; but I can only say I left my coat be- hind, the weather being warm, while I went on a short errand. Captain. Are you willing to swear to the truth of your remarks? Albert. I should prefer not to. I have sent for Mr. Crosscomb to identify me. His probity cannot be doubted. Are you not will- ing to take his word? {Enter Dumpy and Crosscomb.) Dumpy. Captain ! {He forgets to sahde ; O'Stout reminds him.) This is the party the prisoner sent for. Captain. What is your name, sir? Crosscomb. Crosscomb ! Harvey Crosscomb ! Captain. Mr. Crosscomb, we have made inquiries, and learn that you are a respectable and a responsible man. The prisoner has been arrested on suspicion of being a deserter, and has sent for you to identify him. Can you tell us his name ? Crosscomb. No, sir, I cannot ! Albert. Pvly God! Crosscomb, this is no joking matter; what do you mean? Captain. Remember, sir, his fate hangs on your answer. The penalty for desertion on the battlefield is death, and his will be scarcely less. Should you prove him guilty, he will be taken to the dry Tortugas. AT THE PICKET LINE. 21 Crosscomb. I never saw that man before in all my life. Captain. You swear it? Crosscomb. I do. Albert. I am lost ! Captain. Fall in. Albert. Very well ! If fate compels me to be a soldier, my first duty shall be to kill a traitor. {Snatches Captain's sword a^id rushes at Crosscomb; is held back by O'Stout and Dumpy.) CURTAIN. ACT III. Scene i. — Rocky pass in 4or S- Set rocks r. afid l. u. e. Set tree up c. Run at 3. (Sal discovered seated on rock l. ; enter Jerry, r.) " Sal. Well, what are they? JerR'Y. The picket hne of the Johnnies. Sal. Johnnies — bah! They haven't a cent in the world. Come, let's make tracks away from here. Jerry. No ! While that New Hampshire regiment remains in this vicinity, I remain also. Sal. Jerry, there's something in your noddle regarding that New Hampshire regiment. Come, out with it. No secrets from me, or we part company right here. Jerry. Well, Sal, I'll tell you. There's a man in that regiment that I'm to get five hundred dollars for killing. Sal. And who offers the reward? Jerry. Never you mind; but, then, I may as well tell you. Yes, I will, for I may get knocked over, and then the money would go to waste. My benefactor's name is Crosscomb, and he has a particular interest in this man's death. Sal. Some girl scrape, I'll be bound. But have you located your man? Jerry. Yes, I picked him out yesterday through a friend of mine. He 'listed under the name of Caleb Holmes. {Sentry cries outside R., " Corporal of the guards post ten — nine o'' clock, and all's well:') Sal. Hush ! come away. They may challenge us. {Exeunt both L. 2 E.) {Enter Caleb l. u. e. with rebel uniform on.) Caleb. I could swear I heard a human voice come from this direction. Where am I? I must reconnoitre. Ah ! the Confed- 22 AT THE PICKET LINE. erate picket line. I wonder whose command it is. It canH be my regiment — No, our camp is farther down the river. Confound this foraging, anyway. I havenH run across anything to eat yet — not so much as a bull-frog. But one must do it or starve. {Horses'* hoofs heard "L.^ Hullo! What's this coming? (^«/*?r LEONORA L. 2 E.) Halt! who comes there? Leonora. Why, monsieur, is that the way your most chivalrous nation receives a lady — at the point of the musket? Caleb. Damme, if it isn't a woman, and a good-looking one, too. Leonora. Sir, I'm ashamed of your manners. Caleb. And, by the Lord Harry, so am I. Leonora. Well, apropos of things at large — Caleb. Pm afraid I must trouble you to show me your pass. Very sorry, but you see duty must be done. Leonora. Ah yes, duty! That's the soldier's word always. Pray excuse me, sir. Before duty, courtesy must yield. But what if I have no papers to show? Caleb. Then it would be my painful — I mean my delightful duty to escort you to headquarters. Leonora. But suppose I mount my horse, and gallop away? Caleb. I should follow on mine. Leonora. But suppose you did not catch me? Caleb. But I would. Your horse isn't a patch on mine. But if you succeeded in getting away, I would simply raise my gun and shoot — Leonora. Me ! Caleb. Heaven forbid ! Your horse. Besides, he would be good for beef in these hard times. Leonora. Then you would not harm me? Caleb. Not for the whole Southern Confederacy. Leonora. It seems you do not value that very highly, and yet you wear the uniform. Caleb. Force of circumstances. Leonora. What circumstances ? Caleb. You force me to acknowledge a weakness? Well, here goes. I was drinking wine one evening in Baltimore, and the next I found myself in this uniform, and that, after discarding a blue one but three months before. Leonora. And so you would shoot my horse for beef, eh? But what if I shoot first — not your horse, but you. {^Points pistol.