-1DCI 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 A PAMPHLET, 
 
 Consisting of Contributions /ro7?2 
 GRADUATES of Several UNIVERSITIES: 
 
 PROSE AND Some VERSE. 
 
 ' 'Buy, reade, and judge, 
 The price doe not grudge : 
 It will doe thee more pleafure 
 Than twice fo much trea/ure.'' 
 
 Privately printed and to be had of 
 The DoRMAN Lithographing Company, 
 
 NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. "Amici Usque," - - Henry Seidel Canby 
 
 II. Out of Mercy — Peace Lee Wilson Dodd 
 
 III. Ashes: A Play, - Jack Randall Crawford 
 
 IV. Marguerite, - - John Pierrepont Rice 
 V. Stonehenge, - - John Pierrepont Rice 
 
 VI. A Conceit, - - . John Pierrepont Rice 
 
 VII. Maeterlinck and the Stage, 
 
 Chauncey Brewster Tinker 
 
 TRANSLATIONS— From Verlaine. 
 VIII. Moonlight, - - - Lee Wilson Dodd 
 
 IX. A Monotone, - - - Vincent V, M. Beede 
 
 TRANSLATION— From Gautier. 
 X. Smoke, ----- Vincent Beede 
 XI. Turkey Gobbler, - Jack Randall Crawford 
 
 TRANSLATION— From Ibsen. 
 XII. Agnes, - - - John Pierrepont Rice 
 
T H F 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 ^\ 
 
 A PAMPHLET, 
 
 Consisting of Contributions yrom 
 GRADUATES 0/ Several UNIVERSITIES 
 
 PROSE AND Some VERSE. 
 
 ^*Buy, reade, and judge, 
 The p7'-ice doe not griidge : 
 It will doe thee more pie a Jure 
 Than twice fo much 4rca/ii.rey ; ; , 
 
 Privately printed and to be had of 
 
 Th e Dor MAN Lithographing Company, 
 
 NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT. 
 
 Cyi'YKiGHiED May 23, 1902, by H. S. Canbv. 
 
p-WF LIBRARY OF 
 'CONGRESS, 
 
 -. CC'PIEH ReCCJVED 
 
 JllN 24 1902 
 
 r,npVtllQHT ENTRY 
 
 - jiss <L XXa No. 
 COPY B. 
 
 •^■0 
 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 The Prologue, gentlemen, you II find unique. 
 We will not tire your patience every zveek ; 
 A-many months 7nay pass nor usher in 
 This quiet stranger to your worldly di^i. 
 He is not timid, but is too polite 
 To wear his welcome and invade your right ; 
 'fReiidl then,' who will, or willing turn away ; 
 'W^hb's'h'un the Prologue often miss — the Play. 
 

 ^'AMICI USOUE,'' 
 
 (.■^w 
 
 HERE were football games in the autumn, 
 and good times and hard work in the winter 
 term, but he remembered best and oftenest 
 of his college life the Spring days in Senior 
 year, when the windows of the old room would stay 
 open all day long to let the pipe smoke out and the 
 vines in. There were always some people inside then, 
 talking of nothing that could not be said with a laugh, 
 and always some more calling up from below. If it were 
 toward evening, in June, they lay on the window seat 
 with their feet in the sociable atmosphere of talk and 
 pipe smoke, their faces dabbled by the cool wisteria 
 blooms that hung without, and sucked long, rich lungfuls 
 of Handsome Dan, or talked to a fellow below about a 
 dog, until it was time to go to Mrs Markham's for supper. 
 That was college life as the lawyer's clerk remembered 
 it. His desk looked out on a weary, dingy air shaft, 
 where the sunbeams were as bedraggled as his prospects; 
 his mind could seldom rise above contracts and incorpo- 
 real hereditaments and it is not strange if it sometimes 
 strayed back to Spring of Senior year and the old crowd. 
 From the ends of the earth they were coming back for 
 Triennial, and the lawyer's clerk threw his last attempt 
 at a brief down the air shaft and went to join them. Jim 
 
4 The Prologue. 
 
 was at the dingy old station, with a beard, but dancing 
 lil^e a school boy. He ran into Bob, open-armed, by the 
 cab stand. The Cub, not a day older, came whooping up 
 behind them on the Green; and they found Judd the un- 
 sentimental, sitting silent on the fence, gazing up at the 
 windows of the old room, where a chubby-faced boy was 
 smoking a pipe much too big for him. All were there 
 but the Deacon, his friend of friends of the old crowd. 
 
 It was about six o'clock and the chimes were just ring- 
 ing from the chapel bells. It was the time when the sun 
 lights the college towers and the elm tops, and the 
 shadows slant farthest on the Green; the familiar hour 
 when from the campus entries the students are sauntering 
 lazily toward supper, when nobody hurries but the paper 
 boys and the distant street pianos tinkle pleasantly, while 
 groups of three or four straying down the dim, elm-lined 
 streets try harmonies and fail, laughing, at the high 
 notes. It was very natural to be strolling again hands 
 over shoulders, their business stride fallen easily back in- 
 to the old undergraduate loll. Pleasant recollections 
 plucked them all into a flush of careless gaiety, old jokes 
 cracked with new fire, old tunes hummed themselves, 
 every now and then a classmate would dash across the 
 street and shake hands and slap backs all around. It was, 
 "By gad, it's Jimmy Lawrence," and Jimmy would have 
 a budding double chin to laugh at or perhaps an exceed- 
 ing fine moustache. 
 
 "The Deacon," said Jim, "is a reprobate. He has 
 gotten to Mrs. Markham's first and the rascal is telling 
 her all the slander he knows about us." "It will be good 
 to see the old boy again," one added. " I can hear his, 
 
''Amici Usque.'' 5 
 
 'well, well, well,' now." Insensibly they quickened their 
 steps and talked of him with their thoughts reaching 
 forward to the little white boarding house around the 
 corner, where he should be waiting them. Two had not 
 seen him since college, one for two years, none for many 
 months but the lawyer's clerk. A nervous letter or two 
 had made that not overly nervous youth very anxious to 
 find what could be hanging over a man Vv'hose marriage 
 had been so happy that the rare evenings spent together 
 when the friends lived nearer had sadly shaken his once 
 impregnable stronghold of bachelor prejudice. They 
 turned the corner, the talk broke into eager merriment, 
 and locking step, smallest in front, longest-legged behind, 
 they fell into the old formation, singing gleefully, "We're 
 coming, we're coming, our brave little band," as they 
 stamped up the steps and through the doorway into the 
 familiar dining room hung with steel prints, strange and 
 bad, and bedecked with Mrs. Markham's best bric-a-brac, 
 herself in crayons on the wall, their own photographs in 
 line on the mantel piece. 
 
