PS 3515 .U6 S8 1919 Copy 1 Stuff O' Dreams and other plays (By q^EX HUNTER Book.IllLk^iL_ Copyright ]^" A"^ \'^ . copmiom DEPOSIT STUFF O' DREAMS and OTHER PLAYS STUFF O' DREAMS AND OTHER PLAYS BY REX HUNTER CHICAGO T. S. DENISON & COMPANY Publishers \ NOTICE PRODUCTION rig,Kts of tKese plays are reserved by tKe author -wKo may be addressed in care of tKe Publishers , T. S. Denison & Company, 154 West Randolph St., Chicago, 111. DEC -3 19^9 COPYRIGHT, 1919 REX HXINTER ©CI.A536820 CONTENTS PAGE The Wild Goose - - - - 7 Stuff o' Dreams - - - - 19 Hands and tKe Man - - - 33 The Romany Road - - - 43 THE WILD GOOSE TO MAE TRUESDALE who created the role of Mary Thompson THE WILD GOOSE Produced at Central Music Hall, Chicago, April 26, 1919 CHARACTERS. Michael Moran The Wild Goose Maey Thompson A Rooming-House Servant "Would you stay tKe ^reat barnacle ^GDse When his eyes are set to the sea and his teak to the salt of the air/ THE WILD GOOSE The scene is one of those curious combined living and sleeping rooms which are inhabited the world over by wandering young men of limited means. Michael Moran, tall, fair, slender, with something wild, restless and brooding in his face, is sitting at a typewriter in the center of the room typing a manuscript. Through a window at his right he can look out into the street. Behind him is a dressing table on which stand hair brushes and the leather case used to pack them in, a safety razor in a black case, a photograph of a girl, five or six pipes, and books and papers which have been hur- riedly thrown there because the typewriter table is overflowing with them. At Moran's right is the inevitable washstand, a round table covered with a white cloth and holding a jug of water and a bowl. A couple of towels are thrown over a rod attached to the table. A number of books are arranged carelessly in the window recess. A brown steamer trunk and a suitcase are on the floor, wedged in between the dressing table and the wash- stand. On the left of the room near the door is a combination bed-couch. A cap and overcoat are hanging from a rack on the wall at the left. There is a knock at the door. MiCHAEii. Come In! ^^^^^^'^ Mary Thompson, the maid-of -all-work of the rooming house, enters carrying a broom and duster. 11 12 THE WILD GOOSE She is a small, rather frightened looking creature •with wisps of brown hair which she keeps brushing out of her eyes. She regards Michael, who is so different from the other young men in the rooming house, with mingled admiration and awe. Mary. Oh, I didn't know you was in, Mr. Moran. I'll come back later. {Starts to go out.) Michael. (Heartily.) If you're wanting to clean the room, Mary, go ahead. Mary comes in and starts to sweep the room. Mary. Y' know that Miss Menzies that lives in th' room right below here, Mr. Moran.'' Michael. You mean the little dark girl who always dresses in blue.P (Mary nods.) Yes, I remember seeing her going in and out. ^ Well, she's to be married next week. To George Wilson. He works in Bostock's shoe store, y' know. Michael. (Abstractedly.) Yes.? ,, Mary. Yeh. They're goin' t' live in Greenview. That's th' suburb out on the north side, y' know. She says there's a real lawn in front of th' house, and they're goin' to keep chickens, an' she's bin asked t' join the Ladies' Culture Club. THE WILD GOOSE 1^3 Michael. And George will join some secret society, I sup- pose, and catch the 7 :45 train into town every morn- ing. How can they stand it? Clipped wings, like the chickens in the yard. Can't fly any more. But perhaps they never had any wings. {He shrugs his shoulders as if dismissing the sub- ject and goes on typing.) Mary. {Stares at him, uncomprehending. After a pause.) What's that you're writin', Mr. Moran.'' Michael. I'm just writing a story about the South Seas. Mary. {Leaning on her broom and contemplating Michael with round eyes.) Was you really in the South Seas, Mr. Moran.'' It's a wonder you wasn't afraid of the cannibals. Michael. {Laughing.) Cannibals.'' That's good! There aren't any canni- bals there now. You get your ideas from yams like this. {He picks up a magazine from the table.) Here's a story written by some nice young man in an attic in New York. He talks about cannibal feasts as if they were an every day event down there, and the artist draws a Fijian to look like a Zulu. Look here ! Mary. Don't they really look like that, Mr. Moran.? Michael. I should say not! A Fijian, Mary, doesn't wear a feather head-dress. His hair is sufficient head- 14 THE WILD GOOSE dress. He wears it as high as this — {holds right hand about a foot above his head) — and he doesn't tote a spear around. I've seen 'em all — Tongans, Fijians, Samoans, Solomon Islanders. I've drunk kava down the Street-of-all-Nations in Suva and been up the Navua River in a cutter. I've seen a native shin up a tree and bring down a green cocoa- nut with milk in it like nectar. This story, JMary (indicating the magazine)^ was so rotten that I thought I'd write the real thing and try it on the editor. (Resumes typing.) (Mary commences to arrange the articles on the dressing table. She picks up the photograph and gazes at it intently. Michael looks round and catches her in the act. Mary puts the photograph down hurriedly. Michael smiles.) Michael. She's a lovely thing, isn't she, Mary,? A lovely slim thing, would charm the heart out of any man's body. It's