^ Caleb. Then you'd have to shoot, that's all. But I'm no good for beef, or anything else for that matter, and if death stared me in the face, I'd prefer his presentation from so pretty a hand as yours. Leonora. Now for that gallant speech you shall live. But the idea of a man who can say such pretty things being no good at all. I'm afraid you've had a great deal of practice, though you are so young. I am sorry you are so young, else I should ask you toad- vise me, for I am very unhappy spite of all I may seem. AT THE PICKET LINE. 23 Caleb. Oh ! I may have young shoulders, but Tve got an old head. I can give the best of advice, but I can seldom follow it. Leonora. You invite confidence, and you shall have it. Did you ever hear of Colonel Harford, that bravest of men, who was killed at Spottsylvania .'' Caleb. Ay, Madam, he was the flower of the Confederate army. Leonora. I am his daughter. I have neither father, home, nor friends — the accursed Northerners have destroyed them all. I have just seen the torch apphed to our old mansion, our slaves made contraband, our hearth-stone made the scene of plunder, pillage and bloodshed, and these are the men who are fighting for what they call a noble cause. It's a marvel that I escaped, not with life, but honor. I have ridden day and night ; my last hope is to reach the Confederate lines and tell my story to General Lee, so that every Southerner, in taking revenge, may strike one blow for me. Caleb. Yours is indeed a harrowing tale, but one of many con- tingent to this cruel war. But do you know your way to General Lee"'s headquarters? Leonora. I must hold by the river, I suppose ; do you know? Caleb. No more than the man in the moon. Do you know how far? Leonora. - No; how should I know? Caleb. And youYe all alone. Leonora. Entirely. Caleb. Then we must find out where we are. I have been out foraging and have lost my way; so I'm as deeply in the mud as you are in the mire. I think my brigade is farther down the river. Here is the picket line at the edge of yonder wood. I know the countersign, and we'll find out. Come. Leonora. Stay ! I cannot follow you. I must find General Lee to-night, if he is to be found ; but the ceremony and delay through which I would have to pass should I follow you, would be very annoying. It is simple for you — you have strayed from your regi- ment and lost your way. They will give you the necessary infor- mation, then you can join me here, and we will proceed together. Caleb. You are right, and that's something wonderful for a woman. I'll return immediately. {^Exit r. 2 e.) Sentry {outside k.). Halt! Who comes there? Calkq {outside R.). A friend. Sentry {outside r.). Advance, and give the countersign. Leonora. Yes, the word was right. He is through the line. Now to await the outcome of this adventure. {Enter Sal ajid Jerry r. u. e.) Ah, what have we here? Sal. I tell you I'm sick of it. Here we've been following up this division for a week, and not the smallest chance of making a cent. Jerry. It's all right, I say. The battle's bound to come, besides 24 AT THE PICKET LINE. the mail has been cut off, and they have their pockets lined with money, so when it does come ifll be a harvest. Leonora. Camp followers ! The brutal creatures who prey like vultures upon the fallen dead. Sal. Sh ! A woman, and alone. Jerry. Yes, and well dressed, too. She may have diamonds. Easy now. Leonora. My heart sickens at the thought of the carnage that will redden this ground so soon. But it must be done — the nation must be saved. Sal. Don't let her see you. Fll engage her from the front, while you steal up behind. Leonora. I wonder who my guide is. Poor honest fellow, he trusts the world as the world trusts him. I wonder if I shall ever see him again after to-night. I hope so. Sal. I beg your pardon, Miss — wouldn't you like