 And the very same old table was in the very same 
 old room, and the chipped sugar bowl, and the 
 bent forks. The song went to the winds, the lock 
 step became a scramble. Jim snatched half the bread 
 according to custom, and the lawyer's clerk the 
 rest, with a delighted thought of the seven prim old 
 ladies at his boarding-house in New York. Then the 
 Cub made for the only clean napkin and it was old times 
 again in a wink. Everyone knew his place and got to it 
 with a shout, and someone yelled, " ahoy the soup," just 
 from pure habit, and someone else tilted his neighbor 
 
6 The Prologue, 
 
 over backward, just because it used to be amusing. The 
 door was open, they had tumbled through it, but a chuckle 
 from the hall brought everyone up, and the lawyer's clerk 
 saw the identical old Mrs. Markham waddle in, with a 
 clean apron on and her plump face fairly rippling with 
 delight. " Well, Mrs. Markham," cried he, and " Well, 
 Mrs. Markham," shouted everybody, and then clambered 
 over anything to shake hands and tell her how handsome 
 she had grown and how aristocratic, while " I'm pretty 
 gallous — pretty gallons," she protested. And so it went 
 until, " Long cheer for Mrs. Markham!" cried the lawyer's 
 clerk and they stood on their chairs to give it and sat 
 down again rather abashed at their youthfulness. 
 
 It was the same old joint. The lawyer's clerk stretched 
 his legs easily under the table, tipped back his chair and 
 lit a cigarette. His mind was comfortably at rest, his 
 ears were pleasantly assailed with familiar talk. It was 
 the rennaissance of good-living after a cycle of maiden- 
 lady boarding-house. Only the Deacon's quiet voice was 
 lacking to bring forgetfulness of the lean years in the 
 illusion of present happiness. 
 
 "Where in thunder is the Deacon?" asked the little 
 fellow at the foot of the table. "Wrote me last week 
 that his wife was sick," answered someone. " Deuce take 
 this being married," said the lawyer's clerk between puffs. 
 " We never used to be bothered with anything of that 
 kind. Do you fellows remember how the Deacon used 
 to sit over there," pointing to the empty chair at the 
 head, "and say, 'Bad business this getting married,' 
 and now he's a galley slave just as you'll soon be, 
 Bob." 
 
''Amici Usque y 7 
 
 "Jealousy," the lean youth opposite him insisted, 
 " mere jealousy." 
 
 "I myself have long desired the state of matrimony," 
 remarked Juddthe cynic, "but — " "O tip him over," they 
 cried, and the lawyer's clerk did so dexterously — cynicism 
 was dangerous at Mrs. Markham's. Then he stretched 
 out another length, lit a fresh cigarette and in the brown 
 smoke saw torts and briefs and deeds float lazily to the 
 upper airs; all memories of the unkind cuts of a practical 
 world and all mortifying disappointment and all care went 
 with them. He breathed in happily the old atmosphere 
 of tobacco and irresponsibility, until, looking at his watch, 
 he came with a start to the realization that the seven 
 o'clock train was long in and the Deacon had not arrived. 
 A triennial is a Mecca whose pilgrimage is not lightly 
 foregone. If the Deacon's bank had failed in the morn- 
 ing he felt sure that he, nevertheless, would not have failed 
 them, at such a time, by night. " Bosh, I'm nervous," 
 he thought. He clicked to his watch in his pocket so 
 that no one heard, and would have joined the fun again, 
 without a qualm, if Mrs. Markham had not slipped a 
 letter into his hands. It read: — " i A. M. If I am not 
 there when the dinner begins, keep the boys from 
 noticing it, will you, Bill?" and was signed simply, 
 "Deacon." 
 
 The dinner was the same old Mrs. Markham dinner, 
 with frills, but the talk was good. First it was to tell 
 what had happened to each since last parting, and that 
 was speedily gotten through with, though the stories 
 rano;ed from East to West and back ao^ain. Soon new 
 times led to old and they called on Jim, the lean one, the 
 
8 The Prologue. 
 
 most sentimental old rascal on moonlight nights in 
 college, who talked about nothing then but, "we'll never 
 have such a good time again, boys," and he made such 
 fun of their youthful joys and ambitions that they hissed 
 him down and tried Judd, the Cynic. When that worldly 
 youth dropped his flippancy and told some simple tales 
 of things done in careless times, they sat quiet for a 
 while and feared they were all growing sentimental, but 
 Mrs. Markham bustled in, just in time, with four tiers of 
 plates and, "We call this good pumpkin pie, if it ain't as 
 good as you folks have down in Delaware," a time- 
 honored sally which relieved the tension. 
 
 The pie was gone, the table cleared, the coffee steam- 
 ing, and Jim the lean had just begun a story, when, 
 "Hush!" cried the lawyer's clerk. A hack stopped out- 
 side the door, some one jumped out and they heard the 
 man cluck to his horses. A sigh of relief went round. 
 "I confess I was worried," Jim whispered, "but here he 
 is, boys ! " he cried. They crowded toward the door and 
 at that instant a bell jangled mockingly — in the next 
 house. They went back to their seats disconsolate, with 
 puzzled questionings. 
 
 There was foreboding in the air in spite of the up- 
 roarious jollity and the empty chair at the table's head 
 began to weigh upon their mirth. The Cub grew 
 suddenly thoughtful. " I met the Deacon at Hoskin's a 
 year ago this week," said he, "and after dinner I happened 
 to say, ' You wouldn't miss thatr eunion at Mrs. Mark- 
 ham's for a year of wedded bliss, now be honest, Deacon?' 
 Of course he wasn't impartial enough to say that, but he 
 did answer, ' Not for a year of single bliss, my boy,' 
 
''Amici Usqitey 9 
 
 which makes it seem damn peculiar that he doesn't turn 
 up tonight." "The train's late," someone said. "That 
 excuse won't do much longer," the Cub rejoined," there's 
 ten o'clock striking. I'm worried. There was a big 
 slump on the street this morning. Think he can be 
 mixed up in it?" No one thought that this alone would 
 stop him, least of all the lawyer's clerk. " He's probably 
 straightening out accounts," said he, nevertheless, "You 
 know that cast iron conscience of his. Cub, you rascal, 
 start up a tune. I haven't had any real melody since the 
 last birthday party." 
 
 The Cub had a voice, but when they sang, " Give me a 
 home in the dear old South," no one but he heard it 
 amidst the glorious volume of ill assorted sound. There 
 was an awkward pause when the melody was done. It 
 was always the custom to charge the Deacon with home- 
 sickness after this song and no one forgot him now. 
 " Oh! but that's good," sighed the six feet three of youth 
 whose legs occupied most of the under space of the table. 
 "For three long years, boys, I've wanted to let off my 
 voice." "You did it then," said the Cub, and rapped on 
 the table, " Amici," he called. They shook the windows 
 with, 
 
 "Amici, usque ad aras. 
 Deep graven on each heart." 
 