for her sake I'm giving up the wander- ing life. ,, ^ Mary. I hope ye'll be very happy, I'm sure. Michael. Aye, I'm sure to be happy. Though there's mo- ments when a vagrant breeze steals in at the window, might have come straight from the beach of an island far away, where the blue seas are flashing in the sun — but what is it I'm talking about .? Me that am going to forsake that aimless wandering life forever. (He types rapidly.) (After a moment he goes to the window and looks out. Speaking half to himself and half to Mary.) Little people living in little houses. I'm to be a THE WILD GOOSE 15 tame little man living in a little house. {He goes to the dressing table, picks up the photograph and looks at it.) But a lovely thing Hke her. It should be worth it. Mary. It must be an awful lonely life, wanderin' all th' time. Comin' to strange cities where j' don't know a soul. T,, Michael. Yes, it's often lonely. But there's something about it — the scene changing all the time — coming into a harbor and seeing a new city for the first time, there's something wonderful about that, Mary. And wandering about streets you were never in before, seeing different ways of doing things. {He contin- ues as if trying to convince himself.) But it's a queer lonely life, as you say, Mary. It's better for a man to stay in one place with some one to care for him. {He goes to the steamer* trunk and stands looking down at it.) The old brown trunk has been half over the world with me, but it's come to a rest at last. {He drags it into the center of the room, kneels hy it and opens it. He begins to turn over its contents. He takes out a package of photographs and begins to look at them.) Mary. What's that you're looking at, Mr. Moran.^* Michael,. Pictures of Honolulu, Mary — Honolulu, cross- roads of the world. With the big liners pausing for a while and going on to remote parts. The crowds on the wharf with leis of flowers and paper and the band playing "Farewell to Thee" — farewell — how it grips the heart-strings — wild sadness — the sadness of the butterfly that has so little a time to flash _16 THE WILD GOOSE bright wings in the sun. Brown boys diving in blue water. Waikiki Inn at evening — the musicians playing mournful music — songs of a dying race — a big white moon riding in the sky and the waves going swish — swish — under the inn. Mary. (Pausing in her sweeping, coming over by Moran's side and looking down at the trunk.) I've often heard tell of Honolulu. It must be wonderful t' be there. Michael. (Taking out another picture.) And here's a souvenir from London — London, old and grey, with the street lamps shining in the fog. And the roar of the traffic like an organ. Little cafe in Soho, where that merry party of artists gath- ered the night before I sailed — aimless drifters, the children of this world would call them — but how gay ! Mary. My father has relatives in London. He still gets letters from them. Michael. You can find everything in the world in London, Mary. And see this. (He takes out a little paper fan and goes on with increasing excitement.) That fan came from a yoshiwara in Yokohama. A little geisha girl gave it to me. She said: "This is to remember by — till you come back. Some day you come back." But I can never go back — now. (He sits with drooping head, mechanically turning over the things in the trunk.) THE WILD GOOSE 17 Michael. (Rousing himself.) Here's a letter from Dick Austin — we were stranded together on the beach in Buenos Ayres. Came in on an old tramp steamer. There was a queer cafe there we used to go to. We would sit on the balcony and smoke brown paper cigarettes while we watched the colored crowds in the streets. Here's a Maori tiki from New Zealand — a native charm, you know, made out of greenstone. I've an uncle there who has a sheep farm. He wanted me to stay but I got tired of it — the same old thing day after day. {He rises and paces restlessly up and down the room.) Some people are born tame, Mary, and some are wild like me. What was that line about the wild goose.'' Yeats wrote it — I marked it, I remember. {He goes to the window recess, takes a book, turns the pages rapidly.) Here it is — (He reads in a ringing voice:) "Would you stay the great barnacle goose When his eyes are set to the sea and his beak to the salt of the air.?" Ah, he knew! (He stands in a listening attitude.) The wild geese are calling! (He stares upwards as if he actually saw a flight of wild geese winging over- head. ) Wild geese in the dawning ! Flying out under the grey sky! (With sudden decision.) I can't do it! I can't stay! (He opens the suitcase and begins hurriedly throw- ing into it the things on the dressing table. In doing this he knocks over the photograph, which falls to the floor unnoticed.) 18 THE WILD GOOSE I want you to pack the rest of my things, Mary. (He snatches down the cap and overcoat.) I'll write to you and tell you where to send my trunk. Here's something for you. Goodbye! (He gives her some coins and rushes out, carrying the suitcase. Mary stands staring at the open door. Then she picks up the photograph, puts it hack on the dressing table and looks at it, slowly shaking her head. She picks up the book from which Michael read and reads slowly, hesitatingly.) Mary. "Would you stay the great barnacle goose When his eyes aj:e set to the sea and his beak to the salt of the air.'"' Curtain. STUFF O' DREAMS TO MY SISTER STUFF O' DREAMS This play was produced at the Globe Theatre, Kansas City, on April 19, 1918 CHARACTERS. Ann Morgan, A Fisher Girl. Heeman Osboene, Her Foster Brother. Donald Matheson, A Young Artist from New York. Dudley Watson, A Friend of Donald's. Place. A Fishing Village on the Coast of Maine. Time. Evening. Dusk deepening into night. 