to buy some little trinket to give to the poor soldier you're waiting for.? Leonora. No ! Sal. Don't your soldier boy use tobacco? See, I have some nice cigars. Leonora. I gave you my answer — go ! J'ERRY. Not yet, my lady. {Seizes her.) Leonora {throws him off, and draws two pistols^. Stand back, you carrion dogs. Were it not for alarming yonder sentry, I'd shoot you both with less compunction than I would a brace of wolves. Go ! your work is robbing the dead, and not the living. Jerry. Come on, Sal, don't sneak that way. She dare not shoot. Leonora. Don't be too sure of that. Remember that one live woman is more dangerous than a hundred dead men. {Exeunt Sal and Jerry, l. 2 e.) What a pity I had to let them go ; but the shot would have alarmed the sentry, and ruined all. {Enter Caleb, r. 2 e.) Caleb. It's all right. Leonora. Yes? Caleb. General Lee's headquarters are two miles farther down the river, covered with earthworks and felled trees. This is an out- post of Mississippi infantry on the extreme right of the line. My division is on the extreme left, so you see I must have strayed four miles out of my way. Leonora. Rather a long line. How many men does it repre- sent? Caleb. About ninety thousand, to say nothing of the artillery which are posted on the hill two miles back from the river. Leonora. Ninety thousand? Good! Caleb. But come — I promised to take you to the officer of the day. He'll provide us with passes, and then we may proceed. AT THE PICKET LINE. 25 Leonora. One moment. Ninety thousand, with cavalry and artillery on the hill. General Lee in the centre. Right resting near the fork of the river, left four miles down the river. I thank you, }non ami. Caleb. Tve not guided you so badly after all. Leonora. You have guided me excellently, my friend, and I did right in coming to you for advice, so I will give you a little in re- turn. Beware of a woman's tears, for they are seldom genuine. I like you because you are a good-natured, impulsive fool, who thinks of a woman before himself just because she pretends to cry. You are too good to be wasted on this barren cause. Choose then — will you forage and find thistles, or will you be a man and follow me? Caleb. I see it all. Good Heavens ! I have been blind. You are a Union spy. Leonora. I am ; and if your heart beats true to the uniform you wear, I am your deadly foe. Come, dare you summon yonder sen- tinel and take me prisoner? Caleb. Your sex protects you. Leonora. No ; you dare not, for your heart is with the North. Caleb. But my allegiance is with the South, and I dare and will defeat the purpose for which you mocked me with your woman's tears. You gained from my sympathy what the stake would never gain from my fears. But you shall not use that information. You are not yet inside the Union lines. I threatened if you played me false to kill your horse. You forgot your sex when you lied to me, but I do not forget my manhood when I fulfil my threat. (^Kneels and shoots L. Horse falls outside l.) Leonora {draws pistols^. I thank you for emptying that gun. Surrender ! Caleb. What, to a woman? Leonora. Ay, a determined and desperate one. You said but now my horse was not a patch on yours. I will test that boast myself. Caleb {bugle call and drum roll outside r.). That shot has alarmed the sentry ; they will question me — I shall be condemned — Leonora. Ay, and likely hanged for giving information to the enemy. {Looks 0^1.. u. e.) You were right, monsieur. My horse was not a patch on yours ; and if he but carry me around the brow of yonder hill, I shall be in the Union lines, and use your informa- tiin to advantage. May we meet again, fuon ami. Au revoir. {Exit R. 3 e. ; noise of horses'' hoofs dying away in the distance.