 The lawyer's clerk threw away his cigarette to join and 
 in the act caught sight of Mrs. Markham beckoning to 
 him from the doorway. A messenger boy stood behind 
 her. The song stopped in a note. " It's for you," said 
 
lO The Prologue. 
 
 Mrs. Markham nervously. He took it, tore it open and 
 read : — 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't come up Bill. Don't let the fellows 
 worry." 
 
 " Don't let the fellows worry," he stammered. The 
 words seemed to convey some sorrowful import which 
 lay behind. The vague misfortune grew suddenly 
 imminent and vast. 
 
 "What's wrong?" they faltered. "What does it 
 mean ?" 
 
 " I knew there was some trouble coming," said the 
 lawyer's clerk bitterly. I don't understand, but look at 
 this letter." In silence they pushed the letter and 
 telegram down the table, each reading without comment. 
 
 "This can't be a joke," someone asked doubtingly. 
 
 "Joke nothing. I've guessed that the boy was in 
 trouble for weeks, but he said nothing about it and I 
 didn't ask him." 
 
 " But what — " two or three began at once and 
 stopped. 
 
 " Well, what could keep him?" the lawyer's clerk asked 
 with the air of a man who believes the worst. " What 
 could keep him from an evening we've been counting 
 days to. What could make him telegraph me not to let 
 you worry? You can answer that if you like, I'm afraid 
 to. No need looking at your watches," he added fiercely. 
 " The nine o'clock came in long ago," — and there was 
 another silence. 
 
 " But I don't understand — " Jim cried querulously. 
 " This telegram was sent at two — " 
 
''A-mzci Us que.'' ii 
 
 "Wrong address," said someone curtly, and that meant 
 much, for if the Deacon had written, " I am in trouble," 
 it could not have been plainer. 
 
 Jim spoke after a few seconds, hesitating, " I am afraid 
 something is wrong — but^aren't you a little too hasty, boys? 
 You know that something small might have kept him 
 something slight that seemed big to him at the time, 
 something — " 
 
 " O we know, Jim," cried the lawyer's clerk wearily. 
 ** We know that the Deacon is a nervous little fellow who 
 sees big things in little, we know that this is just an 
 ordinary dinner to him, to be missed for a business 
 engagement, we know that he sends telegrams like this 
 one whenever he cuts his finger, but I know/' he cried 
 heatedly, " I know that something has been hanging over 
 him for weeks, the first trouble he hasn't told me about. 
 O you are all sure it is something bad. What's the use 
 of deceiving ourselves ? Some of you can guess what I 
 am afraid of — but what can we do, boys?" 
 
 No one answered. " Nothing," said he in the silence, 
 " I feel like swearing." 
 
 But he only whipped out another cigarette, put it in 
 his mouth and then dashed it into the corner. '* Goodby 
 boys," he cried, " I'm going down to him." He snatched 
 up his hat and pulled it down hard. "I'll telegraph," he 
 said — and just at that moment there was a step at the 
 gate, a hand at the knob, a cry from Mrs. Markham, and 
 the Deacon himself stood in the doorway. 
 
 "Deacon!" gasped the lawyer's clerk. Everyone 
 started up and stood silent. 
 
12 The Prologue . 
 
 There were rln^s under his eyes, he was pale, there 
 were nervous lines about his mouth, he said nothing. 
 The lawyer's clerk, who knew him best, went to him and 
 put a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me about it," he 
 said gently. In the dead silence laughter and a distant 
 rattle of dishes became suddenly audible. " Is it all right?" 
 he asked and caught his hand half doubtfully. "Say it's 
 all right, boy?" 
 
 The Deacon did not speak. He only looked at them 
 strangely until his mouth relaxed and a light came into 
 his eyes that made the Cub throw his napkin into the air. 
 And suddenly the lawyer's clerk found himself shaken off 
 and without warning the sedate old Deacon caught up a 
 glass, the tears running down his face, and leaped upon 
 a chair with a shout. " Oh, you old fools!" he cried, and 
 laughed happily at their puzzled faces, " Can't you 
 guess?" 
 
 The crowd gasped, then they began to conjecture de- 
 lightedly. "You're a bank president." "You've reformed 
 at last. Deacon," this from the Cub. " What the deuce 
 is it," they all cried. 
 
 "Well then," said he, and stretching his full height, 
 beamed down upon them all. " Fill up your glasses, 
 boys, for there's something that makes me prouder 
 than a bank president. Fellows — here's to the Class 
 Boy!" 
 
 In the shouting and the laughter and the handshaking, 
 the lawyer's clerk settled back in his chair, one hand on 
 the Deacon's knee, his other stealing for his old pipe, 
 and finding it, he filled the bowl, patted down the tobacco, 
 
''Amici Usque, 
 
 13 
 
 lit it, and then leaning back comfortably he tasted the 
 very prime of life and its fatness in the smoke. But the 
 others were singing: 
 
 "And if it is a girl, sir. 
 
 I'll dress her up in blue, 
 And send her out to Saltonstall, 
 
 To coach the Freshman crew. 
 And if it is a boy, sir, 
 
 I'll put him on the crew. 
 And he shall wax the Harvards, 
 
 As his daddy used to do," 
 
 Henry Seidel Canby. 
 
OUT OF MERCY- PEACE. 
 
 Dearest and Best : — I will not feign a name 
 To love you by as lesser poets use ; 
 
 I would not fill your ears with needless shame 
 Nor offer love your handmaid would refuse. 
 
 I write to you because I dream and live . 
 
 Praying for foolish gifts you may not give. 
 
 It is not that I hope through some far chance 
 To move you with a word's sincerity, 
 
 Love who was wakened in me at a irlance 
 Speaks but in broken phrases: ' Pity me.' 
 
 Masks in a beggar's whine a broken heart ; 
 
 Love, all a tyrant, leaves no scope for art. 
 
 And I am not your equal, scarce your slave 
 To serve you, since you have forgotten now 
 
 The lad you rescued from his sheeted grave, 
 Laying your palm gently upon his brow . . 
 
 O God of Love, what life lives in a touch 
 
 To give, unknowing, and to take so much. 
 
Out of Mercy — Peace, 15 
 
 You have forgotten. I remember still 
 
 Through all the languid hours of all the days 
 
 Your step, and how your presence seemed to fill 
 The room with music and my soul with praise ; 
 
 The pallid toneless room, wherein I grew 
 
 A silent thing of shadow — lacking you. 
 
 There, if I turned my head, the lessening cots 
 Marked each his burden of unmastered pain ; 
 
 There came such stealthy slow devouring thoughts 
 As feed like vampires on the febrile brain ; 
 
 And there came peace upon me for a while, 
 
 Till life renewed the wonder of a smile. 
 