21 "We are sucK stuff as dreams are made on" STUFF O' DREAMS The scene represents the interior of a fisherman^s cottage on the coast of Maine. A door to the left leads to the kitchen. Another door to the left and back leads to the street. To the right and back is a long, narrow window. There is an old chest on the right. In the corners are nets and oars. The floor is bare. Ann Morgan, a slender girl of a delicate beauty, with dark hair and eyes and olive skin, is sitting on a low stool in the center of the roorn mending a net. In her simple dress of dark green with a brown girdle she seems half child, half fairy. Her un- bound hair flows over her shoulders. Donald Matheson, a young man of about twenty- five, with the sensitive face and long thin hands of the artist, peeps in at the window and then comes softly into the room. He is dressed with easy tasteful negligence in dark clothes with soft white shirt and black tie. Under his right arm he carries two small canvases. He tiptoes up to Ann and places his hands over her eyes. Donald. Guess who it is ! . Ann. The Maker of Pictures. Donald. (Withdrawing his hands.) Right! What were you dreaming of.? Note. — The part of Ann must be played without the slight- est trace of sophistication. 23 24 STUFF O' DREAMS Ann. I was dreaming of the little mermaids with sea- weed in their hair who steal ashore on hot summer days and curl up on the sand. Did you paint some lovely sea pictures? Donald. (Showing her the pictures.) I made these today. Ann. (Looking at the pictures and clasping her hands in ecstasy.) I think they're beautiful. But why haven't you put some mermaids in.'* Donald. (Shaking his head sadly.) The world has forgotten how to see mermaids. And I must paint my pictures for the approval of the world or I will get no bread to keep life in me. (He places the canvases against the wall. Ann rises, goes to the window and looks out.) Ann. The sea is peaceful as a child tonight. It is barely moving, like the breast of a little child sunk in heavy dreams. And yet its very quietness is like the calm which precedes a storm. Before morning the wind may be howling and the white horses may come charging into shore. (Pause.) I hope Herman doesn't stay out late in his boat. Donald. No, I saw him in the village street a little while ago. That foster brother of yours is certainly de- voted to you, little Ann. He reminds me of a shaggy watch dog that never sleeps. STUFF O' DREAMS 25 Ann. Dear old Herman! Donald. I'm afraid he doesn't like me — he seems to have some vague distrust of me. Ann. Oh, you only imagine that. I'm sure he's glad you came. (Donald goes to her.) It seems as if you had been here always instead of a few weeks. {^She turns to Donald. They clasp hands.) Do you remember the day you first told me that you — you loved me? Donald. Do you think I'd ever forget.'' We were coming down the cliff together. Ann. You were leading me by the hand. Donald. I felt you slipping. Ann. You put out your arms and caught me. I felt that I was living for the first time. Donald. Your head fell back on my shoulder. Ann. You kissed me. I thought I saw golden lilies blooming in Paradise. Donald. {Taking her in his arms.) Dear little Ann ! Beautiful soul in a beautiful body. (Ann clings for a moment, then goes to the stool and sits.) 26 STUFF O' DREAMS Ann. Tell me about New York. It is wonderful, is it not.? Donald. (Coming to Ann's side and kneeling hy her.) New York is very wonderful. You must come to New York with me, little Ann. Ann. Would the people there like me.'' Donald. You would lay a magic spell upon them. With your oval face and olive skin you are like a little Italian page boy — a page boy of mediaeval times when life was richer than now. I picture you in doublet and hose, with a feather in your cap, slip- ping on little pointed feet down the purple canyons which are the streets of New York, gazing with shy wonder at the modern world. Ann. ( With wide dreaming eyes like a child's.) Or in a gold frock.'' Donald. Yes, yes, in a gold frock! We will go to places full of light and music. You will give new life to the people there who have tired of music and light. They will see you as a yellow primrose growing by a dusty highway where many feet have passed. Ann. I have never seen a real city — only dream cities. I see dream cities when it is very quiet and I walk by the sea with the spray on my face. I see dream cities in the dawning when the dawn is silver on their STUFF O' DREAMS 27 gleaming spires. And I see them in the evening when the high towers are touched with the gold of flaming sunsets. ^^ ° JJONALD. You've always lived in dreams, haven't you, little Ann ? . Ann. Ever since I was a child. The world of dreams is the only real world I know. Donated. And if your dream world were shattered.'' Ann. Then I would not want to live. Donald. You are right. The death of the body — it is nothing. But when a dream is done to death it is terrible. They say that you can hear dead dreams crying in the