^ Caleb. The Union lines so near — then I am between two fires; but if I fall to the ground, it will be the first time that Satan ever de- serted me. {Exit\.., as scene closes in.) 26 AT THE PICKET LINE. Scene II. — Landscape in i. {Enter Sal ) I know what I want. Silvy. You have been very kind to father and to me. Crosscomb. And Til be kinder before I'm done. 38 AT THE PICKET LINE. SiLVY. You will be quite content, then, with what I can give you, and will expect no more ? Crosscomb. Why, bless the gal, yes. It is understood. Come, we'll seal it with a kiss. SiLVY. No ! No ! {Shrinking in disgust.) Wait till we are married. {Aside.) Oh ! how shall I ever bear it ? Crosscomb. See, darling, I was just about to buy a ring at the jeweller's, when coming up the road I saw something sparkling in the sun. I picked it up, and what should it be but a gold ring. You see fortune is on our side, for she saved me the expense of buying one. There is something engraven on the inside, but my eyes are too old to make it out. Perhaps you can. SiLVY {taking ring and reading). "From Al to Silvy." {Excitdiily.) Ah it is his ring ! Crosscomb. Wliose ring ? SiLVY. Al Cherrington's. WHiat does it mean ? Crosscomb. Nonsense, Silvy, he is dead ! SiLVY. He is not dead, or that ring would have been buried with him. He is living — he is living! Hiram {throiving down hat emphatically). Yes, Silvy, he is a-living. Silvy. Where is he — Avhere is he .'' Albert {enteriiig qnickly). Here! Silvy. Thank God — thank God ! {Rushes into his artns. After applause, Hiram thumbs nose at Crosscomb.) Albert. Silvy, I know all now. I know whatever seems, that in your soul you are true to me. Silvy. Ah, could you doubt ? Your faith is not as strong as mine, even when I thought you dead. Crosscomb. Have that blackguard soldier turned out-of-doors. Albert {advaticifig to Crosscomb, who retreats behind table r.). Mr. Crosscomb, you are the man who sought to destroy my life by a contemptible plot. You are too old and too degraded to horse- whip ; be off with you, and leave my own to me. Crosscomb. Perhaps you think it's very noble and grand to come here a beggar, and bully a girl into sending her father to the poorhouse. Perhaps you'll pay me that fifteen hundred dollars he owes me. Albert. You have made good use of your time, haven't you? When I left here two years ago the debt was only five hundred. Crosscomb. No matter what it was. Her father now owes me fifteen hundred dollars. {Enter Caleb, nicely dressed.) Caleb. Then her father's son will pay it. Hiram. Hooray! {Throws hat up.) Silvy. Caleb, my brother ! {Kisses him.) Caleb. Father I AT THE PICKET LINE. 39 Squire. My boy — my boy ! (^Embraces /lim.) Caleb. Father, I will save you, for I am now a rich man. After my discharge from the army, 1 went to find my Uncle Wor- thington — Squire. Yes, I know — a skinflint. The hardest-^^earted old miser. Caleb. Don't say that, father. The poor old fellow is dead. Died without a will, and Silvy and I, being the next of kin, we must divide a fortune. Squire. No, he is not dead. There is some mistake. Cross- comb saw him since that time. It can't be. Caleb. It can be, and is. Crosscomb knew it all. That's the reason he wanted to marry Silvy. Squire. What's this you're telling me? Caleb. That he knew it four years ago. That he tried to kill one heir and marry the other ; but his accomplice was caught in his own trap and confessed. Hiram. And I can swear to it, for I was there. {Enter Leo- nora, well dressed, d. f.) Leonora. And so was I. Squire {crosses stage to Crosscomb, l.). You gol darned old skunk, you ! {Strikes at hhn with canej Crosscomb dodges and cane strikes table. Squire strikes again j he dodges agai7i, and is caught by policeina7t, who enters D. F.) Police. You're just the man I want. {Seizes hi?n and exit with him, d. f.) Squire. Why, Caleb, who is this lady? .Caleb. This lady is your daughter. Silvy {kissing her^ . My sister? Caleb. Yes ; and my wife. (Hiram dances with Joy.) CURTAIN. A New Comedy. A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS. By ST. CLAIR HURD. For four male and fivo female characters. Scenery, two interioi;; easily arranged; costumes modern and simple. Plays an hour and a half. Tiiis little piece has more plot tlian is usual in plays of its icngih, and works ni) to an exciting climax. .Solomon Nathan is a capital co:uedy part, and Phineas Plmnnel and Phoebe Stopper excellent eccen trie character parts. This piece has been many times successfully per- formed from manuscript. Price .... 