 Peace for a time ; then came nev/ slavery : 
 
 That which was tranquil in me turned to love ; 
 
 And then I called on death to set me free, 
 
 Praying wild prayers you will know nothing of. 
 
 But death was far from me ; great love was lord ; 
 
 And all my being trembled at a word. 
 
 One day you came no more. I felt the end 
 Of all my hopes, knowing that hope was dead. 
 
 Another duty claimed you for a friend; 
 
 Elsewhere you ministered, the nurses said. 
 
 And then I smiled upon them. Was it wise 
 
 To smile thus bravely out of paradise? 
 
l6 The Prologue. 
 
 These things are fashioned but as fate commands — 
 Being what I am my love was sacrilege. 
 
 Still, still I dream somewhither in far lands, 
 Passing some temple gate, turning some page, 
 
 I shall look up and find you waiting . . No; 
 
 Such dreams are banished many months ago. 
 
 For if I love, no less my thought is clear ; 
 
 And this I know, love fashions not man's fate ; 
 And this I know, having once lost you here 
 
 My dreams are powerless. Through the ivory gate 
 Such phantoms pass to cheat our souls ; but I 
 Found not my future's fabric on the lie. 
 
 No : you are you, treading appointed ways, 
 And I am I. The mean and sordid stairs 
 
 That scramble to my attic, the foul haze 
 
 Of squalid kitchens, all that drives and dares 
 
 Man's soul to batter at the gates of death, 
 
 Dispart us. Nay, we breathe no common breath. 
 
 But in the silence still I turn to you. 
 
 The slender silence ; for at last there comes 
 
 Even upon this grimy hive a few 
 
 Brief hours when the close swarm no longer hums. 
 
 O weary, O unprofitable bees. 
 
 That you must waken from such hours as these ! 
 
Otit of Mercy — Peace. 17 
 
 Why must you waken to the harsh control 
 
 Of hunger and of habit and of crime ? 
 Is there no thought of peace at the world's soul, 
 
 No wharfage down the restless tide of time? 
 Must you forever turn again to win 
 Life's miserable pittance for your sin ? 
 
 And I, what rest for me ? I need no rest 
 
 Who have known love ; I need no other thing 
 
 Having of all unconquered things the best, 
 The power of loving and the will to sing . . . 
 
 To sing her praise who touched my heart with song, 
 
 Waiting alone, still waiting — ah, how long ! 
 
 Here in the silence still I turn to you. 
 Writing such words as life allows to me, 
 
 Words beautiful and terrible and true, 
 
 Charged with a sense of alien mystery . . . 
 
 Of things that are not though we feel they are — 
 
 Brave singing islands off the outer star! 
 
 O eyes that fed in mine the impalpable 
 
 Unending vision of unfolding love! 
 O voice more moving than a merman's shell ! 
 
 O hands of gentle influence ! Above 
 All tides of earthly hope, all streams of fate. 
 Must not my soul find yours and name its mate ? 
 
The Prologue. 
 
 Ay, and what then ? O folly, O unrest. 
 
 To dream away the laws of all the world . . . 
 
 To mould the future to a poet's test, 
 
 Scrolling the heavens like a roseleaf curled ! 
 
 O infinite unquenchable desire — 
 
 Flame of life's flame, of secret fire, the fire ! 
 
 . . A woma7is scream / My window blind with frost 
 Shuts out the blackened squalor of the court. 
 
 Poor tortured wife were not your pains well lost 
 I n sleep ? . . Jicst God I That instant some report . 
 
 Men calling through the barracks . . one zvho said 
 
 Clearly above the clatter — " Nell is dead.'' 
 
 Dead--" Nell " is dead. Frail siren of the streets, 
 With poor starved lips reddened to summon shame . 
 
 To-morrow's tale is written. Ghastly sheets 
 Who lend the fallen miserable fame 
 
 Will mark the spot, counting the tale well told. 
 
 But " Nell" is dead; poor " Nell" was overbold. 
 
 Ah ! all my dreams of you are dead . . I must 
 Go down to her, poor ruined " Nell ;" the girl 
 
 Was young for crime and over-young for dust. 
 Her pretty hair was tangled curl on curl 
 
 Over her head ; the shallow little brain 
 
 Idles no more ; she has forgotten pain. 
 
Out of Mercy — Peace. 19 
 
 She has forgotten pain . . I must go down 
 To where she lies, and elbow past the men 
 
 Who press around her staruig at the gown 
 
 Stained with new blood; go down to her . . and then, 
 
 O then perhaps I shall return and know 
 
 Why life yields unto death. 'Tis better so. 
 
 O, best beloved, I write to you through tears, 
 Who never thought to weep again ; my eyes 
 
 Are blinded with a mist— and now it clears 
 
 And all my heart seems touched with new surprise . , 
 
 Poor little reckless " Nell " ! Perhaps she sees 
 
 With quickened eyes love's cleansing mysteries. 
 
ASHES. 
 
 A PLAY IN ONE ACT. 
 
 Persons in the Play: 
 
 George Ardon, . A Widower. 
 Edith, . The Ghost of His Wife. 
 A Butler. 
 
 SCENE : — A richly furnished library in a handsome suburban residence. 
 Left, a large French window opening upcfi a formal garden, a glimpse 
 of which is visible. Rear, a door leading to a hall. Eight, a 
 fireplace and mantel. Upon the mantel is a large photograph of 
 Mrs. Ardon. To right of door, a writing desk. Without it is 
 bright moonlight, but the room is lighted in subdued tones by electric 
 lamps in red shades. The curtains at the window are twt drawn 
 and a patch of mooJilight falls upo?i the floor. 
 
 The Butler enters from rear door, with a tray containing a syphon^ 
 decanter, glass, and some letters. He places it upon the smoking table, 
 and draivs an easy chair nearer to the fireplace^ 
 
 Enter from rear door George Ardon. He slams it noisily 
 after him and crosses the room 7vith quick nervous strides. He is about 
 forty, good-looking, zvith signs of dissipation in his face and dark circles 
 under his eyes. Comes to table. 
 
 Akboh {impatiently.): Confound it! Why don't you 
 have things ready for me when I come in? 
 
 Butler : I was just placing your whiskey and soda on the 
 table, sir. 
 
 Ardon : Any mail? Why haven't you lighted the fire? 
 
A s he s , 
 
 21 
 
 Ardon : 
 Butler 
 
 Ardon : 
 
 Butler 
 Ardon 
 Butler 
 Ardon : 
 Butler 
 
 Butler : The letters are on the table, sir. Beg pardon, 
 sir, but it was a very warm evening, and being 
 so late in the spring, I thought — 
 Light the fire ! 
 Very well, sir. 
 