voice of the sea at night time. (Pause.) But do not talk about such things. They make me morbid, and fill me with foolish fancies. Let us talk about the gold frock in which you will look like a yellow primrose. . I must show you my gold coat. (She rises and goes to the chest.) A lady who was down here last summer gave it to me. (She opens the chest and takes out a yellow coat embroidered with gold thread. She throws the coat over her shoulders.) Donald. (Bowing low.) The Maker of Pictures does homage to the Prin- cess in Yellow. Oh, Ann, you are exquisite in your golden coat. 28 STUFF O' DREAMS Ann. (Walking up and down the room like a delighted child.) Donald says I am exquisite in my golden coat, and I am going to New York with him. Herman Osborne, a young man in sou'wester hat and oilskins, with bluff honest manner, enters with Dudley Watson, who is about the same age as Donald and is somewhat similarly dressed. Herman. (Rather brusquely.) Here's a gentleman asking for ye, Mr. Matheson. (He examines the nets on the walls.) Watson. Well, Donald, old chap, rather a surprise, eh? Donald. (Shaking hands.) It is rather a surprise, Dudley. (As Watson glances curiously at Ann.) Ann, this is my friend Mr. Dudley Watson from New York. (Watson bows. Ann makes him a quaint little courtesy.) And now tell me what brings you down here. Watson. Your wife told me that you had discovered a little out of the way place where no one had ever painted before. (On the word "wife" Ann reels back and Herman looks up with a start.) It sounded so in- teresting that I decided to run down and join you. Ann. (With a gesture of pain.) His wife! STUFF O' DREAMS 29 Watson. (Noticing nothing, goes on.) By the way, I have a letter from your wife for you. (Takes letter from his pocket and hands it to Donald, who stands staring at it dazedly.) Herman. (With a threatening gesture to Donald.) I might have known there was something Hke this ! Watson. There's nothing wrong, is there, Donald.? (He looks from Donald to Herman in amazement. Then he glances at Ann, who is leaning against the wall, almost collapsing. The situation suddenly seems to dawn on him.) I'm sorry — I — didn't mean — I'll see you tomorrow, Donald. (He goes out hurriedly.) (There is dead silence for a few moments. Donald slowly opens the letter, glances over it, then drops his hands with a gesture of hopelessness.) Herman. (Suddenly breaking out.) You went sailing with me yesterday. You sat there smiling and talking to me in your soft voice, when all the time you were amusing yourself with Ann here. As sure as there's a sky above us, I'd have drowned you like a rat if I'd known ! Donald. (Giving him the letter.) Read this. It may help you to understand. Herman. (Reading slowly.) "Dear Donald: I hope you'll do some pictures down there that will sell, instead of a lot of fanciful 30 STUFF O' DREAMS daubs that the dealers won't look at. For Heaven's sake settle down to hard work, instead of wasting time with some girl who pities you — thinks you're misunderstood and all that sort of thing. As for setting you free, you might as well forget about it. You married me with your eyes open and I'm going to hold you to the bargain, if it's only for the satis- faction of preventing your marrying some silly creature who's fooled by your soft looks and your glib tongue. — Mary." Ann. Oh, I didn't know, I didn't know — that life could be so cruel. It hurts me — it hurts me — here {plac- ing her hand over her heart). Herman. {Rushing at Donald and seizing him hy the shoulders.) I said I'd have drowned you like a rat if I'd known. But it's not too late ! It's not too late ! I'll kill you with my bare hands for this ! Donald. {As if in a dream.) How can you kill a man when he is dead.'' {The two men stare into each other'' s eyes for sev- eral moments, then Herman lets his hands slowly drop away and stands in an attitude of helplessness.) Donald. {To Herman.) Will you give me one little minute with her alone? To speak my farewell? For all time? Will you do STUFF O' DREAMS 31 this for me? And after, you may do what you like with me. (Herman stands in an attitude of indecision for a moment, then suddenly goes out.) Donald. (To Ann, speaking in a monotonous tone.) I didn't mean to speak. But that day. Coming down the cliff. You were in my arms in a moment. I spoke before I knew. (Pause.) Mary and I never really loved each other. Our marriage was a mis- take. I hoped blindly that she would set me free. But I might have known she wouldn't grant me that. She'd be afraid of making me happy. (Pause.) We were both dreamers, little Ann, dreaming through the night time. And now the dawn is here. (He shivers.) Oh God, how cold the dawn is ! (As he speaks the fol- lowing line he slowly moves towards the door at the back like a man walking in his sleep, and goes out). How — cold — the — dawn — is ! Ann. (Hysterically, with arms outstretched to the door through which Donald has vanished.) Don't take my dreams from me ! Don't take my dreams ! (She suddenly becomes very quiet. A long pause.) Goodbye, little Italian page boy. You'll never live now. The purple canyons will never see you. Good- bye, little Princess in Yellow. (She lets the coat drop from her shoulders and 32 STUFF O' DREAMS holds it against her breast.) You will never grow like a primrose by the side of the dusty highway. (Kneeling hy the chest