15 cents. FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY, A DRAMATIC PARAPHRASE IN ONE SCENE, Based upon Tennyson's *' Dream of Fair Women." By EDITH LYNWOOD WINN. (As pre-^ente 1 by th*^ l*olymnia Society, of Shorter College, Home, Ga., April, 1889.) Thirt5'-nine girls are called for by the full text of this excellent entertainment, besides the " Dreamer " who has the vision ; but a smaller number may be used, at pleasure, by simply reducing the num- ber of tableaux. No scenery is required, and the costumes can be easily contrived by home talent. This is a very picturesque and enjoyable entertainment, and by giving a large number of pretty girls a chance to look their best, is sure to please them and every one else. Price .... 15 cents. WHO'S TO INHERIT? A COMEDY IN ONE ACT. FOR FEiV!ALE CHARACTERS ONLY. For nine female characters. Scene, an easy interior; costumes, mode .11 and simple. Margery is a "rough diamond," who always speaks !)•>;■ !ii nth Miss Chatter, Miss Pry and Miss Nicely are a very anmsing . • : ) ot gossips, to whom Mrs. Fitzfudge's sharp tongue is a terror. Price .... 15 cenU. ANOTHER "COUNTRY SCHOOL." THE OLD-FASHIONED AN OLD FOLKS ENTERTAINMENT IN ONE SCENE. By NETTIE H. PELMAM. For elovon male and live female cliaiacters, and as many more as desired. Scene, the iiiLcrior of a barn, easily arranged; costumes, old fashioned. Plays forty minutes or more, according to number of songs and specialties i-.tiodiiccu. Very easy to get up, and very funny. An excellent introduction for a dance, supper or sociable, where a mixed entertainment is desired. Price, .... 15 Cents. SVNOPSIS: SCENE. — Uncle Nathan's barn. Bobby and Scipio. In black and white. A few conundrums. "Silence am gold." Gathering of the neighbors. Music and fun. Thomas Jefferson is heard from. '* Von leedlo song," by Solomon Ja'vI. Betsy and Josiah. A leap-year courtship. Algernon Fitznoodlo and Little Lord Fauntleroy. The dude and the darling. F.tznoiM.lo tr.l.es a tunible. Patrick and Ah Sin. Haee prejudices. Harmony out of discord. IMusic. Betsy and the swing. A little mislako. P.ctsy r cites. The IIuMA^'II•^o^•JE. Pat and Kitty. The red ear. " Hurrah for supper ! " A DOUBLE SHUFFLE. By HARRY O. HANLON. Three male and two female characters. Scenery and costumes very simple. An admirable little parlor piece, playing about thirty-five mii;utes. Fred Siiiiers, a collegian, with a taste for practical joking, tries to piny a little joke on lis sister and his fiancee, but they succeed in turning the tables completely upon him and his two college chums. Very bright and amusing. A sure hit. Price, . . . . J5 Cents. A NEW PLAY FOR GIRLS. ^E Chaperon, A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS, By RACHEL E. BAKER, PART AUTHOR OF "AFTER TAPS," ETC. ■: 1 female characters. Scenery not difficult. Costumes, tennis j(owns and modern street and evening gowns, with picturesque Gypsy costumes for Miriam and Jill. Time in playing, two and a half hours. Price 95 cents. SVNOPSIS: iJT I. Jack AND Jill. A love game. Cousins for sale.. " My kingdom for a, liair[)in." The French teacher. A few coimndrvims. Miriam and Jill. Tlie Gypsy's blessing. Kora and the French language. BlUtt-doux and Billy I\Ianahan. An invitation. "Iwill be your chaperon!" Telling for- tunes. The Tknnis Drill. Tales out of school. Joyce and the beggars. 1 he accxisaiion. Joyce to the rescue. "I cannot look into your eyes and believe you guilty." Under a cloud. The Gypsy's prophecy. "Miriam the CJypsy has spoken, and she never breaks her word." ^CT II. The Chapekon. In the studio. Nora and the man in armor, A spiritual manifestation. Eavesdropping, Locked in. The artist's model. A little lark. The bogus chaperon. The skeleton in the closet, llomeo and Juliet adapted. Miriam the Gypsy. The secret of the papers. "God be with th' ni and With those to whom they belong!" Masquerading. Korn'sjig. A surprise and an escape. The school-ma'am outwitted. Tni*' Minuet. Jill and Joyce. The locket. " It means that the waif has found a home at last ! " Sisters. The Gypsy again. " Your duty lies with them make their lives as happy as you have mine." 4CT III. "Like Other Girl.s." A five o'clock tea. Anticipations. The French teacher again. A lesson in politeness. A nice hot cup of tea. Nora's revenge. Apologies. Mademoiselle's confession. " I took it ; it was on'y for ze revenge." Forgiveness. " Ihishivg tea." Confessions. From grave tc g.iv. An Adamlesis Eden. Superfluous man: a few portraits of him. Expl;!iiatioi'.s. The fulfilment of Miriam's prophecy. A mystery cleared. ' ': In-, little one I mourned as dead is alive," Our chaperon, / Something for " Secret Societies.' I JOINING THE TINPflNlTES OR, PADDY MCFLING'S EXPERIENCE. (PART 1.) A MOCI^ INITIATION. FOK THK AMUSEMENT AND INSTKUCTION OF SECKET SOCIETIES. ADAFTHD TO ALL ORDERS, AND CONTAINING NOTHING TO OKFUND ANY SECRET ORGANIZATION. IBy David Mill, Author of " Forced to the War," "Bound by an Oath," "Out of his Sphere," " Placer Gold," "The Granger," etc. For thirteen male characters and supers. Scenery uniniportai't, the Btnge representing the interior of a lodge-room. Costumes, burlesijue regali.",, Pl;iys forty-tive minutes. This is an uproarously funny travestie of the foniis of initiation, and is just the thing for a lodge-room entertainment. Any number «*iC men can assist as members, etc. Price, . • . 15 cents. By the Author of " A Box of Monkeys." The Corner-Lot Chorus- A FARCE IN ONE ACT. FeR # FEMALE # CHARAGTERS ^ eUUY By Grace Livingston Furniss. Ab Originally Performed by "The Twelfth -Night Club," at tke Lyceum Theatre, New York, ox May 7, 1891. Seven female characters who speak, and ten Jury Gins, Costumes, iihxm ; n and tasteful. Scenery of little or no importance. Plays about forty inii.ui'S This clever little piece, by the author of "A Box of Monkeys," satirizes w , ii a two-edged blade a foolish social exclusiveness and the weak side of an);\i. iir actors, and with bright and clever performers is a sure success. It aironi.^^ a ehance for elegant dressing, if desired, and for telling local hits' . In its original psi'formance by profeisioual actresses it was a laughing success. Price, ... 83 cents. A NEW ENTERTAINMENT FOR LADIES. JOLLY JOE'S LADY MINSTRELS. Selections for the ''Sisters." Written, compiled and edited in the sole interest of cheerfulness, from the most jovial sources, and arranged with a particular eye to the needs of KKMLAIvK NKORO NlINSTREIvS. By Mrs. A. M. SILSBEE and Mrs. M. B. HORNE. This little book describes the programme recently employed in an actual performance of this character, and is offered as a guide to others seeking light on this "dark subject." It provides jokes, a stump-speech, a darky play — "Bells in the Kitchen," — written for female characters only, and suggests a programme of songs. The difficulty which ladies have found in collecting humorous material sufficiently refined for their purpose, and the impossibility of procuring an after- piece for this sort of entertainment, of which men have heretofore had a monop- oly, suggested the publication of this book, which meets both these wants. Price 25 Cents. A NKW DRAMA. HICK'RY FARM. A GOMEDY-DRAMA OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE IN TWO AGT8. By EDWIN M. STERN. Six male, two female characters. A charming delineation of New England rural life, presenting a diversity of excellent characters, that of the farmer, Ezekiel Fortune, being particularly good. Scenery : a landscape, with small set cottage, and a plain room. Costumes of the present time. Time of playing, an hour and a half. Price 25 Cents. For M ale Character s Only. Plmtation Bitters, A Colored Fantasy in Two Acts. By MARY B. HORNE, author of " Pkof. Baxter's Great Invention," " The Great Moral Dime Show," Etc. Nine male and eight female characters, all impersonated by men and boys. Scene, an easy interior ; costumes, grotesque and easily contrived. This is a picture of negro life on the Abercrombie Plantation, in Georgia. It is a very humorous presentation of negro life and character, and provides an agreeable substitute for tlio hackneyed Negro Minstrel Entertainment. It is connected by a thread of narrative, but chiefly consists of a succession of songs and humorous Incidents, alfording ample opportunities for the introduction of specialties. An excellei.t entertainment for a lodge-room or other "stag" institution. Can be played by men and women, if preferred. Very funny and perfectly inoffensive for church performance. Price 15 cents. For Female Characters. 