 (Butler stoops to light the fire. Akuoh goes over and 
 throivs open the French 7vindow, letting in a flood of moon- 
 light.) 
 
 Never mind the fire — what are you doing ? I 
 must have some air or I'll stifle ! 
 Very well, sir. 
 You may go. 
 
 Nothingr further to-night, sir? 
 No. 
 
 Good-night, sir. 
 (Ardon stands by table, and, as Butler closes the door, 
 pours out a stiff drink of whiskey and tosses it off with shak- 
 ing hands.) 
 
 Ardon {spilling a few drops.^ : Oh, damn my nerves ! 
 What business have I got with nerves ? A man 
 at my age — plagued with a curse of nerves 
 until I jump and tremble at every sound like a 
 silly school-girl ! Pshaw — they're a refinement 
 of modern civilization that I can't afford I 
 must pull myself together — get self-control. 
 That's it ! Nerves are nonsense ! 
 
 ( 6*1?^^" over to mirror in the ?nantel and looks at hiniself. ) 
 
 God, how bad I look ! This won't do ! What 
 is it the Doctor told me ? * Got to let up a 
 w^hile?' — well, so I have. I've been in mourn- 
 ing ! {Laughs.^ Let's see — how long has it 
 
22 The Prologue. 
 
 been ? We won't count to-night— though its 
 the first time I've broken over since she died — 
 about four weeks ago, wasn't it ? And now 
 my nerves are worse off after a month's rest 
 than they were before. Some machines rust if 
 they rest. I must get away from here — get a 
 complete change. Confound living in the 
 country ! Takes me forty minutes to get back 
 and forth from the city. It was one of her 
 whims, this living out here — wanted a garden — 
 and I was in love then — so I humored her. I 
 never claimed to be less a fool than the rest of 
 the world. A garden — well, it's one of the 
 latest fads. Thank Heaven she didn't go in for 
 Christian Science — or literature ! There are 
 some things worse than gardens. 
 ( Takes her picture off the mantel and looks at it critically. ) 
 (^Addressing the picture.^ What did I ever see 
 in you anyway? I hadn't even extreme youth 
 as an excuse — for I was thirty-five when I 
 married you. I thought I had been through 
 the ' infatuation periods ' so that I knew what 
 I was doing this time. (yMusingly.^ The first 
 fruit of experience is often one's greatest mis- 
 take. That is essential to make one's experi- 
 ence complete I suppose. It proved so in my 
 case. (^Again addressing her picture.^ I might 
 have known I would grow to hate you — with 
 that simpering sweet face always turned up to 
 be kissed. You had no mind of your own — 
 but were eternally clinging and whining ! You 
 
Ashes. 23 
 
 used to rasp my nerves like a steel file until — 
 pshaw — no more of this ! {Puts back the 
 picture.^ I must take that thing away — I can't 
 bear to see it around. It will drive me mad ! 
 
 {Goes to table ^ pours out another drink and gulps it doivn 
 more eagerly than before.^ 
 
 The doctor said I must leave that stuff alone at 
 once. The fool ! If he knew anything he 
 would know that it is all that pulls me together 
 — makes me right. I'd rather die at once than 
 be tied the rest of my life to the theories of a 
 quack. He said if I didn't stop I ran grave 
 risk of impairing my mental condition — that 
 was the phrase he used, damn him ! ' Mental 
 condition ' — why, but for these infernal nerves 
 I am as clear-headed as any man Ask anyone 
 in the street about George Ardon's 'mental 
 condition ' during that last squeeze (^Laughs 
 immoderately — then stops short.) I forgot the 
 mail. 
 
 {Sits in the easy chair before the fireplace, and carelessly 
 begins to open his letters. Pauses, mixing anotJier drink. 
 Suddenly catches sight of one particular letter, and seizes it 
 eagerly.') 
 
 From Alice — at last ! I suppose she thought 
 she would leave me alone until my period of 
 mourning was over. 
 {Laughs again. Then reads. ) 
 ' Dearest George, 
 
 'How have you survived the blow?' 
 (^Laughs.) 'You must be completely crushed. 
 
24 The Prologue. 
 
 ' I am coming to town next Monday — so if you 
 ' can remove the traces of sack-cloth and ashes 
 ' and make yourself presentable — I shall expect 
 
 ' to see you. 
 
 ' Hastily yours, 
 
 'Alice.' 
 
 Why did she say 'sack- cloth and ashes' I 
 wonder? What trick of Fate made her choose 
 that phrase? Doesn't she know 'sack-cloth 
 and ashes' are only worn for — {slowly) — repent- 
 ance ? 
 
 {Starts and looks around hastily. Murmurs^ his voice gtoiv- 
 ing husky.) 
 
 Repentance — repentance. {Suddenly , with re- 
 newed animatiofi). Bah — the first man who 
 had an attack of nerves invented the word 
 'conscience.' Cowards made consciences for 
 all of us. {Laughs) Alice, my sweet Alice — 
 I drink to thee! {Holdmg up his glass.) Con- 
 fusion to nerves and conscience, the enemies of 
 mankind ! 
 
 ( Takes a handsome meerschajim pipe from the table, fills afid 
 lights it. Blowing smoke rings and gazing at them reflectively 
 as they rise.) 
 
 Alice, there will be no more mistakes this time. 
 Together we will start afresh, forget the past — 
 forget there ever were such things as nerves. 
 
 {Waves his pipe in front of him, then pauses, his eyes resting 
 upon it. Lays it quickly on the table with a gesture of 
 distaste. ) 
 
A s hes. 25 
 
 No — not that pipe! Not that one! What 
 made me pick it up ? I must clear this place 
 out — burn it down ! Everywhere I turn I can 
 se.e Edith / {Pensively^ She used to sit here 
 evenings, on the other side of the table, fill that 
 pipe, hand it to me and hold the match for me 
 to light it. {Savagely.^ Then she would sink 
 back with that infernal meek air and embroider 
 — and embroider — and embroider, never speak- 
 ing unless spoken to — until I longed to throw 
 a book at her — anything to make her make a 
 noise ! 
 
 She knew I hated her — though I used to fight 
 for self-control — but never a reproach or a word 
 from her, I could have stood it if she had only 
 shown signs of resentment — done something ; 
 always that meek, humble v/ay — nothing but 
 the reproachful look in those child's eyes of 
 hers. Even my trump card failed to move her. 
 Scandal reached her. Friends told her about 
 Alice. Still nothing — only the reproachful 
 look seemed a little deeper. And then she was 
 taken ill. 
 
 {^Hc rises, goes to the wiiidotv and looks out into tJie garden.) 
 
 Her garden ! {Laughs.) Jove, the moonlight is 
 grand to-night ! I'll put out the light and sit 
 here to enjoy it awhile before going to bed. 
 Too fine a night for sleep. Must have a night- 
 cap first, though. 
 