with both arms thrown across it.) They couldn't last — they couldn't last — I see it now — and yet — they die so hard — my dreams — my little dreams ! CUETAIN. HANDS AND THE MAN HANDS AND THE MAN CHARACTERS. Lois Stanton, A Radiant Blonde of Twenty-one. Bernice Whittaker, a Dazzling Brunette of About the Same Age. HANDS AND THE MAN The scene is the breakfast room in the home of Lois Stanton. There is a door on the left and at the hack are French windows, curtained. The color scheme of the room is pale blue and white. The furniture is light and dainty and on the floor is a good Persian rug. The walls contain two etchings which are above the average. In the center of the room is a small table laid for breakfast, on either side of which stand two chairs. Lois Stanton, in becoming negligee and cap, is seated at the right of the table, consuming rolls and chocolate and looking over the morning news- paper. Bernice Whittaker, similarly attired, enters through the French windows and comes to the side of Lois, whose guest she is. Bernice. Good morning, Lois. Lois. Good morning, dear. (They kiss.) Sleep welL'' Bernice. Like a top, thanks. (She seats herself left of the table.) -. ^ Lois. Let me give you some chocolate. Bernice. Thanks. {She holds out her cup.) Lois. (Pouring.) You'll find rolls and strawberries on the table. Of course you can have something more substantial 37 38 HANDS AND THE MAN if you care for it, but I prefer a light breakfast "^y^^l^- Bernice. Rolls and strawberries suit me admirably. {She helps herself to both.) Anytliing in the paper? Lois. Oh, the usual inevitable story of a woman who shot a man rather than give him up to another woman. Bernice. Absurd situation, isn't it? I can't imagine myself doing anything so desperate. Fd let the brute go. Lois. And so would I. No man is worth fighting over. Bernice. Let me see the society column a moment, will you? Lois. Certainly. (She passes over the newspaper.) Bernice. {Turning to the column in question.) H'm! Dick Neville staying at Forest Lake. I thought he was going to California. {She says this thoughtfully^ and half to herself.) Lois. (Looking keenly/ at her guest.) Anything especially interesting to you about Mr. Neville's movements? Bernice. (A little piqued.) Oh, well, I imagine I've a right to be interested. Dick has shown a good deal of interest in me, you know. _. Lois. Dick? So it's got to the first name stage, has it? HANDS AND THE MAN 39 Bernice. Of course. What about it? Lois. Just this, Bernice. I wish jou wouldn't keep poaching on my preserves. Bernice. Your preserves.? Lois. Yes, Whenever I become interested in a man, you try to get him away from me. Bernice. But Dick Neville— Lois. Dick Neville has shown me a great deal of atten- tion. _, Bernice. {Tossing her head.) It depends of course upon what you call attention. Lois. Well, when a man takes you out canoeing by moonlight, for instance — Bernice. Canoeing by moonlight! Lois. Yes, at the house party at the Gray's last month Dick took me out on the lake several times. Bernice. Tell me, did he sing for you? Lois. Why, yes — how did you guess? 40 HANDS AND THE MAN Bernice. Oh, whenever Dick took me out canoeing by moon- light he sang for me. Rather a pleasant barytone he's got, isn't it? Very effective in "There's a Long, Long Trail." So he sang that for you, did he.'* Bernice. Of course. He told me that he always sang best when he was with me — that there was something supernal, something spirituelle and inspirational about me — - Lois. {Getting up and walking agitatedly about the room.) But that's just what he told me! Bernice. Oh, I suppose he was carried away by the emotion of the moment. At least he's never written letters to you as he did to me. Lois. Oh, hasn't he.'* Wait just a moment. (She goes out left.) _, Bernice. (Walking up and down.) Good heavens! I couldn't have believed that Dick had corresponded with her. There must be some mis- take somewhere. Lois re-enters with a packet of letters tied with pale blue ribbon. ^ So he never wrote letters to me, eh? Recognize that writing? (She thrusts the packet under the eyes of her friend.) Bernice. Yes. It is his writing. I had no idea — HANDS AND THE MAN 41 Lois. Just listen to this. (She removes the ribbon from the packet, takes out one of the letters and reads.) "I'll never forget the wonderful time we've had together. That last night on the lake will always be an especially tender memory to me. Of course your eyes and hair are exquisite, but I think it's your hands I love best. You have the most adorable hands I've ever seen. They remind me of Lawrence Hope's lines : 'Pale hands, pink tipped, like lotus buds that float On those still waters where we used to dwell.' " Bernice. Stop, stop ! It's incredible ! Lois. What do you mean.'' Bernice. Just this. He wrote me the very same thing, and he even quoted those identical lines. Lois. Bernice, he's been fooling both of us. Bernice. How humiliating! I can scarcely credit it even now. (There is a knock at the door. Lois goes to the door, opens it and takes two letters.) Lois. Oh, thank you, Marie. (Coming to Bernice.) Here's the morning mail. There's a letter for each of us. (She gives one letter to Bernice. The two 42 HANDS AND THE MAN girls open the letters together. They take out cards and glance quickly over them.) Lois. This is the crowning blow. (Reading.) "Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Fairfax request the pleasure of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Marjorie to Mr. Richard Neville on Wednesday, July 4, One Thousand Nine Hundred and Nineteen, at 3 o'clock, at St. Mark's Episcopal Church, Forest Lake." Bernice. I wonder if he told Marjorie what wonderful hands she had.