8t. Valentine'8 Day. A COMEDY IN ONK ACT. By ANNIE ELIOT. Two female characters. Scenery, unimportant ; costumes modern and every- day. This charming little duologue for ladies will instantly recommend itself to the best taste in such matters. Its dialogue is witty, ingenious and entertaiinnjj and very subtly and sympathetically develops a most interesting story of a love affair, Avhich, however, only appears in the third person. The characters of Elinor (a woman of thirty) and Letty (scarcely more than a child) are admirably contrasted and employed, and are capable of much quiet dramatic effect in oapable hands. Price 16 centg. A NEW COMEDY. M Box A FARCE IN THREE ACTS. BY ROSEMARY BAUM. Four male and four female characters. Scenes, tv/o interiors, very j^innii . Costumes modern. This clever piece is in the light vein that has proven so pi';; ular in Miss Grace Furniss' pieces, and while its sentiment is honest and tr u< . ; has few serious dramatic moments. Its characters are lively young peop'e mmI genial old ones, its story is entertaining and cleverly told, its dialogue is vivaoioii- and bright, and its Incidents abmidant, humorous, ingenious and original. Those who wish to be amused rather than excited Avill find an admirable means to this end in Miss Baum's play. Price 15 cents. SYNOPSIS: ACT. I. Hanging the " Mistletoe." Fred and the Anti-Tobacco League. Tom's love affair. A "flame" which must have "no smoke.". Casting her shoe. A "slippery" trick. Fred and Phyllis. The dude and the budlet. Miss Blucher's bonnet-strings. Signing the pledge. A hitch. "Whose coat is this?" The Box OF Cigarettes. Ending in smoke. ACT II. Life in a flat. The Oldboys. A long-lost father. Unpleasant truths. Tom and Molly. " Aun Ana shan't trample on me ! " Another " American Revolution." Anastasia and Araericus. " I still smoke, ma'am." Almost an understanding. The Cigarettes again. Still smoky. ACT III. Paying Phyllis' bet. Curling irony. Under the mistletoe. A plot within a plot. Americus' little deal. The old boy gets gay. Freddy helps. Tiddleywinks. Americus landed. An " insult " on the other cheek. Tom and Molly. The mistake explained. No more smoke. BAKER'S A. B. C. LEAFLETS. We have recently added to this series the following monologues; Price .... 5 cents each. The Face Upon the Floor, As recited by Harry P. Keily. A Voyage Around My Pockets. A NEW BORDER DRAMA. 10 GRANDE AN ORIGINAL DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. By CHARLES TOWNSEND. Author of "The Spy of Gettysburg:," "The Woven Web," "Border Land," "Broken Fetters," etc., etc. Seven male, four feinale cliaraclers. Modern costumes ; Fccncry, 0:10 interior and one exterior. Time in playing, two Lours and twenty minutes. This is the latest play of Western life, and one of the finest dramas ever written by this brilliant and successful author. Its interest is unllay-iiipj, it is full of bright, clean fun, and roaring comedy situations alternate av lii thrilling and pathetic scenes. Every character is a good one and worthy of the best t.ik-nt. This piece can be played in any hall or upon any stage, as there are no difficulties in costumes or scenery. Printed directly from the author's acting copy, and preceded by a chapter of "Remarks" in which are given, in tlio author's own words, special instructions regarding the play, the acting of each part, and all necessary details of stage-management. Price, ... 25 Cents. SVNOPSIS: ACT I. The First Day. — Sitting-room at Lawton's. Judge Biggs renders an opinion. Casey in doubt. Scgura fails to score. Paul and Retta. Jealousj\ The arrival. Mamie and the Judge. Trouble ahead. A thi-eatcned quarrel. The proposal. Kef used. "Answer him nothing." The vow. Tableau. ACT II. The Second Day. — The lawn near the parade ground. The holiday soldier. Johnnie in trouble. An "American aristocrat." Catlwallader frightened. Biggs indignant. The Indian outbri ak. Sogura's plan. A cunning plot. The marriage certificate. Paul and Retta. Some clever aciing. Segura's triumi.h. The quarrel. A broken engnp' nuMit. " Doots and saddles ! " Biggs as a guide." " I won't cry." The dep;u luro. Tableau. ACT III. The Third Day. — Sitting-room at Lawton's. The ; • : "s watch- ers. Retta's sorrow. The new friends. Cadwallader's n:'." •. IWiniie's sympathy. "Thanks awfully." Biggs arrives. A JPoeifh:^ r w. Cadwal- min.-' ^J'tta's < lader's resolution. Segura's cunning.^B^fme^ again.- ^^^ta's confession. L.Mving the train, '^[jfe'ffrfsi.a Avife alr^di'." 4JP':^ui in trouble. Retta ex- plodes the mine. Panfl in danger. Death af'K6tta. 'Finale. >«' i°--<^. ^ c" /, .^^ > *^^ii^f/ ^h o .f -<.^^: ^ ^ ^'^Z^-^/ ^h^ o. ■y -^*. Ua"^ '^ «/ ^i^ o H/ ^ .-: -^ .^' V C'ir«°"''°»