26 The Prologue. 
 
 ( Goes to table and tak'es another drink. Then puts out the 
 electric light, leaving the room lighted by jnoonlight only, 
 which pours in the open window. Sits again before the fire- 
 place, the chair-back placing him in a shadow.) 
 
 A month ago to-night ! The moonHght was 
 just the same on that night too — and it was 
 clear, not a cloud to be seen. I remember — 
 God, can I ever forget ? — I came in late — 
 they told me she was ill — I knew she had just 
 heard about Alice — I thought the worm had 
 turned at last. (^Laughs.) I went up to see 
 her — but no — she was the same as ever — humble 
 — shy, infuriating I And then — {^groans to him- 
 self^ The doctor pronounced it 'heart failure 
 due to some sudden shock ' ! — intelligent man ! 
 He listens — tlien starts up, clutching the arms of his chair.) 
 Hah !— What's that ? 
 
 [Slowly he rises and nerves Jam self to look toward the ivindow. 
 The Ghost of Edith Ardon enters and stands by the windoxv, 
 pale in the moonlight. She has on a simple gardening dress 
 and carries a basket of flowers on her arm.) 
 
 {Uttering almost a shriek.^ Edith ! 
 
 ( She smiles wearily but does not move.) 
 
 Edith ! I — I am going mad — I — the light — 
 
 quick — the light ! 
 
 {He falters with difficulty toward the stvitch. She moves 
 forward into the room and stands be/ore him. ) 
 
 Ah! {Gasps and recoils.') This is nonsense — 
 I am unstrung — that's all — {turns his back and 
 
Ashes. 27 
 
 goes toward table.) — unstrung — pull myself 
 together — I'll be calm — reason this out. It 
 can't be — I wont believe it ! 
 
 ( Wheels suddenly, clutching the table. She still stands con- 
 fronting him. ) 
 
 It isn't SO ! An illusion — 'mental cond — ' oh, 
 my God, it is Edith ! 
 
 [Sinks into a chair in despair — then springs to his feet. ^ 
 No — no, such things can't happen— doctor said 
 — said — I'll light the light — be calm ! 
 [He again starts toward it but the Ghost of his wife retnains 
 unfnoved. ) 
 
 Edith — as there is a God in Heaven I loved — 
 {She raises her arm with a restraining gesture.) 
 No, no— I — 
 
 {He falls on one knee by the table and tries to blot out the 
 vision. ) 
 
 I— Edith— I— I will ! 
 
 {She points toward the writing desk.) 
 No, no — not that — I can't! 
 
 {She points again. He staggers to his feet and goes to the 
 desk, ivhich is in strong moonlight. Shakingly he takes a 
 sheet of paper and dips the pen in the ink. Then writes 
 slowly with many despairing glances toward his wife's Ghost, 
 who continues as before to point i?iexorably. 
 
 'Alice ' — no, another sheet — {glances aroimd) 
 ' I am going away indefinitely. I expect to 
 start at once. My doctor tells me change is an 
 absolute necessity. The shock of my wife's 
 
28 
 
 The Prologue 
 
 death {again looks toward Edith, who stands 
 impassive as ever^ has proved too great a 
 strain.' 
 
 {^Edith inclines her head in token of approTal and fades slowly 
 away. Ardon springs to the bell, turns on the light, sinks 
 into a chair. Enter Butler.) 
 
 Butler: Did you ring, sir? 
 
 (Ardon stares at the Butler avithout nuwonent or 
 sign of comprehension. ) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 J. R. Crawford. 
 
MARGUERITE. 
 
 Fairer than any flower that dies, 
 She mocked the heavens with her eyes, 
 She mocked the sun with her golden hair, 
 Too bright the maid, and all too fair. 
 
 Too fair the maid, too bright the fire, 
 The flame of love was youth's desire, 
 I bruised the grape, I tasted the wine ; 
 The joy and the bitterness are mine ! 
 
 STONEHENGE. 
 
 In many a dim cathedral have I stood, 
 
 Where dusky nave and radiant transept meet. 
 
 Treading the holy cross with reverent feet. 
 
 While solemn music echoed all my mood. 
 
 Yet, Stonehenge, did my wonder never brood 
 
 On a more peaceful or profound retreat, 
 
 Nor on a fairer temple or more sweet, 
 
 Than where thy stones their mystic rows conclude 
 
 For painted windows, here the western sky 
 Fills in thine arches with a touch of fire ; 
 For tessellated pavement, nature weaves 
 Patterns of turf and flowers ; the fitful choir 
 Of nested birds, the wind among the leaves 
 Fills all thy bounds with heavenly melody. 
 
A CONCEIT. 
 
 Love lost his gifts, and far and wide 
 He sought, and came upon my fair, 
 
 And seeking comfort at her side 
 
 Found all his stolen treasures there, 
 
 His reddest roses in her lips, 
 
 His blushes on her finger tips. 
 
 And all his gold was in her hair. 
 
 Wrought with his fancies, out and in, 
 
 And in the laughter of my fair 
 
 Love spied the dimple from his chin. 
 
 In all her words he caught his sighs. 
 
 He read his longings in her eyes. 
 
 Then love full angered lingered there, 
 And grasped his weapons with a pout. 
 
 Yet loath to injure one so fair 
 
 He sighed and turned his glance about. 
 
 He spied me as I stood apart, 
 
 / was the victim of his dart. 
 
MAETERLINCK AND THE 
 STAGE. 
 
 N interesting feature of the poetical work of 
 certain younger writers of the day, Mr. Ste- 
 phen Phillips, Mr. Yeats, Signor d'Annunzio, 
 M. Maeterlinck, is the fact that they have 
 often elected to write in the dramatic form, so that the 
 most enthusiastic among their admirers have ventured to 
 hope that these poets might introduce some new stage 
 method, heralding the renaissance of the drama. Few 
 opportunities have been afforded, however, for seeing the 
 plays brought to the test of stage presentation. Mr. 
 Yeats' little fairy play, The Land of Heart's Desire, was 
 successfully given last spring ; but America yet awaits the 
 production of Paolo and Francesca, either in the English 
 or the Italian form. In the meantime, the late presenta- 
 tion by Mrs. Campbell of Maeterlinck's Pelleas ct 
 Melisande offers interesting material for critical comment. 
 Probably none of M Maeterlinck's admirers looked for- 
 ward very hopefully to the production of the play, and 
 probably none were surprised at the outburst of ridicule 
 and invective from the newspaper critics. But there can 
 be no doubt that the attitude of the audience throughout 
 the play was one of frank dissatisfaction, and the ugly truth 
 seems to be that the attempt was a depressing failure 
 However, the performance was not without its lesson in 
 
32 The Prologue. 
 
 showing the limitations, not only of M. Maeterlinck's 
 work, but of the contemporary stage. 
 