-^ (The two girls break into hysterical laughter as) The Curtain Falls. THE ROMANY ROAD THE ROMANY ROAD Produced at Central Music Hall, Chicago, February 15, 1919 CHARACTERS. Zaida A Gypsy Girl Manuel Her Gypsy Lover Manuel's Mother Harry Marsden A Young Man from the Outer World MoNA Marsden His Sister Two Gypsy Girls. .^^^* About Eighteen and Twenty A Little Gypsy Girl Aged About Five Romany road, my Keart is calling Once more to Ibe out on you, winding Romany road ; Romany road, my tears are falling,, Blinding me, Kiding, from si^Kt my lon^ lost Romany road. THE ROMANY ROAD The scene represents a clearing in a forest. The characters are seated about a camp fire. They have just finished supper. Zaida is playing with a pack of cards, laying them out in rows before her. Manuel wears a brilliantly colored handkerchief about his head and a sash into which a dagger is stuck. The Girls and the Gypsy Mother wear costumes in which reds and yellows predominate with cheap bangles and rings. As the curtain goes up the Two Girls are singing: Romany Road cMelody by REX HUNTER Harmonized by GEO. F. ROSCHE Voices in Unison— Violin. Moderato. mf }=:^!=45: ^g=^=^- ■^^-^ Ea ^ Eo - man-y road, my heart is call- ^ ^ W^ Z ^^^1 1 1 M 1 ^^^^r^ -M 1 •- PP fe -^?-^- -<&-i 1 «-=—#-; 0-i » — r 47 48 THE ROMANY ROAD Romany Road — Continued i ^=45: :p^=# fi-J ^ '-^-J^ ni S V^ -• — ^ -d — » . s' » ing Once more to be out on you, Wind-ing Ro-man-y ^^=i^ I -al al ^? *ti=s I3± -# *- r 4 — h-n fctc road; Ro-man-y road, my tears are fall-ing, Blind-ing me. i :t=it E ^ — *- r EEj^teS ;:#— jh I ^ i £=£ -^i-.:f:^-f:^ THE ROMANY ROAD 49 Romany Road — Continued I i_j m ^^- # hid - ing from sight My long lost Eo - man - y road. | ^^a -l ^ ^^ ^ ^^ m ■^ I ^ J. i6=t ^^ The Gypsy Mother. {As the song ends.) 'Tis a good song. The song of the gypsy who forsakes the Romany road for the walls of cities. There is no coming back for the gypsy who forsakes the Romany road. Manuel. Well said, mother. Walled city or winding road, each must make his choice. Zaida. (Looking up from the cards.) I met two people from the city this morning. A young man and his sister. I said I would tell their fortunes if they crossed my palm with silver. They told me they would come to the camp tonight. 50 THE ROMANY ROAD The Gypsy Mother. (Passionately.) Let them keep to their own world. We do not want them here. Zaida. {Glancing at Manuel.) The young man is very good looking. He and his sister are staying at the big country house. They have a swift car that runs quite smoothly, different from our lumbering wagons. Manuel. You are no true Romany, to look with eyes of de- sire upon the things of the city dwellers. Harry and Mona Marsden enter left. Both wear evening clothes. Zaida jumps up to welcome the vis- itors. Manuel and his Mother regard them with sinister glances. Harry. Here she is ! Mona. Good evening, Zaida. Zaida. You kept your promise, then ! Harry. Of course ; and now you are going to tell our for- tunes. {He places a coin in Zaida's palm.) Zaida. I will tell your sister's first. {She takes Mona's hand and looks into the palm.) Long life and worldly success, head supreme over heart. You will make a wise marriage and sit by a warm fire in a cold man- sion. Only in the gloaming will you hear your little dreams calling. THE ROMANY ROAD 51 MONA. (Withdrawing her hand.) What a strange girl you are, Zaida. (She shud- ders.) And what a strange fate you predict. (She goes to the other two girls and talks to them.) Zaida. (To Harry.) Perhaps you also are — a little afraid.? Harry. (Boisterously.) Not in the least. I dare you to make me shudder. But how strangely that young man looks at us. (Indicating Manuel.) One would think he had the evil eye. Come over here where he can't hear us. (Zaida and Harry come down center. He kneels beside her and she gazes into his palm.) Zaida. I see many women in your life. Dark and fair, merry and sad. But there is one with yellow hair and eyes blue and cold as ice who holds your heart in her hands. ^-. Harry. (Looking meaningly into her eyes.) Are you sure she has not brown eyes and black hair.? (Zaida smiles and turns away.) Listen, Zaida, I want you to come to the dance at the big house to- night. You were meant for a ball room and not for a forest glade. „ ^ Zaida. I cannot go like this. (Indicating her costume.) Harry. My sister will lend you one of her frocks. You will outshine them all. (Calling across to Mona.) 52 THE ROMANY ROAD Mona, if Zaida comes to the dance, will you lend her a dress? MoNA. Yes, gladly. She can have my blue and silver dress. (Zaida hesitates.) Harry. (Urgently.) Come to the dance with me, little brown bird ! You will be wonderful in blue and silver. Between the dances we will walk in the garden. The sky will be blue above us and the moon will be silver. You will hear the white peacock on the garden wall shake his long white laugh across the dreaming night. Zaida. (With sudden decision.) I will go to the dance with you. Harry. Mona, Zaida is coming with us! MoNA. I'm