 Of course the first reason for the failure of any one of 
 M. Maeterlinck's plays is its symbolism. Every play 
 that he ever wrote is instinct with symbolism, with a 
 hidden meaning that does not merely accompany the 
 action, as does allegory, but often rises to dominate the 
 entire piece. Events occur, which, so far as the action 
 goes, have no importance at all. This, of course, is the 
 unpardonable sin against dramatic method. Of such a 
 nature is the striking scene in Pelleas and Melisande 
 where Golaud shows his younger brother the subterranean 
 vaults whose fumes are poisoning the entire life of the 
 castle. As an allegorical expression of the sin of Pelleas 
 and the young wife this is unrivaled in strength and 
 suggestiveness. But as a part of the story it is meaning- 
 less, its only significance being symbolical. Now the 
 principal characteristicof symbolism, in contrast to allegory, 
 is that it offers no solution in itself of its hidden mean- 
 ing ; it affords no guiding thread in the shape of sugges- 
 tive names or descriptions to lead from the labyrinth. 
 Its significance is that it chimes with the mood, with the 
 impression which the play is making. And so its force is 
 never felt until the play is well known, until the theme, 
 like a theme in music, is fully understood. The first 
 effect of symbolism is always to bewilder, and thebewilder- 
 incr is not for the staije. The acted drama has but an 
 hour or two in which to make its appeal, and the appeal 
 must be clear and distinct. Anything that demands long 
 reflection is essentially undramatic. 
 
 But it has been suggested that it is possible to forget 
 
Maeterlinck and the Stage, 33 
 
 all this symbolism, and read the play or story for itself. 
 There is but one way to do this, — it is to return to that 
 golden land of faerie which we have all known as children, 
 the land of the haunted castle and the princess of sur- 
 passing loveliness. Yet it will be touched with modern 
 melancholy. It is the land of William Morris, and of 
 Burne-Jones, " a beautiful romantic dream of something 
 that never was, never will be, in a light better than any 
 light that ever shone, in a land no one can define or 
 remember, — only desire." Here the play of passions is 
 more elemental, material beauties less vulgarized and 
 common. The people toil not, neither do they spin, but 
 in fine old castles by the shore of a sounding sea, in 
 spacious halls of marble, with laurel, lavender, and lilies 
 in porcelain vases, they dwell amid all the glories of some 
 enchanted Lotos Isle. They have none of the cares of 
 life ; they have no work to do, no bread to win. Their 
 pulses never beat to action. A lethargy is over man and 
 nature. Now all this, again, is not for the stage. The 
 figures from this enchanted land fare but ill behind the 
 glaring footlights. It may be questioned if any fairy 
 play can be successfully performed. Children — always 
 the least satisfactory of actors — may be bedizened with 
 gauze and gilt, but they are never fairy-like. They are 
 always flesh and blood ; they could never 
 
 " tread the ooze of the salt deep. 
 
 Or run upon the sharp wind of the north." 
 
 And the stage, with its click of the electric button, its 
 lime light, its instantaneous sunsets, may never suggest 
 that twilight land of eternal evening, and the strange 
 
 LofC. 
 
34 The Prologue. 
 
 reality which it lends to the unreal. It may 
 make of a play an extravaganza ; it may never inter- 
 pret. Fancy a tableau vivant of one of Burne-J ones' 
 canvases ! 
 
 The fact of the matter seems to be that M. Maeter- 
 linck relies on effects that are wholly foreign to the stage. 
 His plays are a series of impressions or moods, rather 
 than a series of actions. None has succeeded better than 
 he in suggesting fateful suspense, the awful Vv^aiting for 
 the unknown, the yearninp- after the eternal, the inertia 
 that follows the loss of hope, the unnerving of the limbs 
 before a pitiless destiny, the groping in the dark toward 
 a light that does not exist. Among his works Les 
 Aveugles, v/ith its interpretation of the strange, apathetic 
 nature of the blind, is perhaps the most uniformly 
 successful. In Pelleas et Melisande it is the conflict of 
 the childlike soul, who feels that joy is its birthright, 
 with laws and customs which it does not understand and 
 can never submit to. Thevv^ords, " I am not happy here," 
 scattered through the play, are like a recurrent theme in 
 music. They are strikingly expressive, and their strength 
 lies in repetition. They accompany the mood of 
 which they are a part. But taken from their fairy 
 setting, amid the alien surroundings of the stage, the 
 words are ridiculous. After Melisande has been abused 
 by a twentieth century Golaud, thrown to the floor, and 
 dragged about by the hair, the mild assertion that she is 
 not happy provokes at best a ripple of laughter. The 
 drama is not creating its mood. And there is no 
 opportunity for it to do so, its poetry broken forever by 
 the entr'actes, and the chattering of the pleasure seekers. 
 
Maeterlinck and the Stage. 35 
 
 Apart from these essential impressions, M. Maeterlinck 
 cares little for dramatic method, and even less for stage- 
 craft. Both come to him at times unsought. His very 
 repetitions often produce a wonderful effect, witness the two 
 scenes at the fountain in Pelleas et Melisajide. But in general 
 it may be said that he cares for one thing only, the life of 
 the soul. Whole scenes proceed without any real action, 
 in which the characters have nothing to do but think. 
 There are few climaxes and no "curtains." Yet there 
 is ever the life of the soul. A playwright is always im- 
 pressed by what should be omitted, and by what could be 
 effected by simple change or inversion, '' Pensez a voire 
 affaire,'' the playwright exclaims, and Maeterlinck seems 
 to answer, ''Je iie pense qiia, rained All the real action 
 of his drama is in the hidden life of the soul, and it is to 
 this same life, and to it only, that Maeterlinck must ever 
 make his appeal. 
 
MOONLIGHT 
 
 (AFTER VERLAINE.) 
 
 Your soul is as a chosen place 
 
 Where charming maskers come and go, 
 Playing on lutes and dancing, with a trace 
 
 Of sadness under their fantastic show. 
 
 Thus ever singing in a minor strain 
 
 Auspicious life and love's triumphant sway, 
 
 Joyous they seem to hold all joyance vain — 
 And with the lucid moonlight blends their lay. 
 
 The lucid moonlight, beautiful and tender, 
 That makes the sleepy birds dream in the trees, 
 
 And the tall fountain-columns, maiden-slender 
 Amid their marbles, sob with alien ecstasies, 
 
 Lee Wilson Dodd. 
 
A MONOTONE 
 
 (AFTER VERLAINE.) 
 
 A veiled dawn 
 
 Pours out for me 
 Upon the fields 
 Sad mystery 
 Of sunset skies. 
 
 The flushing morn 
 Brings sleep to grief, 
 
 Which early born, 
 Will linger till 
 
 The day is gone. 
 O rosy Phantom 
 
 Of the dawn ! 
 Thy endless march 
 
 Across the sands 
 Leads onward to 
 
 Far sunset strands ! 
 
 Vincent Van M. Beede. 
 
SMOKE. 
 
 (AFTER THEOPHILE GAUTIER.) 
 
 Below us, sheltered by the trees, 
 A ruined cottage stands aloof. 
 
 The crumbled walls, like trembling knees, 
 Support the stooping roof. 
 
 Blind are its eyes , . . As upward wends 
 Through frost a human breath, so here 
 
 The breathing of the hut ascends 
 White through the atmosphere. 
 
 The mazy spirals of the smoke 
 
 In slender filaments entwine. 
 As if the Highest to invoke 
 
 From What the walls confine. 
 
 Vincent Van M. Beede. 
 
TURKEY GOBBLER. 
 
 A NORSE NIGHTMARE. 
 
 Characters: 
 
 Bygosh Bygoshson, a Wealthy Farmer, 
 Frieda, . . . His Daughter. 
 
 Hiram, . . . His Hired Man. 
 
 SCENE : — TAe moon is full, but the shy is completely overcast and the 
 night is very dark. A farm-house sitting-room^ plainly fur rushed. 
 The curtains are drawn and one cannot see out. The lamp smokes. 
 Left, a stove. Right, chairs. Pictures in frames on the walls. 
 Above, a ceiling. To the left of the what-not a self-playing piano 
 is droning out a funeral dirge. Rag carpet on the floor. 
 
 Bygosh enters from hall, followed by Hiram. They are simply 
 dressed and Hiram is cheiving a straw. 
 
 Bygosh : Nothing doing ! 
 
 Hiram : No, nor won't be either, 
 
 Bygosh : There never is anything doing. 
 
 Hiram : Of course not ! It wouldn't be what the city- 
 folks call ' artistic' 
 
 Bygosh : Done the chores ? 
 
 Hiram: No. 
 
 Bygosh : Why not ? 
 
 Hiram : We've got to leave something for the second 
 act. 
 
40 
 
 The Prologue, 
 
 Bygosh : Let's not have any second act. 
 
 Hiram (^yawfis) : Ah. 
 
 Bygosh {doggedly) : It's got to be done in the morning ! 
 
 Hiram : I don't believe morning will ever come. 
 
 Bygosh : I tell you it must ! 
 
 Hiram: What? Come? 
 
 Bygosh : No, no, it must be done. 
 
 Hiram : Oh. 
 
 Bygosh : Don't you see ? 
 
 Hiram : Yes. 
 
 Bygosh : Frieda must not know ! 
 
 [Enter Frieda. She carries a Jug of cider and a plate of 
 doughnuts tuhich she places on the table with care. ) 
 
 Frieda : What must I not know ? 
 
 Hiram : Lots of things. 
 
 Bygosh : I am afraid she does. 
 
 Frieda : How cold it is ! 
 
 Hiram : Not unnatural in winter in these parts. 
 
 Frieda : How strange you are looking, father. 
 
 Hiram : Not his fault, I guess, 
 
 Frieda : Oh, I am sure something dreadful is going to 
 
 happen ! 
 Bygosh : My God, don't speak of it ! 
 Hiram : No, don't ! 
 Frieda : You mean — ? 
 Bygosh : Yes. 
 Frieda : Oh no, not that ! 
 Hiram : What are we talking about ? 
 Bygosh : What does it matter ? 
 
Turkey Gobbler. 41 
 
 Frieda : What does anything matter — now ! 
 
 Hiram {softly): Don't think. 
 
 Frieda (indignantly) : I am not thinking ! 
 
 Bygosh : No one ever thinks. 
 
 Hiram ( with an inspiration ).• Have a drink? 
 
 (Bygosh ivalks moodily to table and pours out a glass of 
 
 hard cider. ) 
 
 Bygosh {tossing off the glass) : We must tell her ! You 
 
 tell her Hiram. 
 Hiram : I ? 
 Bygosh : Why not ? 
 Hiraai : Perhaps she knows. 
 Bygosh : She cannot know. 
 Hiram : Why not ask her? 
 Bygosh : What ? 
 Hiram : If she knows. 
 Bygosh : Frieda, do you know ? 
 Frieda : What ? 
 
 Bygosh {hopelessly) : You see she doesn't. 
 Hiram : I don't blame her. 
 Bygosh : My God, I've mixed the symbols. She doesn't 
 
 know ! 
 Hiram : I must tell her, 
 Frieda : Do, I am going mad ! 
 Bygosh : I thought she would. 
 Hiram {gently) : Frieda, your father — hush ! 
 Frieda : Yes, yes. 
 
 Hiram {to Bygosh) : Its not yet too late. 
 Bygosh : Yes, I am determined. 
 
42 The Prologue. 
 
 Hiram {to Frieda) : Your pet — the Turkey Gobbler — 
 Frieda: Yes, yes, I know — 
 Hiram : Must be killed at dawn ! 
 Frieda : My God ! 
 
 {Sinks weephjg into a chair). 
 Bygosh : Fancy that ! 
 Frieda {moans) : Heaven pity us, to do such a thing as 
 
 that ! 
 Hiram : It's tough, I know. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 J. R. Crawford. 
 
AGNES. 
 
 (AFTER IBSEN.) 
 
 'Agnes, my beautiful butterfly, 
 
 ri! bind thee with fetters strong ! 
 I am weaving a net with meshes small, 
 And the meshes I weave are my song ! " 
 
 "And am I a butterfly, little and bright. 
 Then leave me alone to my lot; 
 And art thou a lad, so eager for play, 
 Then hunt me, but capture me not." 
 
 "Agnes, my beautiful butterfly, 
 The meshes are woven all; 
 Thy fluttering flight shall avail thee not, 
 Soon shalt thou flutter— and fall" 
 
 ''And am I a butterfly, little and gay, 
 That flits v/nere the blossom swings ; 
 Then cover me not with the web of thy net, 
 And touch not my fluttering wings !" 
 
 " Nay, I will lift thee tenderly up 
 And lock thee within my breast ; 
 There thou shalt play thy life away— 
 The gladdest play and the best !" 
 
 John PiERREroNT Rice. 
 
 lUW V^ 
 
 9.4 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 The Prologue s done, pray ask not for the play ; 
 If you are pleased we II risk no more to-day. 
 Bitt if weve bored, remember wit's a ware 
 That in these sorry times is passing rare ; 
 Wit's a commodity , which, like the beet, 
 Needs your protection to produce what's sweet. 
 This prose is dull you say, our verse but rime. 
 Deal gently friend, we ask but brains — and time. 
 
JUN 24 1302 
 
A. 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 017 197 295 4