so glad. She'll create a sensation, I know. (Mona and Harry walk up stage. Zaida goes to Manuel and his Mother.) Zaida. I am going to the dance with the city people. {They make no answer. Zaida joins Harry and MoNA. They go out left.) The Gypsy Mother. {Leaning forward and gripping Manuel's arm fiercely.) I told you how it would be, did I not? She forsakes the Romany road for the beaten highways of the city dwellers. THE ROMANY ROAD 53 Manuel. There must be some strain of the stranger's blood in her veins. Cities had ever a strange allure for her. The Gypsy Mother. Your heart has turned from me since that girl grew into maidenhood. But you shall see which love lasts longer. The love of the mother is like wine. It becomes stronger with the years. The love of the girl is like a garland. It withers in the hot sun of life. Manuel. She will come back to the camp fire. The Gypsy Mother. And you will take her back? You will take back the leavings of the stranger.? Is there milk or red blood in your veins.? Remember the ancient law of our race — there is no coming back for the gypsy who leaves the Romany road. (She goes out right. Manuel sits moodily staring into the fire for a few moments. Then with a resolute attempt to shake off his dejection he goes to the Two Girls.) Manuel. Paquita — Lolita, I am sad tonight. Dance for me, will you not.? Dance me one of the ancient dances of our race. {The Two Girls dance.) And now the little one. {The Child dances. Manuel applauds and pets her.) One of the Girls. It Is time the little one was sleeping. I will sing her to sleep with the song of the Romany road. {She picks up the Child in her arms and accompanied by the Other Girl, goes out right. Left alone, Man- uel sits staring into the fire. The melancholy caused 54 THE ROMANY ROAD hy Zaida's desertion comes hack upon him with re- doubled intensity now that the momentary diversion caused hy the dancing is over. He appears to be in deep thought and clasps and unclasps his hands spas- modically. The light of the fire sinks lower.) The curtain is dropped for one minute to indicate the passing of the night. When it rises again Man- uel is sitting in the same position staring into the fire. The Gypsy Mother enters from the right, goes to him and putting her hand on his shoulder gently shakes him. ^ ^ __ The Gypsy Mother. What ails you, my son? Do you not know that it is dawn? ,, Manuel.. {Pointing to the fire.) Ashes! Do you see them? Ashes where the flames leaped. Cold and grey like my soul. The Gypsy Mother. (Starting back.) What are you saying? Manuel. I do not know what I am saying. I wish to be The Gypsy Mother. Has Zaida not come back? Manuel. No. The winding road will know her feet no more. Leave me. I wish to be alone. (The Gypsy Mother slowly goes out again.) Zaida enters from the left. She wears the blue and silver dancing frock which was promised her. Across her shoulders is an evening coat. She stands looking forlornly at Manuel, who continues to gaze brood- THE ROMANY ROAD 55 ingly into the fire. TJien she slmdy lets the coat drop from her shoulders. This action must be very delib- erate, symbolizing the dropping behind her of the things of the cities. Zaida rushes to Manuel and falls on her knees beside him. Zaida. Manuel, I have come back. Manuel. Come back? (He looks at her vacantly, as if un- certain that he is not dreaming.) Zaida. Yes, I have come back to the gypsy life. I was unhappy at the strangers' ball. The lights dazzled me. Girls with cold faces gathered about me as if I was a wild thing. Some of them sneered. I ran back all the way across the fields. (Manuel leaps to his feet. A sudden purpose has come into his eyes. He drops his right hand on the knife in his belt. Zaida stumbles to her feet and starts back a pace.) Manuel. So you have come back — when the stranger tired of you.'' You think that I would take his leavings.? {He winds his left arm about Zaida's neck. She gazes at him as if in a stupor.) There is no coming back for the gypsy who forsakes the Romany road. {He draws out the knife.) You have not come back to the gypsy life. You have come back to the gypsy — death! {He stabs her. She cries out and falls back. He kneels beside the body torn between anger and remorse. From the wings on the right come the voices of the Two Girls singing the song of the Rom- any road.) Curtain. Whose Little Bride Are You? BY Edith Ellis A FARCE Comedy, in 3 acts; 5 males, 5 females. Time, 2% hours. Scene: 1 handsomely furnished living room. This play was written by the autlior of "Mary Jane's Pa" and other nation-wide successes. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Dr. Benjamin Bellows. A Sentimental Retired Physician Algernon Clawhammer. . .His Prospective Son-In-Law Augustus May His Butler Simeon Singleton His Old Friend George Tobin His Prospective Step-Son Florence Bellows His Charming Daughter Mrs. MacEckron His Neighbor Dolly MacEckron Her Daughter Maggie Brady The Maid Mrs. Amelia Tobin The Bride-To-Be At the beginning one potential bride is visible; be- fore the final curtain the woods, so to speak, are full of them. The brides range in assortment from the little flapper not yet out of her teens, to the seasoned 200-pound campaigner who has worn the orange blos- soms no less than four times. Matrimonial pairing proceeds even to the butler and the housemaid. Mis- taken identity furnishes an unusual measure of com- plications until it actually becomes a problem as to which little bride is which, or who. Plot, situations and dialogue dovetail perfectly. The incidents are as humorous and rapid-fire as ever went into a play. It is especially adapted to amateurs, the parts being so vividly characterized and the action so continuous that the piece virtually carries itself. Professional stage rights reserved and a royalty of fifteen dollars required for amateur performance. Price, Per Copy, 50 Cents T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO Gettin' Acquainted BY Georgia Earle QUAINT, small-town comedy in 1 act; 1 male, 2 females. Time, 25 minutes. Scene: A New Eng- land sitting room. Played for three years by tl>e talented authoress herself, on the Keith and Orpheum circuits; in New York, Chicago, Toronto, San Fran- cisco, New Orleans and cities in between, it struck a new note in vaudeville and has been compared with "The Old Homestead," Mary E. Wilkins' stories, etc. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Jane Stewart A Spinster Priscilla Stewart Her Sister, Also a Spinster John Purdy A Wooer for Fifteen Years All have heard of men who courted for years and did not "pop"; most communities can furnish living examples. The idea has never been used before with such clever and sprightly results. Honest, slow-think- ing, yet withal determined John Purdy had spent 15 years just gettin' acquainted with the Stewart sisters, Jane and Priscilla. Finally Jane "goes and gets herself engaged" to another man but decides to bring matters to a focus for Priscilla. She determines to "make it snappy" and poor old John is "railroaded" into camp. Splendid lines and "business" so unusually clever as to place it almost in a class by itself among one-act plays. Like most talented creations, its simplicity commends it; well adapted to amateur presentation. Very minute directions for staging, acting and "busi- ness." Four excellent half-tone reproductions of scenes. Professional stage rights reserved and a royalty of five dollars required for atnateur performance. Price, Per Copy, 35 Cents T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO Assisted By Sadie A BY Walter Ben Hare COMEDY of mystery, in 4 acts; 6 males, 6 females. Time, 2^ hours. Scenes: 2 easy interiors. CAST OP CHARACTERS. Alonzo Dow The Mysterious Clubman Cameron The Clever Detective Bunch The Slangy Bellboy Dr. Beedle The Old Professor Colonel Jenniver The Puzzled Hotel Manager Mr. Null The Young Millionaire Sadie The Stenographer Harriet The Society Girl Senora Gonzales The Fascinator Mrs. C. Christopher Carley The Peppery Dowager Vicky The Debutante Mrs. Quinn The Maid This is a swiftly moving ingenious comedy of adven- ture, sparkling with humor and replete with mystery. Excitement, laughter and a mounting tensity of emo- tion are blended with the charm of a delightful style. A $20,000 pearl necklace is stolen at a large seaside hotel. This is followed by other crimes until the detec- tives and incidentally the audience find themselves in a maze of intrigue and mystery from which they are not extricated until the final curtain and then only with the assistance of Sadie. Into the pervading comedy scenes are blended pathos, serious action and incident until the audience wonders what will happen next. The twelve characters are about equally bal- anced. Professional stage rights reserved and a royalty often dollars required for amateur performance. Price, Per Copy, 35 Cents. T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO For the Love of Johnny BY Harry Hamilton A PLAY, in 3 acts; 6 males, 3 females. Time, 2Vi liours. Scenes: 1 interior, 1 exterior. In his orig- inal manuscript the author called this play "a play of human hearts," and a page of description could not better explain its character. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Ethel Banks The Niece Harriet Banks The Aunt Dorothy Banks The Daughter Dick Wayburn The Coward Jerrymeyer Banks The Uncle Phil Osborne The Soldier John Turkey-Legs The Indian Father Ryan The Priest Johnny Banks The Nephew Mr. Woods The Stranger Around an intensely dramatic situation, the author has woven a human throbbing story abounding in clean and clever comedy and genuine pathos. We do not love all the characters the way we do Ethel and Johnny but we are not indifferent to any for they are all intensely human. We follow the Cinderella-like form of Ethel through the play with tears and laugh- ter; we fear Dick Wayburn; our hearts are won by the courage and unselfishness of Father Ryan; we grow fat laughing at Phil, the returned soldier; John Turkey-Legs inspires within us a wholesome respect for the native Red Man; Uncle Jerry wins our sym- pathy and forgiveness; we admire Dorothy, and we finally take back all we said about Aunt Harriet when in the last act she renounces the domestic trousers she has worn all through the play. No play since "The Parish Priest" or "The Rosary" has had a more appealing character of a priest than that of Father Ryan. A professional play, successful on the road, within the scope of talented amateur players. Stage directions and business unusually complete. Professional stage rights reserved and a royalty often dollars required for amateur performance. Price, Per Copy, 35 Cents T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO